Sheryl crow doesn’t seem to mind talking about her recent meltdown, or even joking that she wasn’t far behind Mariah Carey when she snapped during the making of her new album, C’mon, C’mon. The reasons, she says between bites of toast at a cafe in Manhattan, were numerous: a relationship gone bust, the worry of fitting her organic rock into an increasingly commodified pop scene, the fear of turning 40 in a business where the Backstreet Boys are considered, like, totally old.

"THIS RECORD JUST beat me up so badly, says Crow, who hardly looks worse for the wear. She appears rested, even happy, kicking back in a gauzy embroidered shirt that should smell of patchouli but doesn’t, and faded bell-bottoms with leather laces crisscrossing up the side seams. The two years before 40 were a total crash and burn, I was trying to make everything fit together. Things have changed a lot in music. The advice I was getting was, ‘Rock is dead, incorporate beats into the record.’ So when I write, should I be thinking, ‘Can this song be dance-choreographed? Can we get a gold-plated Rolls for the video?’ Because the record was taking so long I felt like it was taking time away from this other part of my life that I wasn’t having a solid relationship, kids. It became me battling the monster, and I finally hit bottom.

The bottom is where Crow has found some of her best material. Three previous studio albums were built on personal conflicts and emotional upheaval, though no one predicted such a legacy when she arrived on the scene in 1993 singing, All I wanna do is have some fun. But Crow would outlast more seemingly relevant peers like Courtney Love and Nine Inch Nails by luring in casual listeners with traditional, FM-style pop rock, and snagging devotees of serious songwriting with poignant, self-effacing and occasionally devastating lyrics. Now she is a respected pop entity who, with Don Henley, heads up a recording artists’ coalition to strengthen musicians’ rights. She’s a tabloid curiosity who’s dated Eric Clapton and Owen Wilson, and has been accused of dating Kid Rock (a charge she denies). She’s also the gal with seven Grammys and 17.5 million albums sold.

Still, Crow is the woman in her songs who nearly drowns in self-doubt, but eventually comes up fighting. R&B’s biggest names were brought in to slickify C’mon, C’mon, but Crow ended up scrapping the album, having The Meltdown, then returning to make what she calls a record I’d like to buy. An all-star cast of backup singers such as Lenny Kravitz, Stevie Nicks and Gwyneth Paltrow aid Crow in songs so catchy that you’ll end up singing along no matter how goofy the lyrics are: Like Steve McQueen / All I need’s a fast machine...

The album reflects Crow’s mercurial moods in the studio. The single Soak Up the Sun, which features Liz Phair’s harmonies, swaggers with slide guitar, surf-style rhythms and even the computerized beats Crow once dreaded. The melancholy Weather Channel, with Emmylou Harris on backup vocals, is the flip opposite: powerful, subtle, contemplative. Crow is best when feisty or deep in the dumps. Otherwise, she tends to veer too close to the middle of the road. There’s a sappy collaboration with Henley about a secret affair and a Nicks duet with broken wings and ebbing tides. Sounds like stuff you’d write on an algebra notebook.

Crow grew up in rural Missouri, and by 21 was an elementary-school music teacher in St. Louis engaged to a devout Christian. Forced to choose between marriage and music, she picked the latter and landed a lucrative fast-food commercial. (Her first hit: It’s a good time for the great taste of McDonald’s.) The 24-year-old Crow used the cash to move to L.A., where she waitressed, sang backup on Michael Jackson’s Bad tour and eventually signed a deal with A&M. That was the easy part. After the success of 1993’s Tuesday Night Music Club, she had a public falling-out with friends and musicians who said she didn’t credit them for ideas on the album, and developed a nasty drinking habit. By 1996, she had faced the autoerotic asphyxiation death of her former bandmate and boyfriend, and as her second album hit the charts, Wal-Mart refused to stock the self-titled CD because it contained lyrics accusing the store of selling guns to minors. Along the way, the soft-rocker picked up a surprisingly steely reputation. I carry that label of being difficult, angry, sardonic, she says. I don’t know why that is. I think part of it is that I’m single, strong and famous. People perceive me to be all about balls.

But when you sit across the table from Crow, it’s clear she’s far from a hard case. She’s gets all squishy when talking about family and friends, and supersentimental on the subject of music. Almost all the songs I think are great have been about being loved, loving someone, wanting love, getting dumped, says Crow, fondling the gold cross and St. Christopher pendant around her neck. Love is what moves our molecules. I have bittersweetness about every relationship I’ve had. I’m friends with all my old boyfriends. At least I think I am.

Crow won’t say who, if anyone, she’s dating at the moment. But she admits she still a sucker for crazy, unstable artist types. There’s a bit of arrested development that goes on in rock and roll, she says, laughing. You can continue to be a kid forever. But as soon as you feel like you want to settle down and have kids, you’re in a dilemma. I’m sorta in that place now. We’ll see. And knowing Crow, we’ll likely hear about it, too.