followed her ghostly collection of ballads, , with , an album strikingly different from what came before it except in its Englishness. 's haunted piano ballads seemed to emanate from an isolated manse on a moor, but here chronicles her relationship with her homeland through songs revolving around war. Throughout the album, she subverts the concept of the anthem -- a love song to one's country -- exploring the forces that shape nations and people. This isn't the first time has been inspired by a place, or even by England: she sang the praises of New York City and her home county of Dorset on . recorded this album in Dorset, so the setting couldn't be more personal, or more English. Yet she and her longtime collaborators , , and travel to the Turkish battleground of Gallipoli for several of 's songs, touching on the disastrous World War I naval strike that left more than 30,000 English soldiers dead. Her musical allusions are just as fascinating and pointed: the title track sets seemingly cavalier lyrics like "Let's head out to the fountain of death and splash about" to a xylophone melody borrowed from ' "Istanbul (Not Constantinople)," a mischievous echo of the questions of national identity explores on the rest of the album (that she debuted the song by performing it on the BBC's The Andrew Marr Show for then-Prime Minister Gordon Brown just adds to its mischief). "The Words That Maketh Murder" culminates its grisly playground/battleground chant with a nod to 's anthem for disenfranchised '50s teens "Summertime Blues," while "Written on the Forehead" samples 's "Blood and Fire" to equally sorrowful and joyful effect. As conceptually and contextually bold as is, it features some of 's softest-sounding music. She continues to sing in the upper register that made so divisive for her fans, but it's tempered by airy production and eclectic arrangements -- fittingly for an album revolving around war, brass is a major motif -- that sometimes disguise how angry and mournful many of these songs are. "The Last Living Rose" recalls 's -era sound in its simplicity and finds weary beauty even in her homeland's "grey, damp filthiness of ages," but on "England," she wails, "You leave a taste/A bitter one." In its own way, may be even more singular and unsettling than was, and its complexities make it one of 's most powerful works. ~ Heather Phares