When it comes to artistic license I cut Björk more slack than anyone. Between the early club anthems, theatrical videos, calculated weirdness, and inimitable voice, she has secured an almost sacrosanct position in my mind. But even my apologist tendencies couldn't deny that 2004's Medúlla, with its conspicuous lack of ... well ... music, felt less like innovation and more like rank self-indulgence. So when news of her latest studio effort, Volta, reached me I prayed for less beat box bullshit and more dance floor bangers. Baby Jesus has granted my wish, sort of.

The album opens with the Timbaland produced "Earth Intruders," full of banshee wails, marching drums, and fuzzy electronic flourishes reminiscent of the best moments on Debut and Post. In fact, Volta often sounds like a sampling of Björk's sonic oeuvre. Ambient percussion, filtered vocals, gritty electronics, and a United Colors of Benetton list of collaborators, it's all here. On "The Dull Flame of Desire," Björk's clarion voice contrasts nicely with Antony's (of Antony and the Johnsons) ethereal warble while Lighting Bolt's Brian Chippendale builds the drum line to a fevered crescendo. A Chinese lute plinks over one track while an all female, 10-piece Icelandic brass section adds appropriate drama to others.

As the album progresses through the second half, however, it meanders into the colder, sleepier territory of Vespertine before abruptly running aground. It's uncertain whether Björk is channeling her earlier days on UK anarcho-punks Crass's record label, or expressing a matured perspective, but "Hope" and "Declare Independence" find her in uncharted political waters best left to Yoko Ono. Antony's second appearance on the album helps refocus its closer though, a tender, maternal apology. With its last breath, Volta feels less like a lurch forward than a contemplative musing of what came before. Facing middle age and adult children now, perhaps that's where Björk feels the most comfortable planting her freak flag.—Michael B. Dougherty