Instead, she cultivated her eccentricities, joining John Mellencamp for a raucous cover of Van Morrison's "Wild Night" (which vaulted her, briefly, into the mainstream) and creating a deeply ambitious, symphonic soul tapestry on her second full-length, Peace Beyond Passion.  That album's first single, "Leviticus: Faggot," was a tough-minded meditation on homophobia, family dysfunction and loneliness with the musical reach of Stevie Wonder in his prime.  It also guaranteed, in the real world of idiot radio programmers, her record's commercial failure. 

To her label's credit, it has stood behind her steadfastly.  With her latest album, Bitter, she has  honored that commitment with a great work of art.  That Bitter is unquestionably a masterpiece of naked feeling and timeless musicality doesn't mitigate the likelihood that it, too, will be ignored in the marketplace. But Ndegeocello doesn't give a shit about that, and neither should you.

Bitter traces the aftermath of a breakup, with all its recriminations, revelations, rationalizations, revisions and retrospective raunch. 
After a lush, orchestral instrumental prelude ("Adam"), it settles into the mournful "Fool of Me."  It's almost unsettling to hear Ndegeocello without any of her armor; gone are the bass funkasaurus, the craft-
conscious virtuoso, the avenging amazon.  Instead a woman quietly murmurs "You made a fool of me/Tell me why/You say that you don't care but we made love."  The incredulity here barely conceals the utter devastation that is processed throughout Bitter.  But what's truly wondrous is that it never feels like a wallow. This is partly due to the unerring honesty on display here, combined with Ndegeocello's remarkable musical instincts.  But it also issues from the fact that at her most vulnerable, she reveals a remarkable strength and integrity.

Not that things don't get rough.  In "Faithful," she is defiant as she acknowledges her sexual roving, the payoff of which is illustrated deliciously in the otherworldly groove of "Satisfy." Then the title track returns to the stark pain of disconnection, and the song's

Ndegeocello retreats into the spiritual realm with a languid rendition of Jimi Hendrix's "May This Be Love," finding in the song's "waterfall" the wellspring of inspiration that the late, great guitarist's work offers all venturesome artists.  "Sincerity" looks in on a relationship where the love flows in only one direction, and repeats its verdict "He loves with sweetness and sincerity/ While she can only pretend" like a forlorn mantra.  In "Loyalty," meanwhile, two lovers seek refuge in a pledge not to betray one another.  The earnest desire of the haiku-like "Beautiful" gives way to the instrumental "Eve" (a counterpoint to the opener).  There's a return to judgment in the laid-back soul of "Wasted Time," but the song ends in the middle of a phrase, as though the tape-loop in the betrayed one's mind finally just shuts off.  It's replaced by the opening notes of the closer, "Grace." 

In its elegance, directness and beauty, "Grace" is more than the album's literal grace note.  It's Bitter in miniature, a distillation of spiritual resolve and commitment that glows like a campfire in the snow. "Your love's my only saving grace/You caress my heart, kiss my face," sings Ndegeocello perhaps to a new lover, or to God.  Whoever the addressee of this devout and incandescent missive, it's open to us all.  In a time of unparalleled musical calculation, numbed-out brutality and whorish sentiment, a true artist has given us all a profound gift.