Some cultural manifestations are like glossy paper: You pick them up, examine them, and put them down again. They're smooth, self-contained, and leave no residue on those who touch them. An academic essay on Abu Ghraib, for instance, or an opinion column. Others are like flypaper: You can't touch them without getting stuck to something -- in the case of “American Idol,” to symbols of Americanness. The show is controlled by and comprised of flesh-and-blood mortals who don't seek to be symbols or to act them out. And yet the show represents, emblematizes, signifies like crazy. It's democracy itself.

“Hung Up,” track one of Madonna's new album, Confessions on a Dance Floor, knocks you over the head instantly. Her voice is that familiar mechanical cry, half-woman, half-machine, all sex. The beat is focused and forceful, the melody hooked on one slightly delayed chord change in the chorus -- a calculated swerve that gives the illusion of throwing off the rhythm before veering right back to lock it in, tighter than before. It's classic Madonna, an eccentric, propulsive, atmospheric dance epic up there with “Lucky Star,” "Into the Groove," and "Open Your Heart.”