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.

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.

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.

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.