The full version does have a “you are there” advantage, letting the listener play a fly on the wall, taking in all the musicians’ experiments and gaffes. But the pruned version does a perfectly good job for most fans.

Listening again proves it to be that rarest of beasts: a perfect work. There’s not a chord, lyric, beat or inflection that doesn’t pull at the heart or make it soar.

It's an album meant to be lived with for a long time--one of the few recent hip-hop that’s built to last.

It’s a striking mix of sensuality and abrasion, giving a long-missing star a fresh claim on what’s current.

Miles never performed songs the same way twice, so these still carry surprises.

The impeccable music Stevens has created gives shape to the chaos of his emotions.

As always, the words have a political edge, touching on the evaporating middle class and the difficulties of forging mass movements. Thankfully, they’re expressed poetically, with no stink of political correctness.

Listening to Uncle Tupelo’s maiden album in this newly expanded form both underscores its essential power and points up the arbitrariness of its watershed reputation.

Each [Fillmore volume] presented a wholly different side of the icon’s genius. But only Fillmore captures the apex of his adventure, a time when an already middle-aged Miles managed to out-freak even the freaks.

As always, Cash’s vocals aren’t brimming with character, but their tidiness suits her observational lyrics and considered personality. Together, they lead her home by a route laid out clearly enough to show just how far she strayed.

This time Cohen tackles some big subjects more abstractly. It’s also one of his most musically rich and varied works.

Atkins’ songs have enough range to recall a Kurt Weill art-song in “It’s Only Chemistry.” But it’s her voice that ties it all together, with a sound sure enough to let the vulnerability of her words proudly show.

As Tweedy has done with Mavis’ music of late, he filed Pops’ final songs down to their steely core.

On the new Shadows in the Night, Dylan redefines the songs entirely, making them conform to his character rather than the other way around.

Dre might have sounded fat and smug at this point. The good news is that, instead, he sounds hungry.

Kooper did a good job of balancing the guitarist’s seminal material with worthy rarities.

The new album--Beck’s first in more than five years--has its own melodies and sonic palette. It’s even more fully dedicated to its draggy beat and diffuse sound than “Sea Change.”

It’s rock refigured as a Damien Hirst spot painting--a series of isolated, colorful pops that, together, mesmerize.

Often she sounds like she’s having a conversation with herself. If that sounds distancing, the honesty and intelligence behind it draws us close.

The reconstituted Blur confines its wilder moments to the margins, using them to add creativity to the arrangements, or hint at the askew worldview expressed in the lyrics. The core of the songs recall the melodic sharpness, and rhythmic force, of the 1990s.

The new mix, as well as the broader melodies, lets the group escape the dreaded “retro” tag. But it’s the stun-gun effect of Howard’s vocals that puts the Shakes in a class of their own. She’s today’s most volatile singer, the one most prone to erupt when you least expect it.

Luckily, the sweeter sound is in no way slick. It’s balanced against the bare ache in the singers’ voices, and the pained beauty in their tunes. The women’s voices have also matured.

The band that has most closely followed his lead--the Black Keys--sticks to conventional takes on American genres, but White treats them with something fresher: a sense of menace.

The music Lake Street makes draws from 1930s jazz, ’50s rockabilly and doo-wop, as well as ’60s blues and soul. The title track idealizes that last mix. It could slip easily onto Bonnie Raitt’s best, early discs.

The inevitable Heartbreakers comparisons in the new music offer a striking contrast to Petty’s lyrical point of view. While Petty “Won’t Back Down,” Adams’ theme sounds more like a “Breakdown.” If that seems needy and depressing, it’s tempered by Adams’ passion and rock-hard power. He captures the kind of pain that excites.

Even as the band’s music keeps expanding, Welch’s lyrics have narrowed in focus. They’re less abstract this time, more attuned to the vagaries of love.

It’s his catchiest, most sharply focused album in years.

Regardless of the musical style, Kelis’ vocals manage a rare balance--between maternal nurture and a lover’s caress.

In sound, composition and performance, Sia captures the melodrama of teen life, with all the lunatic exaggeration it deserves.

It’s great that Clark’s new songs separate themselves from genre restrictions. But, in the end, it’s the way he feels his strings that ends up touching us so deeply.

The relationship between the music and Albarn’s voice deepens the album’s theme.

In the end, most of the songs feel like demos--but that stripped result honors the joy of raw feeling.

At under 35 minutes, Rock or Bust is the shortest AD/DC album ever. Rest assured, however, this short album is no less sweet.

It lacks the philosophical breadth of previous Wilson songs like “Free Life” or the wit of his masturbation ode, “Get a Grip.” But there’s more than enough here for pop stars to plunder, aided by its rich points of view.

Turn Blue may not rock as resoundingly as past works, but the added soul in Auerbach’s vocals, and the extra beauty of the tunes, give the album a slow-burn warmth.

The music on Lower Reaches follows the pattern of all three Currie solo albums. It’s slower and more ballad driven than his zippy work with Del Amitri. But he does kick up his heels in “Bend to My Will,” which recalls the Eagles' hit "Already Gone."

The power of Goldsmith’s words elevates it all to the next level.

It offers a crisp and worthy glimpse of a giant.

Though Hill shares the honoree’s alto pitch and stern vibrato, she’s transformed the arrangements of these classic songs to nearly the same degree that Simone did on her own versions.

The tension between the singers’ voices does the tradition of classic R&B harmony proud.

Heard in what would have been Cash’s 82nd year, the songs find this icon embracing Music Row conventions without losing his soul.

The first half doesn’t downshift for a second, plowing through muscular rockers with the spit of his prime.

It’s the balance of the production that makes it all click.

Along the way, the long, 19-song album offers its share of groaners, missteps and songs more indebted to trendy production than solid craft. But its best moments boast some of the most finely structured pop melodies of Madonna’s 32-year career.

Many of the other stars sound like they want to crawl inside Browne’s throat, the better to get closer to the mind that created such exquisite work. Even the most reconsidered renderings make sure never to get in the way of the words.

Contrary to its title, the new album may be Carey's least elusive work. Rarely has she made her talent more clear.

Many pieces highlight Beck’s mordant humor. Professional decadent Jarvis Cocker proves ideal for “Eyes That Say I Love You,” dealing wryly with the delusions of love.

It has just eight short songs, and the material isn’t about to eclipse “Thriller.” But it does a service by adding worthy songs to Jackson’s canon. Even better, it makes him sound, once again, alive.

The looseness of the takes, along with the breadth of genres they draw upon, lets Franklin work all of her tricks, from gospel shouts to Broadway belts to soul runs to a rock star belligerence.

The result creates a perfect arc--one O’Connor has, here, fully realized.

The match between Bennett and Gaga winds up quite differently from the one between the master and k.d. lang in 2002. Those two created a more sober and mature affair. By contrast, the duets with Gaga give Bennett a whole new hold on youth.

As great as the tune ["Wake Me Up"] may be, it’s Blacc’s voice that hooks you. It’s substantive, searching, and full of the depth modern soul men too often lack.

It helps that her smooth voice sits so comfortably on the songs, content to illuminate their fine tunes rather than over-embellish them with flash.

Jon Fratelli proves a cleverly withering lyricist. Nearly all the songs treat lovers as thieves, imposters or liars.

Only in a few songs does he draw on soul’s common language of strain and overstatement and it’s exciting when he does. At his most forceful he can sound like Simply Red’s Mick Hucknall. Far more often he’s in the erudite territory of Smokey Robinson, letting his falsetto waft ever higher.

Only a few tracks, like “Guts Over Fear” (with guest vocals from Sia) bore inside the rapper to show his vulnerable side. But the snarl of the rest finds him at a peak of writerly dexterity and rhyming velocity.

The 3rdEyeGirl album has a much cleaner sound, and a sharper focus, than Prince’s solo album.

The orchestrations also let us focus on Young as a pure singer, rather than as a holistic musician. And he’s a remarkably effective one. In his aged, spindly whine lies a world of emotion.