Sinéad O'Connor
Faith and Courage
[Atlantic]
Rating: 3.8
I'm going to leave the Tibet situation in the capable hands of Perry Farrell
and a couple of Beastie Boys, and dedicate this record review to those in
Uzbekistan practicing the teachings of Sun Myung Moon. Yes, these 843 words
mark my commitment to the Unification Church's struggle for Religious Freedom
in the former Soviet Territories.
Excuse my ridiculous gesture; it was inspired by the liner notes of Sinéad
O'Connor's Faith and Courage, which state:
"Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit as it was in
the Beginning. Is now and ever shall be. World without end. Jah! Rastafari!
Read I! This record is dedicated to all Rastafari people..."
From Michael Stipe's sporting of a different politically correct t-shirt each
time he took the stage to accept another award for "Losing My Religion" to
Sting watering the rainforest with song, pop icons who self-righteously espouse
over-simplified global politics bug me. I wasn't sure who "the real enemy"
was-- and I don't know if Sinéad did, either-- when she thrilled the MTV
newsdesk by tearing up a photograph of Pope John Paul II, shouting "Fight the
real enemy," after her Saturday Night Live a capella performance of "War." But
a decade later, the Roman-Catholic-lesbian-priestess seems as confused as ever.
While Faith and Courage is not as obviously embarrassing as Perry Farrell
muttering, "Like, torture is, like, crazy, man! Like, mothers are being,
like, tortured!" over the airwaves of the K-Rock-sponsored "Radio Free Tibet"
broadcast, the album begins with the line "I have a universe inside me," ends
with "Christ have mercy," and somewhere in the middle, proclaims, "I feel real
cool and I feel real good/ Got my hair shaved off and black thigh boots.../ And
I feel real hot when my makeup's nice."
While many adolescents go through mixed-up times, most have the sense not to
let Wyclef Jean remix their accounts of first love into a four-minute bowl of
mush called "Dancing Lessons." And sure, many teens fight the power of
standard English by using replacements like "U" for "you," but they most
likely didn't get the idea after cashing in on a Prince song. Most teens
smash old hard-drives and burn their diaries in modesty and 20/20 hindsight;
this diary is sold for $15 a pop to budding Earthmothers who quietly lurk
in American suburbs, not quite fulfilled by Sarah McLachlan's last effort
but not quite ready for Juvenile. Sinéad O'Connor is 33.
The music is completely unremarkable, so let's discuss the lyrics. The opening
track, "The Healing Room," is the lyrical witness to a spectacular biological
feat: "I have a healing room inside me/ The loving healers there, they feed me."
I remember when I first heard Whitney Houston sing about having the "greatest
love of all" inside of her, thinking it sounded like a tumor. But that was the
'80s-- it's a new millennium now, and Sinéad, in an attempt to be part of the
solution, is womb to an entire hospital.
The second song is titled "No Man's Woman." It's not like anyone thought
she was a "man's woman" before. This song is similar to fellow countrywoman
Paula Cole's work, only without the hilarious horsey antics, "Yippy-eye,
Yippy-yo!" Those could have added a lot.
"Daddy I'm Fine" is based on the premise that "fine" equals wanting to "Stand up
tall with my boobs upright" while delivering a yearning whine that unconvincingly
tries to be Neil Young, in a rhythm unfortunately similar to R.E.M.'s "It's the
End of the World as We Know It." "The Lamb's Book of Life" states: "If we listen
to the Rasta man/ He can show us how it can be done." Yes, Sinéad really says
"listen to the Rasta man." I can't imagine you'd need to know anything else about
this track. Meanwhile, "Emma's Song" serves as the ultimate new-age cliché,
involving goddesses, lovemaking, birthgiving, apologizing, Brian Eno's piano and
production work, and more mentions of the healing room.
Faith and Courage closes with the traditional "Kyrie Eleison," but it's
"radicalized" with layers of spoken word by Ghetto Priest, Junior Delgado,
and Bonjo I. The music which accompanies it is Sinéad's standard fare of
'80s torch balladry updated with some canned slow-jam beats courtesy of R&B;
producer Kevin "She'kspere" Briggs, and feathery symphonies of "ooh-ahhs"
courtesy of market pressure and Lilith Fair influences.
The cover art features pastels, contemplation, a trinity of little fires and
a glowing portrait of Sinéad. Remember how the aliens in the movie
Cocoon glowed before they peeled off their skin at that geriatric bath
house? That was cool. Sinéad's glow here warns of an inevitable Brian
Dennehy-esque skin-peeling, and when it happens, she'll be putting her hand
on the pulse of the Rasta man and transferring her life to him in a golden
neon glow. All this faith, and courage for you, Rastafari people.
-Kristin Sage Rockermann