Sarah McLachlan has essentially been a victim of her own success. Before she hit career zenith with the luscious 1993 album Fumbling Towards Ecstasy, McLachlan was flagged as a Kate Bush knockoff. Post-Fumbling, she's been derided for not straying far from the foxy Canadian earth-girl chanteuse template. So what? Did these same critics want Johnny Cash to cut an album of falsetto show tunes and Dylan to cut a gangster-rap EP? Nuh-uh. What criticism of McLachlan amounts to is a hill of misogyny, the byproduct of bitter guys who couldn't swing with Lilith Fair's delectable dykes. Those brave hetero studs who did attend that lovely little fest without harboring delusions of sexual grandeur were treated to McLachlan as she should be: a goddess emergent at sunset with gifts of lovelorn ballads as if delivered by a Botticelli angel. McLachlan is pitch-perfect live, her songs rolling off her backing band's fingers with studio precision. Many would dismiss this as not being raw and urgent enough, but such adjectives have no place in the realm of bubble-bath-and-scented-candle lullaby music. McLachlan is, in short, the sexiest woman currently walking the earth. The fact that she's stuck to her winning formula should do nothing to diminish this fact.