The Washington Post
June 21, 2000

With 'Faith,' a New Wisdom; Sinead O'Connor
Finds Joy in Self-Acceptance

Brett Anderson


Sinead O'Connor has always had a thing for grand
gestures, which is why she's nearly as famous for
tearing up a picture of the pope as she is for making
music.

She began her career as a snarling, 20-year-old bald
punk from Ireland, and went on to struggle with her
persona until it fit well enough to strangle.
Sideshows ensued: a short-lived "retirement" to study 
opera, an admitted suicide attempt. O'Connor's last 
full-length release, 1994's "Universal Mother," was an 
exhausting divestiture of emotional baggage that tackled 
12-step spirituality, child abuse and parenthood, among 
other weighty concerns.

If "Faith and Courage" doesn't exactly mark the
emergence of a lighter, less solemn O'Connor, it
certainly finds her reaping joy from the music she
makes. Of course, it wouldn't be a Sinead O'Connor record 
without a requisite amount of personal wreckage blown up 
to epic scale, and "Faith and Courage," which the singer
dedicates in part to "all Rastafari people," doesn't
waste much space on secular matters. But never before
has O'Connor sounded so sure of her own considerable
talents.

O'Connor's voice is an otherworldly instrument as
suited to Gregorian chant as to punk rock. But while
the wail is her trademark, in the past she often
either misunderstood or misused its power. Even her
much-loved breakout album, "I Do Not Want What I
Haven't Got," can leave a fan wishing she could muster
the modesty to sing something pithy.

With "Faith and Courage," O'Connor has learned to
modulate without diminishing her desire to be
profound. "The Healing Room," the album's opener,
finds her exhibiting a soul singer's restraint as she 
reins herself in to allow a percolating mix of dub effects
to build around her.

On "Daddy I'm Fine," she recalls how hearing her first
guitar made all her wishes seem possible. The song is
the kind of taut rocker on which Alanis Morissette
built her career, and O'Connor leans into its gleeful
refrain with the fervor of someone who has seen her
goals realized: "I got myself a big fat plan/ Gonna be
a singer in a rock-and-roll band/ Gonna change everything 
I can."

"Faith and Courage" is a pop star vehicle, and the
assembled producers clearly appreciate O'Connor as a
talent big enough to build music around. Brian Eno
directs "Emma's Song" as an elegiac tone poem; its tense,
gorgeous orchestration recalls the producer's masterly
solo record, "Another Green World."

For "If U Ever," dub stalwarts Adrian Sherwood and
Skip McDonald weave an Irish folk whistle into the
slow dance mix--a crafty aural embellishment that nods
to the singer's roots. O'Connor was born to croon passion
plays like "The State I'm In," and radio pop pros
Scott Cutler and Anne Preven wisely pare down the
music to a purr, allowing the singer to luxuriate in the
sound of her own voice.

O'Connor hasn't totally left overwrought anthems
behind. "Hold Back the Night" is a whisper-to-scream
vocal workout that swells predictably into a power
ballad; it's the sort of majestic statement that Irish 
rockers of O'Connor's generation seem bound by law to 
record.

But on this well-honed album of healing and being,
"Hold Back" is an aberration. "No Man's Woman" amounts
to the centerpiece of "Faith and Courage," and there
isn't an ounce of remorse or pity clogging its
message. The song is a straight-rocking kiss-off, and
in the end, O'Connor comes out proud, happy and in
love with her God. Say goodbye to the feminist martyr, 
and make way for the spiritual diva.