Studio majesty be darned, this could prove a modern classic regardless.

What songs these are, genuinely good enough to be compared with peak Dylan: like him, Crutchfield is adept at nestling into the almost comforting niche of heartache and hopping out again with a grin.

Happily, this third album contains some of her best songs yet.

Such sentiments are couched in consistently wonderful songwriting, surf's-up vocal harmonies... and lavish electro-pop.

This is dance-rock for grown-ups: extraordinary.

It's the perfect album: tender without being sentimental, experimental yet accessible, utterly unique to its maker.

It’s utterly transfixing – not just for the gorgeousness of the tone, but for the absolute wondrousness of the melodies.

An entirely unique return to form.

You would call Drew the most exciting rapper Britain has produced since Dizzee Rascal, if that didn't sound like such faint praise.

These subtle, interesting songs lost out to brasher, more basic tracks – Welcome to New York, Style – on the original 1989 tracklist, but who’s to say whether their inclusion would have affected Swift’s trajectory? Clearly she made a pretty good call on that front. This carbon copy of her blockbuster album doesn’t rewrite history but adds some instantly treasurable footnotes.

This album is a masterpiece.

You're left with a richly inventive album that's unlike anything else in Harvey's back catalogue.

The Dears have never sounded so comfortable in their own skin.

There aren’t really bad Spoon albums. There are really good Spoon albums and there are excellent Spoon albums. Lucifer on the Sofa is one of the latter. What a delight.

Saxophones are smokin' and guitars twang, making Hot Dreams sound like the soundtrack to a western directed by David Lynch.

I don't expect to hear a better album this year.

These are new landmarks in Halvorson’s already inimitable discography.

Rochford's creative mix makes the album seem like an integrated, large-scale work, and the overall effect is eerily beautiful.

Magnificent.

Like all great psychedelic music, it perfectly evokes a deeply weird altered state, albeit that of a head wrecked by grief rather than lysergic acid diethylamide.

This is metal taken to a higher plane of brilliance.

Hell-On, Case’s seventh album, addresses [when a newspaper invaded her privacy] at the hands of selfish writers and cruel men--and finds Case asserting the facts of her life with daring candour and wit.

David Kennedy’s drumming is riveting, both finicky and louche as he sways through Dilla-time funkiness and math-rock detail. Guitarist Finlay Clark is in some ways a minimalist, repeating pretty riffs or expertly chosen chords, but there’s nothing minimal about his generous playing. .... Most astonishing of all is Jessica Hickie-Kallenbach, singing with more power and confidence than ever before. Her luminously soulful voice is a distinctive instrument, with vibrato that makes whole songs shudder with life.

There's not an ounce of fat here. What's left reaffirms the Neptunes' credentials as fearless sonic innovators - eradicating the memory of Pharrell Williams' underwhelming recent solo album at a stroke - and fast-tracks Clipse into the pantheon of great rap lyricists.

These are new landmarks in Halvorson’s already inimitable discography.

This is a gorgeous album, and Gwenifer Raymond is a profound talent.

Indulgent and trippy and sometimes off-kilter--but a whole heap of fun.

You are drawn to the conclusion that these songs would be remarkable regardless of the circumstances in which they were written.