Paula Cole Rides the Range Like a ‘90s Cowgirl

The overarching theme of Paula Cole’s two albums is her struggle not to let either the expectations of others or the riptide of emotional need and sexual attraction erode her sense of self.

With her current album, “This Fire,” a burgeoning hit with 655,000 U.S. sales, according to Soundscan, this newly minted pop-rock diva has come along at the right time to avoid another kind of trap. A generation ago, a talent like Cole might have been pinned to the expected female role of confessional singer-songwriter, admired for the sensitivity of her observations, the strong emotion of her singing and the attractiveness of her melodies.

Now women have other options, and Cole tests almost all of them. Playing for an adoring, near-capacity house of about 450 Sunday at the Coach House, she unleashed the hellish fury of a woman scorned in “Mississippi,” bluesily and explicitly moaned her lust on “Feelin’ Love” and overindulged in primal-scream therapy at the end of “Road to Dead.”

Along the way, without sounding slavishly imitative, she echoed those who have widened women’s berth in the pop world, including Sinead O’Connor, PJ Harvey and Kate Bush. Her finest song, the gentle, lyrical gem “Carmen,” owed a big debt to Joan Armatrading, circa “Love and Affection.”

Cole played a bit of clarinet and a lot of solid piano--at one point stomping out a song’s last angry chord with one of the high-laced work boots she wore under a long, form-hugging velveteen dress. She sang impressively, with wide, assured range, charismatic presence and far more control than she had in her Lilith Fair set this summer at Irvine Meadows.

Cole blended with a good, lean backing trio of a versatile guitarist, Kevin Barry, a mood-enhancing bassist, Mark Browne, and an inventive, high-impact but not intrusive drummer, Jay Bellerose.

She also moved effectively to underscore the drift of her music, proving that she paid attention a few years ago as backup singer for that onstage master of purposeful movement, Peter Gabriel. Cole performed in front of a white backdrop hung with women’s dresses, including a kimono and a wedding gown, which mutely supported her theme of a woman’s search for identity.

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Watching Cole try on her range of musical choices was never boring. But the unevenness of her 90-minute show suggested that too many choices aren’t always good for art. The fact is, what Cole does best falls within the old, no-screaming tradition of down-the-middle, melodic pop-rock songwriting. The highlights were the lilting “Carmen”; her career-making hit “Where Have All the Cowboys Gone?” (complete with a pointedly timed obscene gesture to telegraph an ironic viewpoint to listeners who might mistake this complex examination and critique of traditional female subservient roles as an endorsement of same); the tender AIDS death-watch lament, “Hush, Hush, Hush,” and her earnest closing affirmation, “I Don’t Want to Wait.”

Though some of Cole’s material is obvious and uninventive (“Me,” with its litany of self-help nostrums) her melodic knack saves it. Some stuff from her spotty first album is plain awful, especially “Hitler’s Brothers,” an artless, soap-boxy tirade against neo-Nazis. But Cole’s solid progress from first album to second, her considerable raw talent and her willingness to take risks and go overboard are all signs that she can wear her recently acquired divadom well.