Singer-songwriters are meant to trade in whimsical pleasures, in the soft strums of a guitar, in worlds so delicate and small they could shatter at a single touch. Martha Wainwright doesn't trade alongside them. Back with a second record that's both tender and tough, beautiful and brutal, and simmering with invention and confidence, Martha forgot to read the rulebook. Either that, or she set all its pages aflame, strutted through the smoke, and emerged burnt and brave. And this time around, she's happy about it.