The talents of John Wesley Harding have reached full bloom in painful slow motion. Confessions is only his third full-length album in ten years, and while it's debatable whether these 12 short songs were worth the wait, there's no denying that gems nestle among them.

A reflective sensibility defines Confessions. The old political edge gives way to personal works sculpted with supreme craftsmanship. It's not all misty and gray, of course. Harding's wordplay can be exuberant, matching "Don Quixote" with "Donkey Kong" at one point. His depiction of a pallid underground waif on "Goth Girl" is unexpectedly charming, with an affection that's more parental than romantic. Harding's irony is abundant and artful: "I'm Wrong About Everything" is a jolly acknowledgment of male culpability in relationships -- "and when you hear the song you'll want to sing along," he advises us guys, and we hear him loud and clear. You can even forget, now and then, about what these songs are saying and just admire the writing technique: The vocal line on "She's a Piece of Work," drifting lazily and then kicking into double-time, builds a momentum that has more to do with rhythm than meaning.

Harding's songs, though prickly with hooks, aren't so much memorable as eventful. You don't walk away humming any melodies, but as each tune plays, with its truncated lines and quick tempo shifts, the kaleidoscope of devices demands attention. The throbbing beat of "Bad Dream Baby" carries us through 12-beat verses, eight-beat choruses, and other metric tripwires at no loss to momentum, as Jimmy Dale Gilmore's guest vocal fills float like a wraith above this battleground. Much of the album looks to British psychedelic pop: The stately horns, Lennonesque piano, and Ringo-like drums on "People Love to Watch You Die" point to the era that fits Harding's style -- the fade, in fact, could have been grafted from Abbey Road's "One Sweet Dream."

Disappointments are few. The biggest, "Our Lady of the Highways," stems from his inharmonious attempt at a duo vocal with Steve Earle. Bigger, perhaps, for Harding is his failure to escape the shadow of Elvis Costello, to whom he has been relentlessly compared for years. In fact, "You in Spite of Yourself," with its Attractions-like snarling organ and slashing guitars, seems almost to embrace -- in order to dismiss -- this critical fixation. The greatest disappointment would be the silence that will likely follow Confessions, as another span of time yawns before Harding's next release. At the risk of melting his glacial muse, let's hope for one more before he hits 40.