Björk
Medúlla
Atlantic/One Little Indian

Subtlety has never been Björk's way. Her most hushed tracks rouse the laziest ears with the force of icebergs jutting from still water. It follows that on Medúlla, the most unassuming instrument — the voice — shatters the most serene facade of pop to create some of Björk's most frightening and beautiful moments to date.

After shedding the beat-driven pop that defined her first three full-lengths for 2001's blissfully bare Vespertine, Björk's next step was obvious: Strip down even further. On Medúlla, aptly named after the inner or deep part of a plant or animal, Björk abandons instruments and reinvents a cappella. While the album relies on all manners of manipulation of the human voice, and grounds itself in the intimacy and primacy of singing without accompaniment, it is neither simple nor quiet.

"Show Me Forgiveness," Medúlla's only traditionally a cappella track, features Björk's instantly recognizable voice wavering so close to the mic you can hear the spit fly. All other songs (except "Submarine") boast multilayered vocals prominently featuring Björk herself, with help from the cords of Shlomo, Mike Patton, the Icelandic Choir and the Roots' Rahzel, among others.

Björk's voice first emerges from the ghostly moans of opener "Pleasure Is All Mine," floating over Rahzel's guttural gesticulations, the Icelandic Choir's ominous chants and her own occasional gasps and sighs. This eerie plainchant is a mere suggestion of what's to come. The idea of an album built entirely on vocals may disappoint those wanting a return to the Nordic bombast of "Army of Me," "Hunter" and the classic "Human Behaviour" that put Björk on the map in the first place (well, that and the swan dress), but, in its own way, Medúlla is that return.

On the exquisite "Where Is the Line," which recalls Homogenic's explosive "Pluto," weighty beats provided by what sounds like the plucking of the world's largest rubber band (it's really Mike Patton) punctuate Björk's scornful pleas of, "I want to be flexible/ I want to go out of my way for you/ but enough is enough." Every subsequent listen reveals another part: the deep voice echoing her lines at the beginning, the high-pitched choir pulling the bass upward, the whistling coda. These complex constructions culminate in album closer "Triumph of the Heart," which prominently showcases the indescribably strange vocal acrobatics of Japan's resident beatbox weirdo Dokaka.

Even the most sparse songs feature veritable vocal orgies. Different voices wrap around others, looping and layering until it's nearly impossible to tell which speaker they're coming from, or if they're coming from a speaker at all — Medúlla can be that creepy. "Submarine" bellows like the mating call of whales or a Buddhist funeral chant via lamenting bass vocals; "Ancestors" is all hyperventilating and coital gasps and grunts; and "Miðvikudags" ("Wednesdays") has Björk sounding like she's just discovered she can make noise.

Elsewhere on Medúlla, Björk sticks to her brand of fantastic pop. On "Who Is It," she beautifully coos, "Who is it that never lets you down?" over more Rahzel beats, while "Desired Constellation," whirs and chimes in Vespertine-ish quietude, with Björk playing god in some of her best lines yet: "With a palm full of stars/ I throw them like dice ... repeatedly/ on the table... / until the desired constellation appears." Album standout "Mouth's Cradle," the odd ode to a lover's mouth, mixes death rattle-like beats and Björk's familiar voice, equally spunky and soaring as only she can manage.

Medúlla's vocal experimentation could lend easily to shelving the album as being merely quirky or gimmicky, but the paths Björk forges go seldom unfollowed — and for good reason. No matter how the sounds are made, it is with captivatingly sincere intent that they are never boring and, above all, always enjoyable. In the end, this a cappella pop is still pop at its best, and we'll do ours to sigh, groan and grunt along.

— Lavina Lee (lavina at flakmag dot com)