he careers of Radiohead and Imani Coppola have, over the last month, become strangely similar. Both used to be signed to Columbia. Both decided to use the Internet as their main means of distribution for the early release of their new work. Both will also be releasing physical copies through a bona fide label (in Coppola's case, Ipecac) in the near future. Most importantly, both artists have released albums this year that are far from great, though with moments of sheer brilliance.

In Coppola's case, every music blog in the world will not be dissecting The Black and White Album, looking for clues and insight into her fevered ideas. If they were, though, they wouldn't have to dig very deep. Coppola's politics are quite literally skin deep, as she so loudly proclaims on the song "Woke Up White," a furious fantasy about, well, waking up white ("Woke up white today / and everything went right today"). It's a fast, funny song, but one that is emblematic of the rather confused politics that permeates this album. Towards the end of The Black and White Album, Coppola tears into an almost industrial sounding screed about how, as the acronymic title states, "John Lennon is a Trademark of Yoko Ono." The purpose of this statement is completely unclear, especially coming alongside a lot of fractured imagery and screams of "Imagine! Imagine! Imagine!"

It is the disjointed feeling of the album that works both for and against Coppola. Although it never seems to cohere, it’s bracing to hear an artist embrace as many musical styles as she does on The Black and White Album. The best three tracks, which come in quick succession on the album, starts with loping funk pop ("Raindrops from the Sun"), slides into jittery hip-hop that wouldn't be out of place on an Outkast album, and then settles into a sparse mid-tempo track that matches a Beatles string section with several variations on a thumping beat. (All of which gives Coppola a chance to show off the full range of her dense, dusky voice.) Throughout the album, she triples and quadruples her own vocals, raining a chorus of sound down on many of the songs, usually to scintillating effect. Elsewhere she deftly moves between variations of a sweet, pleading sound, a forceful Tina Turner-esque squall, and a neo-soul croon.

Ultimately The Black and White Album is another example of the danger of a musician self-producing his/her own work. Sometimes, when the ideas and songs are solid, the result can be groundbreaking and near-perfect, but all too often the focus is lost and it ends up sounding muddled and muddied. If Coppola had someone to rein in her various personae and bring some clarity to her ideas, there's no doubt that she could be an artist for the ages. Left to her own devices, she will remain fixed to her time and place, missing a chance to let loose her obvious talent on the world.