Deep Cuts by the Choir: For most of these 10 songs, Derri Daugherty and Steve Hindalong stick to setting terse, faith-based wisdom to the echoey, chiming hooks for which they’ve become beloved, the career-summarizing “Aces Over Eights” a particular high point. But as their sound softens and conforms to the adult-contemporary hooks awaiting most bands who’ve survived for nigh on 40 years, it becomes clear that the singer whose voice Daugherty’s most closely resembles is America’s Gerry Beckley’s—and that Beckley, probably because he was aiming at Top 40 instead of merely expressing himself, was better than Daugherty and Hindalong at making his love songs open-ended enough for outsiders to imagine them as their own.

The Battle at Garden’s Gate by Greta Van Fleet: “When informed that someone has achieved an American synthesis of Led Zeppelin and Yes,” wrote Robert Christgau in his one-line review of the first Boston album, “all I can do is hold my ears and say gosh.” And, initially, the Led Zeppelin half of that dismissal sufficed for these Michigan keepers of the ’70s hard-rock flame. But as they’ve morphed into their Yes phase (which, given Josh Kiszka’s vocal range, might just as well be their Rush phase) they’ve become easier to appreciate and to like. Who knows? If they keep developing, they might even add a standard or two to the canon they revere. Meanwhile, they’re currently the best at—as well as the only ones doing—what they do.

Breathe by Dr. Lonnie Smith: It’s a testament either to Smith’s belief in his Hammond B3 organ’s ability to speak for itself or to Iggy Pop’s declining cultural stock that Pop’s name isn’t emblazoned on the front of the album cover. But it should’ve been—the punk legend’s studio vocal contributions on this otherwise live at the Jazz Standard album’s bookends, Timmy Thomas’ “Why Can’t We Live Together” and Donovan’s “Sunshine Superman,” not only keep Smith’s extended explorations from deliquescing into the jazz-o-sphere but also unveil a suavity heretofore kept under wraps. Two explorations not in danger of deliquescing into anything: Thelonious Monk’s “Epistrophy” and Smith’s own “Bright Eyes,” both of which cook.

Year of the Cat (45th Anniversary Edition) by Al Stewart: No one knew it at the time, but this album’s producer, Alan Parsons, would soon be a bigger star than the dulcet-voiced former folkie whom he was helping to put over. The reason: a sound that blended folk, pop, and prog into something sleek enough for Top 40 and for demonstrating the audiophile properties of high-end stereos. To emphasize what Parsons brought to Stewart’s musical tales of mystery and imagination, this anniversary reboot (available in both digital and hard-copy formats) includes a 1976 Seattle concert without Parsons at the sound board, the main revelation of which is that Stewart seems like a really likable bloke when he talks between songs.

Encore

If the chance to reinvestigate peak Al Stewart leaves you cold, consider Epic/Legacy’s recent “expanded” reissues of the Jacksons’ albums, at least one of which, 1984’s Victory, truly deserves a reappraisal. Released in the wake of brother Michael’s Thriller and on the cusp of what was supposed to be the concert tour of the century, the album’s relatively modest (i.e., relatively Michael-lite) demeanor underwhelmed those hoping for Thriller II.

What’s clear in retrospect is that even if Victory lacked a knockout punch, its delivery of one high-quality, high-energy pop jab after another should’ve had judges giving it the nod on points alone. Between the carnality of the Marlon-sung-and-written “Body” and the spirituality of the Tito-sung-and-co-written “We Can Change the World,” the music only lets up when Michael, to the sound of an acoustic guitar, a harp, and strings, goes all weepy about a world in which both human ­suffering and armies coexist. —A.O.