have led her from the Sugarcubes' skewed New Wave pop to the trancy end of dance music to over-the-top show tunes and beyond. The results up till now have always been mixed: Björk's refusal to play it safe has always repelled mediocrity and has proved a large part of her charm.

On her second major solo album, this 29-year-old native of Reykjavik, Iceland, embarks on her most unlikely journey yet; Post comes up as victorious and gallant as any of her Viking forefathers. Chock-full of curious noises, mesmerizing vocals and musical surprises, Post provides a much-needed escape route from alternative rock's dull offerings of late.

While leagues of boys sporting goatees spill their dysfunctional guts over Ted Nugent-esque guitar licks, Björk forages for inspiration in the soundscapes of orchestrated jazz, ambient techno and classical. On Post she uncovers a range of specific sounds – not broad styles – that best express her emotions and color her arrangements. With little awe or irony, Björk blends these recognizable scraps and otherworldly snippets into a striking pattern of her own design, making Post an album that's post-everything but akin to nothing else.

Björk's now reaping the benefits of all that earlier trial and error. On her 1993 solo album, Debut, she finally toned down the rowdy theatrics of the Sugarcubes and began to fiddle with jazz rhythms and electronic effects with some success. Post sounds like the culmination of her quest. It's full of fantasy, humor and the grandiose, melodramatic, wide-open feel of old film scores. Most importantly, the music here finally challenges her voice.

Björk sings in smooth and subdued moods next to a delicate harpsichord, blasts out à la Judy Garland alongside screaming trumpet and growls over a tough, bottom-heavy beat. Her previously unbridled vocal swoops, from primal creature to flighty pixie, now cooperate and flow with the music around them. She communicates in creamy coos and guttural, bluesy belts. In both modes she emanates grace and raw power without forfeiting her uniqueness.

In "Blow a Fuse," a saucy big-band number originally recorded by World War II poster girl Betty Hutton, Björk saunters out like a sex siren in a smoky nightclub. Against the blare of a 20-piece orchestra, she purrs, then slips into a throaty growl and