Meshell Ndegéocello's new album, "Bitter," is part "Dark Side of the Moon"-era Pink Floyd, part Curtis Mayfield. It's one of those albums that pack a lot of sound into a quiet mix, never sonically overwhelming you unless you choose to ride its wave, meditate on it, get lost in it.

"Bitter" isn't really a grabber; like R.E.M.'s "Up," it's the sort of album you'd need to commit yourself to to enjoy fully. One night, it'll be dark; you'll slip this into the machine to help you get to bed. You'll close your eyes, hoping to sleep, but that's when "Bitter" will click--after the noise of the day has fucked off to other time zones, during those rare moments you allow yourself for active listening (not drive-time, get-the-fuck-outta-my-way-honk-honk moments, not sundown, hey-thanks-for-coming-to-my-party-can-I-get-you-a-beer moments, not mid-day, let's-get-some-tunes-while-we-go-over-the-budget moments.) If you don't get "Bitter" by the sixth listen at the very latest, the fault is yours, not Ndegéocello's. That's the theory, anyway.

Her voice shows the restraint so many of her "R&B" contemporaries lack--it's quiet, deep and husky, but full-bodied (as opposed to the TLC vocal sound, which is all breath, no substance.) "Bitter" is orchestral, but not, like, manipulatively so, the way the strings on a Celine Dion recording might be. There's plenty of fluidity here, plenty of continuity. The lyrics are spare, the arrangements are spare, even Ndegéocello's bass playing (which has been right upfront on her earlier, funkier albums) is spare.

Ndegéocello's cover of Jimi Hendrix's "May This Be Love" has some eastern-meets-Hawaiian strings, and a very free, dreamy, open elegance about it. With its lilting Fender Rhodes and barely-audible guitar, and the droning vocals that seem to take a back seat to the instrumentation, it's got my vote for Cover of the Year. It's certainly more psychedelic (and less self-conscious) than anything Portishead has ever done.

Is this is a soul album? I don't know. It's soulful. It doesn't sound synthetic. It's like no soul music I've heard this decade, not even from critical darling Lauryn Hill. What works about "Bitter" is its refusal to categorize itself, or acknowledge itself as a "product." It's lite-jazz, but not at all elevator music. It's quiet storm, but for Santana fans. It's funk, but you can't dance to it. And just when you think "Roberta Flack," she turns into Grace Jones, and then Peter Gabriel, and then Brian Eno.

Give "Bitter" about three listens. Let it sink in. It will. Listen to it on headphones, so you can absorb every sexy, cerebral ounce of this record. Do it. For me.