The pop star’s latest album has plenty of dance hooks, just don’t go searching for anything deeper.

In the annals of radical art, there are “multiple use” names such as Luther Blissett, Monty Cantsin and Karen Eliot that anyone is invited to adopt as noms de plume. They’re meant to assert a communal conception of creativity, as opposed to the Western myth of individual genius, and to let imaginations explore taboo territories under cover of anonymity. The name Britney Spears may be ready to join that anti-pantheon.

On “Femme Fatale,” her seventh studio album and plainly one of her best, the erstwhile teen-pop princess is less the center of sonic attention than the occasion and enabler for a dozen of the age’s most accomplished record producers to show off their wildest moves from behind a plastic Britney mask.The star serves mainly to illuminate their eccentric orbits with her considerable glow.

This team approach is, of course, the norm in 21st century chart pop, and Spears, among a handful of others, pioneered it. But when the name on the cover is, say, Ke$ ha, Katy Perry or Pink, the ensemble works to pull the star’s persona into focus, ensuring each element enhances the distinct nose of her perfume, be it “reckless party animal,” “saucy but warm seductress” or “feisty but vulnerable vamp.” Spears has always been elusive and, in fact, dumbfoundingly adept at withholding straight answers about her own feelings or identity.