Always as much trainwreck as firebrand, Sinéad O'Connor has returned from relative obscurity with a fresh round of tabloid headlines. Her recent marriage nearly didn't last as long as Kim Kardashian's suspiciously short nuptials (though they later reconciled) and her drug problems proved more humiliating, albeit less damaging, than Lindsay Lohan's. And yet I'd argue that O'Connor's motivations are very different from those of her younger co-headliners, and that's before I heard the fame-is-bullshit anthem "V.I.P." that closes her latest album. For a quarter-century now, she's been a professional mess, with an often antagonistic attitude toward her audience and seemingly no self-censoring apparatus. When that outrage fueled her music, the mess could be fascinating, but when it inspired albums of big-band or reggae numbers, the mess was tedious, tiring, alienating, self-sabotaging. But lately it's been mostly heartbreaking, with an ill-fated marriage, a bad drug buy, and reports of suicide attempts exposing the increasingly frayed lines between her public and private personas.
How About I Be Me (And You Be You)? might seem self-exploitive if it didn't so thoroughly comment on and confound her recent controversies, or if the songs didn't sound like they emanate from the same place as her romantic catastrophes. It's been ages since O'Connor's music so perfectly reflected her struggles, and about as long since she's released an album quite so devastating. In truth, these songs are actually a bit unwieldy and occasionally ugly, as she relies so relentlessly on rudimentary rhyme schemes and clunky lyrics. Such flaws are all the more apparent given the diligent unobtrusiveness of the solemn piano chords and trenchant guitar strums. But the lyrical coarseness serves an important function, reinforcing the urgency of O'Connor's performances and creating the impression that she has worked hard and fast to document her emotions at their rawest and wildest. These songs don't sound like they were written; they sound like they were scrawled in a shaky but determined hand.
The album doesn't start at a place of devastation, but with a sweetly sincere declaration of love and commitment. Against a rhythmic acoustic strum that gently mimics a hip-hop beat, "4th and Vine" captures the excitement of new love and the invigoration of devoting yourself to another person, and O'Connor's voice, which conveys rage so perfectly, is soft, even playful. Of course, it doesn't work out-- not in real life and not in the narrative of the album. What follows that first burst of contentment is a bleak psychological portrait of the artist as lover, mother, and public figure, and the dark depths of these songs only make the exuberance of "4th and Vine" all the more harrowing. On the next song, O'Connor steps into the perspective of a junkie on "Reason With Me", and the parallels between the character's problems and herself are obvious: "If I loved someone, I might lose someone."
Perhaps the best song here is dedicated to her youngest son. On "I Had a Baby"-- which is as straightforward as that title suggests-- she wonders how to tell her child that he was born out of wedlock, the result of an affair with a married man. But her caustic despair springs not from her anger with the father but with her own powerlessness to protect her child from this sad predicament. In most cases, we as listeners and especially as critics are supposed to keep the art separate from the artist, to avoid letting real-life events shade the music with too much meaning or context. With How About I Be Me, however, that's impossible, not simply because her failed marriage is too fresh in our memory, but because O'Connor doesn't let herself or her listeners make such tidy distinctions.
What to make, then, of the fact that the most embittered track here is not an O'Connor original, but a cover of a track by John Grant? With its graphic imagery, startling admissions, and even a self-deprecating bald joke, it doesn't even sound out of place: "You tell me that my life is based upon a lie," O'Connor howls. "I casually mention that I pissed in your coffee." She doesn't back away from any of its ungracious sentiments, but owns up to even the most shameful confession. It's the anti-"Someone Like You", although it achieves roughly the same effect: By so thoroughly humanizing the spectacle, How About I Be Me makes it impossible not to sympathize with and even root for O'Connor.
