Six years and a gajillion dollars in the making, Michael Jackson's Invincible faces roadblocks that range from impossibly lofty sales expectations to the many indications that he's a big loon. Jackson's larger-than-life persona, goosed by his own tendency to stage lavish tributes to himself, does make any new studio album an event, but musically, his madness manifests itself primarily as run-of-the-mill ego. Opening, predictably, with yet another declaration of commercial and creative dominance ("Unbreakable"), Invincible goes on to amply address humanity's need to heal the world, save the children, and leave Michael Jackson alone. When it steers clear of that shopworn subject matter, the 77-minute album is risk-free and okay, if oddly distant, melding the star's trademark vocal tricks to jittery, busily produced arrangements by Jackson and A-list hired guns like Rodney Jerkins. When it doesn't, look out. Few musicians are as publicly paranoid or guarded as Jackson, yet few can be as cluelessly unselfconscious, as when he drowns the mawkish ballad "The Lost Children" in a children's chorus or, on a track to which listeners can no doubt relate, howls about the evils of the paparazzi on "Privacy." Jackson has lived a bizarre train-wreck life of mystery and tragedy, but following such a lengthy absence, Invincible just reeks of desperation and aimlessness. He's like an author who lives a fascinating life of adventure, only to fill his books with blank pages.