There are just some things -- that movie The Notebook, Sex and the City, sweatpants in public -- that I, as a dude, am never gonna get. It's not that any of it's bad. It's just that it's all girl stuff.

Before you accuse me of sexism, ask yourself this: How many girls do you know who really dig a good hockey match? Or Chuck Norris? Probably none. They say men are from Mars, and women from Venus; and on Mars, we love us some high-sticking and some crimson-bearded kung fu action. On Venus, there's Ryan Gosling and martinis aplenty. Now, where would you rather live? You see my point.

Even in the generally gender-neutral world of indie rock, this postulate holds water. There just aren't that many lady-types who get their jollies swilling Schlitz and sweating all over themselves at a Trail of Dead show any more than there are gents positively freaking out over the new record by the gal from Rilo Kiley. We just like different stuff sometimes, us guys and dolls. That's life. But sometimes, it gets frustrating.

Take Cat Power. Ms. Chan Marshall's been performing under the feline-boosting moniker for more than a decade now, cranking out record after record of beguiling, bare-bones folk. Her hickory-smoked voice is one of the most distinctive in music, and she's got a way with a tune that's all her own. I recognize there's something hypnotic about Cat Power's music, so I have most of her records. But I'm a dude, and there are times when I feel like I respect Cat Power more than I love her. Dudettes, though? They love Cat Power. They get it.

The finest Cat Power tunes cut close to the vein without resorting to the moon-howling intensity that I, as a fellow, feel alienated by. Though all of Marshall's records have had at least a handful of tunes even a Steven Seagal fan would love, each has been bogged down by a number of her heart-wrenching confessionals -- songs I, having never broken up with no scrub, don't always identify with. It's this tendency that's kept Cat Power from making a universally "boffo" LP. Until, that is, The Greatest, her latest and, yes, greatest album to date.

It's not as though some shift in Marshall's subject matter puts The Greatest on the top of her pile; there's still plenty of lovesick tunes sung from the female perspective. What sets The Greatest apart from Marshall's previous work is the sound. Swimming in sultry horns, scratchy violins and hazy harmonies, it's the most sonically lush disc of Cat Power's career by a country mile, about as far removed from the echoey plunk of her past records as it could be. And, matched up with her finest batch of tunes yet, it sounds just like starting over.

The swooning lament of the title track kicks The Greatest off in high style, leading off a six-track streak that's sure to rival the rest of the best music that'll see release this year. The bluesy shuffle of "Living Proof" tops every other song she's ever written; that is, until the rousingly poetic "Lived in Bars," a song so sublime that every time I hear it, I don't want it to end. It's halfway through that "Where Is My Love" throws a snag in the mix, a track just a bit too reminiscent of the trying Cat Power of old with its tumbling piano and plaintive vocal. But Marshall picks herself back up with "The Moon" and carries the torch through the rest of the album, pausing only to spook us a bit with the skeletal but effective "Hate" before closing things out beautifully with the Neil Young-inspired "Love & Communication."

The Greatest isn't just the most cohesive, artful album Marshall's ever done, or the first album-length realization of her always-obvious but occasionally intangible brilliance. It's her first LP that's just as likely to make a Stetson Man swoon as it would a Gilmore Girl. You can call me a dumb guy for not loving Cat Power before if you wish; I'm still not sure I was supposed to. But this record? This, anyone could love. Grade: B+