Sinead O'Connor hit the scene as a total fucking original; I'll never forget seeing a photograph of her singing at the 1989 Grammys, clad in a sleeveless top and torn jeans, mouth open wide, six inches from the microphone, with Public Enemy's logo painted on the side of her beautiful bald head. She was singing "Mandinka", and the PE logo was in protest of the event's poor representation of hip-hop. When she was nominated for four awards the next year, she told the Recording Academy to shove it.

In those days, Sinead was always provocative. She was all heart and no head, a poor makeup for a mass media figure, and she also happened to be out of step with a straight-laced America that hadn't quite shaken off a twelve-year Republican hangover. Her public gaffes and meltdowns during the early 90s are the stuff of legend. Fucking MC Hammer offered her money to leave the country, and she took him up on it-- this girl was practically the Eminem of her day.

She's chilled out since, of course. In recent years, she's studied opera, had bit parts in films, birthed another baby, made the occasionally stupid remark in interviews, and issued some records; some I liked (the Gospel Oak EP), some I didn't (Faith and Courage). Now she returns with a record she's always wanted to make, an album of traditional Irish folk songs.

I pulled out The Lion and the Cobra for the first time in a couple years after hearing Sean-Nós Nua, and it's amazing how much O'Connor's presence has changed. The character of her voice is pretty much the same, but her approach to the songs couldn't be more different. The Lion and the Cobra is, in my opinion, among the better debuts of the last 15 years, and definitely one of the most confident. On Sean-Nós Nua, in contrast, O'Connor sounds very relaxed, and ultimately humbled by the ancient material. She resists the temptation to use her vocal tics and affectations; for the most part, she sings the words with a straightforward clarity and reverence.

As a listener living in America, in this post-Riverdance world, I feel a bit handicapped by the production choices on Sean-Nós Nua. Overly lush Celtic music turns up in all sorts of unwelcome places these days, and the distinct sounds of its tradition-- the pennywhistles, fiddles, and accordions-- are all over Sean-Nós Nua, presented in pretty much the same pedestrian way I usually encounter them. Occasionally, I can get past it: "Peggy Gordon", mostly just voice and acoustic guitar, is absolutely gorgeous, and Sinead's delivery of "Lord Franklin" is almost as pretty. "Óró Sé Do Bheatha 'Bhaile", a protest song with a reggae lilt (which happens to be the only song here I know well), is handled expertly.

But as much as I hate to admit it, it's odd hearing Sinead singing songs that seem removed from her direct experience. When Shane McGowan sings an Irish ballad about struggle, it's easy for me to get lost in the theatricality of his presentation-- perhaps because his grizzled voice has such strong everyman connotations-- but Sinead is always Sinead; despite her considerable vocal talents, she was born to sing her own words.