The courtesans of outer-sound have approached the doorstep. “This is the album of the year!” they cry. They are undoubtedly correct. This is the seventh best album of the year. There are infinite images to put to this perfectly licked magnum opus, a steady composite of organic and analog that flickers on the mind like a lyrically drenched Stan Brakhage film. There are myriad avenues to access in describing Love—I’d rather you listen to it.