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.

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, 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 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.

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

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

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

It offers a crisp and worthy glimpse of a giant.

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 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.

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

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.

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."

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.

Like all the tracks here, the sound clearly channels the past, but only to buff it with a current sheen.

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

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.

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.

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 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.

The alternate studio takes shoot us into a parallel universe well worth entering.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

Mellencamp finds his own delicate melodies, including some of the prettiest of his career. Their finery offers a sweet contrast to the increasing grit in his voice and bile in his lyrics--the most incisive of which take dead aim at himself.

The dance songs don’t have nearly as much uniqueness or specificity.... By contrast, exhilarating ballads like “Whole Damn Year” make the most of Blige’s queen-of-pain character.

We get pure Stevie--needier than some might find comfortable, but also unexpectedly wise. It’s too much for the casual listener but catnip for the devoted.

Like all of the band’s albums, Sonic Highways ends up enjoyable, sweet and insubstantial.

The album could use a hefty dose of editing, annoying to any listener--unless, of course, they’re too stoned to care.

For the new disc, they clarified their sound with a stripped-down lineup. It’s one of their hardest-rocking releases.

The album, which features Beyonce, Ellie Goulding and Sia, stresses soft-edged production and slow build rhythms, bunched into some fairly catchy pop songs.

If the music still plays to the lighter side of power pop, it’s more animated and edgy than either musician has managed in too long a time.

Taken as a whole, Hotel Valentine creates a trip of a disc, referencing the ghosts of old New York while exorcising them into something new.

“Uptown Funk” turns out to be one of the only lazy tracks on Ronson’s fourth album. Yes, the other songs obsess on the past, but most enliven it. Better, some revive a quirk of history others overlooked.

Trainor may be talented, with a large voice and a witty writing style, but over the course of the album she crosses the line from confident to smug.

Mockingjay has a distinct ’80s feel, evident in its more-is-more approach.

Throughout, Streisand’s voice sound more robust than it has for some time, especially compared to her live performance last year in Brooklyn. But she has a tendency to oversing in an attempt to engage with her guests.

At times, you wish he’d push up the speed--thrashing out blues-rock in the frenzied ’60s and ’70s tradition. But by today’s timid standards, this burns.

Cohen vocals frequently sound more robust than they do in the studio, which is a surprise.... Still, it’s the band that gives the tracks the most animation.

The production has a creaminess that never obscures its clarity. The melodies have equal definition, shunning the clichés of the most rote, American R&B.

The band’s songs are as dense to listen to as they are to contemplate.

Thicke’s considerable vocal skills can’t wipe away the sneaking feeling that he’s always doing an impersonation of someone else. Listening, you never feel you can entirely trust the guy, which may be the album’s most revealing aspect of all.

The innocence in Grande’s voice helps her bring off the cliches in the more earnest material, like the soapy ballad “Why Try” or “Just A Little Bit of Your Heart,” co-written by One Direction’s Harry Styles. She proves less sure on more flip songs.

The new wave sound--anchored on brisk claps, cracks and booms--gives Swift’s new songs a certain breezy appeal. But her choruses tend to rest on a songwriter’s laziest fall-back: the repetitive, arena-mongering chant.

St. Vincent proves on her new work that self-conscious and odd grooves can move you, too. Many songs find joy and invention in goose-stepping rhythms and hard, or even dissonant, shards of guitar.

If the end result isn’t as big a blast as the star’s previous records, it still has his likable tone and witty character to count on.

In truth, 5 Seconds of Summer are unlikely to replace their elders any time soon. But they do provide a nice alternative--one with fetching songs and just enough sass to stand out.

The new Honest goes for something more personal and earnest, though many of his rhymes lack the nuance to make those revelations more than rote. Luckily, there’s enough depth in Future’s spoken, and sung, verse to lend them the vulnerability they demand.

The slicker R&B tracks--alighted by singers like Trey Songz and Guardan Banks--have a more generic appeal. And, as always, 50’s bling-driven verse isn’t as rare as his rhythmic delivery. But when his rich instrument undulates over the minimalist riffs, there’s magic worth waiting for.

These seemingly underbaked songs reveal more formality and beauty with repeated listens. You have to hear through a lot of haze to get to that, but in the end, it's worth it.

It’s a richly orchestral work, eager for drama and full of appealing tunes.

The ex-Eurythmics singer pumps new life in the war horses by locating their bluesy core.

Sucker ends up monochromatic, but that only helps Charli hone a persona. If the one here doesn’t exactly make her the new Joe Strummer, it does suggest a British answer to Kesha. She’s the likable brat of the hour.

Nostalgic fans will no doubt lap up Prince’s old-school falsetto preens and funk beats. But such a sustained recoil from the current world has a consequence. It can seem regressive or overfamiliar.

The studio sound erased many of those aural pimples, acting like dermabrasion for the ears. The appeal of the songs also helps smooth things over. Adults may notice that this “singer-songwriter” rarely writes without armies of collaborators. But the material he’s been handed has hooks.

That hybrid [hip-hop and pop], and Sparks’ new maturity, allows her to find her voice, as well as a potential new role.

They raise issues only to question them, a point driven home by the askew music. It doesn’t make for the most direct, or exciting, of sounds. But by embracing hip hop and also standing outside it, the album lends the genre a perspective it could use.

Part of Morrissey’s charm is his resistance to change. Another part is the sick wit that lies behind his vitriol. The titles of his songs alone draw perverse smiles. He may be a pill and a scold, but you can’t deny the guy’s got style.

Due to the era the album fetishes, the music sounds inescapably chintzy.... Jepsen’s improbably young voice helps distract from that.

True to its goal, there's lots of fun to be had here, even if the music does lack depth and innovation.

The pace remains measured, the production pristine and the tone a tad too tame.

Unfortunately, the songs end up seeming more lightweight than they otherwise might.

It's an album where the rich embroidery overshadows the essential garment. Details impress but the overall picture never quite comes together.