For all of the countless personae that Madonna has invented and discarded in her 47 years on Earth, it’s easy to sort them into merely two archetypes: Fun or Insufferable. 2000’s Music occasionally felt like that lace-glove-rocking, Desperately Seeking Susan-starring, “Holiday”-warbling dance diva was trying to punch her way out, but Fun Madonna hasn’t made any substantial appearances since her insufferable counterpart fucked off to England to play lady-of-the-manor with Guy Ritchie. After critics and fans alike resisted 2003’s dour and preachy American Life, Insufferable Madonna cancelled her Kabbalah class and put out an all-points bulletin for her long-lost twin. Thankfully, she responded with Confessions on a Dance Floor, an irresistible update of the splashy, campy party music that first made her an icon some twenty years ago. Co-producer Stuart Price lays down a flawless sonic backdrop, filled with ingenious hooks culled from surprising sources (those digging current single “Hung Up” can address their thank-you notes directly to ABBA, while “Isaac” builds its melody around a haunting Hebrew chant). And aside from a few wobbly high notes, the rigorous vocal training Madonna received for Evita has served her well. But the marvelous production is marred by some regrettable lyrics, which unfortunately eclipse the album’s truly great moments (“Let It Will Be” and future club smash “Jump”). The dance genre is not exactly renowned for its lyrical depth, but some of the insights on Confessions make Kylie Minogue sound like Joni Mitchell. In “I Love New York,” Madonna explains her affinity for the Big Apple thusly: “Other places make me feel like a dork.” Even the more personal songs referenced in the album’s title (mostly gripes about the pitfalls of fame) are surprisingly superficial from a woman who’s spent her entire career informing us how intelligent she is: “How much fortune can you make...Will it matter when I’m gone?” she muses on “How High.” But if those lines seem disingenuous from someone who penned them while sitting in her goddamn castle, they’re easy enough to ignore when the music is this appealing. We’ll just have to forgive Confessions’ missteps—Fun Madonna is a bit rusty, after all.

It’s one of the ultimate rock recording clichés: A larger-than-life band holes itself up in some remote area, cuts itself off from the rest of the world, does a dump truck’s worth of drugs, and records a legendary album. Led Zeppelin’s Zoso was made in such a way. The White Album was written when The Beatles were living in the Maharishi’s remote Indian encampment. So when pondering the incredible vibrancy and diversity of the Icelandic music scene, remember this—these musicians live on an island in the North Atlantic. They’ve been doing the rock star escapist thing since they were born. If you’re not aware of the grand scope of genres and moods that is Icelandic music, the soundtrack to the documentary Screaming Masterpiece couldn’t be a better introduction. The film, which follows major and minor Icelandic artists around the world over the course of two years, has yet to be released in the U.S., but its soundtrack is captivating enough on its own.