MAYA

Anyone digging into Maya (or MAYA, as it's being promoted) expecting club-banging pop hits will be . . . not disappointed, but definitely confused.

Conspiracy-addled claustrophobic noises swath the hooks throughout, revealing the intoxicating assuredness of a star who sought the spotlight in order to barrage it with glitter and shrapnel.

The point is that MAYA has to be taken as it comes, culture jam and all, and it's precisely at this point that it works out to be one of the most refreshing albums to hit the shelves in a long, long time.

M.I.A. stands alone in her own world of pop firing out her mercurial messages, which are as complex as they are captivating. MAYA is a towering work that makes a mockery of rivals and genres.

It's less digestible but it's tauter, more metallic and yes, industrial.

Aside from "Lovealot," she proudly proclaims her intentions as a first-world pop star, de-emphasizing found collage and "third-world democracy" for melodic sway and punky bluster.

In its 12 tracks, M.I.A. explores both what it means to serve as a sexual/romantic ideal in the Beyonce way, and what happens when a self-consciously political artist like herself confronts the sentimental streak deep within.

While some songs appear to have a cleaner polish (the pleasantly danceable "XXXO" and the epic "Tell Me Why") than others (the freewheeling "Born Free" and the ultra-compressed "Space"), every song is structured like a concise pop song with just a few rough edges.

Striding through metal, dancehall, space pop and dubstep, our multicultural mascot has littered MAYA with politicized sonic motifs: from marching drums, gunshots and modems to heavy machinery and blaring sirens. It's loud, proud, and taking no prisoners.

As long as her music remains as bold, inventive and occasionally thrilling as it is here, long may that continue.

She remains vitally important to The Discourse for that reason alone. Maya both reminds you of that fact-of that sickly sweet spot only she can hit-and warns you how long and punishing a road it can be to get there. For her, and for you.

From the sound of Maya, she's capable of anything - except being dull.

Despite some of its missteps, MAYA has treasures to explore.

Like the rebels she so often lionizes, Arulpragasam is conducting hit-and-run warfare on modern pop, snatching a hook here, a melody there, and then falling back to reshape these pilfered rhythms into unfettered anti-establishment anthems.

It's every bit as enjoyable as the last two. Which isn't to say it's a masterpiece, just that the abrupt backlash is proportionate to the fawning affection she received on Kala and Arular.

This is exactly the subjective realm that MAYA taps into: it puts its listeners in a position where opinions are formed in large part by predetermined prejudices. Of course, this is true for most music in general, but what makes MAYA tacitly brilliant is that it forces us to engage with those prejudices in a way that pop music typically does not.

She might be mouthy, trendy, shallow and opinionated without having all of the facts, but MIA creates terrific pop moments.

It's not the world-claiming masterpiece it could have been. But as an evolutionary step from world-party-queen towards a more complex beast, it's intriguing.

M.I.A. has now made a trilogy of inventive, engrossing records, but for the sake of music we'd all better hope that MAYA isn't the beginning of the end.

Favoring melody over raucous beats is a risky strategy, but she just about pulls it off.

Signing on as the global icon for the politics of oppression can't be much fun, pastel fashion sense notwithstanding. It's no surprise then that her music isn't much fun anymore.

Mathangi Arulpragasam delivers intriguingly fluxed up genre bending third album.

On Maya, M.I.A. also descends to more standard hip-hop concerns: stardom, romance, dropping brand names and getting drunk.

Arulpragasam is trying to negotiate a middle ground between her status as an underground rebel and rising pop celebrity.