2009’s not officially in the books, but there’s little real competition for its finest record.

The lines that really capture this protean, beguiling writer come from another record.  Her latest entry rewards you by straying every which way from conventional signifiers of confidence, self-possession, and even invitations to follow along, while magically, if unknowingly, retaining them all.  As humane as St. Augustine’s Confessions, if it were written in a fever hallucination.

Songs meander so widely from cycling song structure they come off as daydream, complete with remembered toy sounds, dreamy echos, aching disappointment, resonant dread.

But then a little Brill Building.  And the first song sounds like The Smiths reinterpreted by Patsy Cline.

Maybe she’s always this bold about leaving verse-chorus-verse behind to demand your attention on that holler, but has she always been so outspokenly vulnerable in her lyrics?