THOUGH IT'S BEEN more than eight long, yodel-filled years since she first sang "Who Will Save Your Soul," Jewel Kilcher has never stopped urging us pop-loving heathens to ponder where we'll be spending eternity.

In fact, the overly earnest neofolkie from Alaska refuses to let us not think about it. "Come on you unbelievers, move out of the way," she whinnied on 1998's Spirit (Atlantic). "There is a new army coming, and we are armed with faith." And while such pseudo-spiritual nonsense probably didn't put the fear of God in many listeners, her snaggle-toothed smile – as well as her poetry collection, A Night Without Armor – most certainly did, scaring up something like 10 bazillion record sales by the end of the '90s.

In a turn of events that can only be described as miraculous, however, 2001's largely ignored This Way (Atlantic) suggested that fans had finally tired of Jewel's folk-pop preachiness. Since people were no longer listening to her sermonize and yap about how she lived out of her car once upon a time, she decided to salvage her career by taking a slightly less self-righteous route: she crammed herself in a leather bustier, enlisted the help of hit maker Lester Mendez (Shakira, Enrique Iglesias), and, albeit ironically, embraced pop whoredom.

But fret not, wayward listeners! Contrary to claims that she's nothing but a vapid pop tart these days, Jewel still inspires profoundly deep, soul-searching introspection. It's just that the question she now raises isn't Who will save your soul? but rather Who did Jewel sell hers to?

Just check this summer's 0304 (Atlantic) and possibly her performance this week at Flint Center, her first in the Bay Area since the album's release. In a move that makes Liz Phair's own bid for Maxim's readership look amateurish and sloppy, Jewel has revamped her image from horse-riding hippie to that of a Eurodisco sexpot getting hosed down by firemen in her "Intuition" video. Never mind that she told Rolling Stone a year ago, "I never have, and I probably never will" make a T&A video. Jewel v. 2.0 seems eager to strut her scantily clad stuff. "You got something that you're wanting to sell?" she sings on "Intuition." "Sell yourself, just cash in."

It's all under the guise of irony, of course, with Jewel cheekily embodying everything she once prided herself on not being: unapologetically sexy, shallow, art-i-ficial, irreverent, and the proud owner of a newfound sense of humor. Listeners seem to be taking the bait, too. "Jewel as a musician gives me little pleasure," writes one Amazon.com customer in a review of 0304. "But Jewel as an object gives me much pleasure."

It's the sort of win-win, wink-wink situation Jewel – or at least her handlers – no doubt envisioned. After all, if listeners see her bore-to-whore makeover as sarcastic commentary on pop culture's shallowness and obsession with sex, then she walks away with her integrity intact. And if they see her makeover as the real deal – or even as an unabashedly trashy, tacky, and transparent marketing strategy – well, let's just say it hasn't hurt Britney's and Xtina's bank accounts to show some skin.

The unintentional irony in all of this is that, in aping what she finds most detestable about pop culture, Jewel has finally made herself likable. 0304 isn't merely tolerable – which, let's face it, was the most you could ask of her in the past – it's downright enjoyable. With an album full of irresistible, disco-driven rave-ups like "Yes U Can" and "U & Me = Love," she's finally dropped her sanctimonious spirituality bullshit and opted to let fans simply enjoy her music for the dance-floor free-for-all it now is.

So maybe there's more truth in the calculated irony than anyone ever intended. Because, just as the teen in the "Intuition" video's TRL spoof gushes, "Jewel's music sounds much better now that she's dancing!"