Otherwise, Bruce strides along, doing her own thing, from "Soul on Fire," the album-opening, bouncy encapsulation of Bruce's musical style, to the elegy of "St. Cloud" (which Bruce pronounces, French-like, as "san clu"), which reminds you of how you wish you could remember all of your memories: In that gentle, wistful way that validates your past and affirms your present all in one graceful sweep. In the real world, one or the other of those is usually terminally screwed-up — which, of course, makes "St. Cloud" even more effective.

4. Jenny Bruce's one major screw-up. One song on Soul of Fire falls flat on its ass: The just-now-anachronistic and way-too-clever "Heaven.com," which finds its subjects "surfing for life on a digital stream." My wife, who does not have a crush on Jenny Bruce (so far as I know) reacted rather pungently by ejecting the disc, saying, "aw, shut the f--k up," and tossing the CD fairly violently back into the pile of discs on my desk. My wife has little tolerance for anything dotcom, so it's less about Jenny Bruce than her song subject. However, even I, dorkmaster supreme, found it to be a bit much. Which pleases me to no end: Being able to identify one major screw-up on the album means that I haven't entirely abandoned my critical faculties just because I think Jenny Bruce is, like, cool and smart and pretty and nice. Which just makes me like her more. Help me.

What I'm saying is: You can trust this review, even though I'm acting like an ass in it. Even factoring in my sad little crush, Soul on Fire is an excellent effort, well worth seeking out — really good music from a really interesting artist. And, she's dressed in Christmas lights! Hey, it doesn't hurt.