“Four albums in and she’d rather hurt you honestly than mislead you with a lie, ask her if she loves you and you’ll choke on her reply, but better her yodel than Shania’s yawn. Still torturing vowels like a helmetless goaltender from Chicoutimi, and as for sensitivity, James Hetfield should just go back to the firing range. (We can’t do that up here in Canada — they took away all our guns.) Romance and all its strategy leaves her battling with her pride, but through the insecurity some tenderness survives. Just another writer, trapped within her truths — a hesitant prizefighter, still trapped within her youth? This national institution would like to remind you that we’re having a national election north of the border, too, and while it might not be as significant as yours, it’s kind of cooler because of how amateurish the candidates are; they never face the cameras directly, and they stutter and forget their lines a lot while declaiming on issues like generating electricity from beaver treadmills.”
– Dave Queen, review of Alanis Morrissette’s So-Called Chaos, Seattle Weekly (2004)