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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Never a subtle singer, Jones attacks her soul anthems like a blunt force instrument. That’s fine, since nuance isn’t called for here. Force is, and Jones has enough of it to thrill. That still isn’t enough to drag the Dap-Kings out of the shadows of their idols.

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 songs’ dreamy quality won’t surprise Wilco fans. But, reflecting the relationship of the players, the album has its own low-fi, homey intimacy.

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.

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 album ends up seeming more like a stop-gap than a surge ahead. For the first two-thirds, Drake relies on his usual sing-song style, stoking interest only with his inventive stretches in phrasing.... Otherwise, cooler hooks, melodic flashes of R&B, or great variation can be hard to find.

Due to the depth of LaMontagne’s talent, any recording by him has automatic conviction and appeal. But Auerbach’s sound proves too defining, making the star seem like he’s trying to squeeze into another man’s clothes.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

The sound is more dense and self-conscious than ever, the twin Achilles’ heels of this star. At times, the mix blurs Tesfay’s vocals, preventing them from taking a deserved center stage.

The sound is so dense it threatens to asphyxiate the singer, which may just be the point. Everything about her work plays into fantasies of a potentially fatal manipulation.

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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

Sean doesn’t have Drake’s brooding soul, but he’s a lot more fun to listen to these days.

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."

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

The obvious skill and spring in May’s delivery can excite, but her music has become too uniform, too fixed in its backward view to keep us rapt.

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

It offers a crisp and worthy glimpse of a giant.

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.

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.

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.

Disappointingly, Pink hasn’t taken Minaj further into the surreality that first promised to turn her into Missy Elliott to the 10th power. But there’s no denying the album’s catchiness.

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.

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.

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

It’s a flinty, raw and ravaged recording, like some audio equivalent of a message in a bottle long ago tossed into the sea. It may be hard to listen to but it lends the disc an arcane charm.

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

He serves up several ballads, which salute hunting, fishing, and scarecrows. None are particularly convincing, given the anchor-man blandness of Bryan’s vocals.

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

The songs offer few individualized lyrical details, and no consistent themes, to pin on a particular person. The arrangements, likewise, have a slick adaptability that makes these songs serviceable cover material for any pop star of the hour.

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

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

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

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

The lyrics also circle the wagons, settling on eye-glazing tales of football heroes gone to war, men who realize it’s more fulfilling to fish than to climb the corporate ladder, and piercing realizations like “the answer lies in people loving people.”

Much of the material sounds like it was fished out of the slush pile of hotter stars like Beyoncé or Nicki Minaj. Part of one cut, “Walk It Out,” even sounds like a second run at Bey’s “Flawless.” The album finally shakes awake toward the end.

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.

They're featherweight takes on retro-'70's pop soul, together creating just the summer album we need in a winter that won't quit. But if the album's puppydog need to please goes down with ease, it's effect evaporates nearly as quickly.

Actually, there’s nothing Sheeran does here that Mraz hasn’t done before, often more cleverly. Even so, Sheeran can write a hummable tune and, clearly, has something young girls love even more than looks: heart.

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.

Nearly all the tracks on High Hopes are wildly overproduced and arranged, leaving no room to rock.

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 long list of guest stars lends the songs a variety that Morrison’s most monochromatic solo albums could well use.

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

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.

Instead of using that realization to push ahead, Four represents a step back in both sound and sensibility.

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

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.