If you were Fiona Apple, you'd have a lot to be pissed off about. You'd be pissed at your record label for the quasi-exploitative marketing job they did on your debut, selling you as a waiflike, barely legal tease when one listen to Tidal showed you ran way deeper than that.

You'd probably be pissed at yourself over those mortifying teen angst missteps, like using your 1997 VMA acceptance speech to call the award "bullshit." Or your arty pretensions, like that 90-word poem of an album title in 1999.

And, judging from recent lyric sheets, you've got plenty of reasons to be pissed at your ex-boyfriend Paul Thomas Anderson.

You'd certainly be miffed at Jon Brion for mucking up your recent studio work with sloppy production, and then for spreading it around that Sony was "holding the record hostage" because "they didn't hear a single"—when in fact it was your decision to shelve it because he mucked it up that bad. And you'd probably be at least embarrassed that your fans are a bunch of corny lunatics who send bushels of Golden Deliciouses to label execs, symbolically urging them to release the album.

Factor in the history of sexual abuse, heartbreak and objectification, and yes, you could say Fiona Apple's got plenty of bones to pick. And, to be sure, anger is something she's delivered with astonishing results in the past.

So why does the official release of Extraordinary Machine, which Apple is supporting with two nights at The Tower this weekend, sound so… innocuous?

Let's review the story so far. 2002: Apple and Anderson (director of Boogie Nights and Magnolia) split up. 2003: Apple enters the studio to record some of her post-Anderson compositions with producer Brion. 2004: The record is shelved. Conclusions are drawn. FreeFiona.com is launched. Early 2005: The Brion sessions leak onto the Internet. Oct. 4, 2005: Finally, Machine is officially released, with nine of Brion's 11 cuts redone by 50 Cent producer Mike Elizondo.

Much of what's already been written about Machine is of the defensive "Jon Brion can do no wrong" variety. The guy sure did some great work with Aimee Mann and Evan Dando. And maybe he'd never in a million years have used the cheesy club beat Elizondo slapped on "Tymps." But let's acknowledge that a) the leak was an unfinished project in progress, and b) Brion is human and thus fallible. Even in its larval state, the original Machine clearly had problems with direction.

Opening with the cascading piano of "Not About Love," the Brion recordings quickly take a 90-degree turn when a jagged baroque string section storms in to pelt everything with a hail of staccato notes. Apple hasn't even opened her mouth and the song is already pulling the listener in two different directions. When the vocals do arrive, they prove tense but strong, rasping through embittered lines like "Now I can taste your agenda/ while you're spitting your cud," building up to a near-growl of a chorus. Perhaps Brion's intent was to match Apple's vocal maelstrom with an instrumental one, but as it stands, it's sensory overload.

Flip over to the final version of "Not About Love," and the verse is carried by a much gentler lounge vibe, a ride-cymbal sway. Conventional, yes, but not as distracting. However, Apple's delivery is quiet, reserved, almost dainty, leaving the bitterness of the chorus ("This is not about love/ because I am not in love") represented by cymbal crashes and guitar distortion.

Brion's "Better Version of Me" is eclipsed by the pitter-patter of a Hammond organ that, in this context, sounds lamely Caucasian. The Elizondo take keeps the Hammond but pushes it way to the back, calling attention to Apple's piano work.

In the leaked "Oh Well," you can taste the hate: The singer is given room to roar "What wasted unconditional love/ on somebody who doesn't believe in the stuff." The redone take is almost identical, without the punch. Same thing on the infidelity tale "Window"; in the Brion version, we hear a shaky-voiced Apple hopping around a clumsy worldbeat mix of marimba and clanging bells, trembling and helpless against her frustrations and jealousy. In the Elizondo take, she sounds bored.

And there's the rub. The re-recording of Machine was an attempt to taper Brion's ambitious arrangements and bring the thematic content to the foreground once those arrangements were declared unacceptable. Problem is, the artist waited too long. By the time the work was revisited, Apple didn't carry the same scorn, and it shows.

The ideal Machine would be a fusion of the piano and vocals from the Brion sessions with Elizondo's arrangements. Instead, we've got two versions of the same record, neither of which feels complete or fulfilling.

And that's something for us to be pissed about.