She has always channelled bliss and joy into compelling music, but Utopia’s take on love is more than pure feeling; it’s the basis for a personal and political manifesto.

Utopia isn't quite as idyllic as its title implies, but its mix of idealism and realism makes it an even greater success as a manifesto for radically open love and as a document of thriving after loss.

If you’re willing to give it your full attention, this is a frequently stunning record. It may often be difficult, but like most hard work, Utopia reaps its own rewards.

Utopia can be dense stuff, but repeated listens will bear out not only a sympathetic ear for the artist's struggles and subsequent rebirth but also a familiar, Björk-like vibe.

The sound palette of Utopia is bright and airy. Flutes, pan pipes and other woodwinds make up the main instrumentation, as tactile but ephemeral as a warm breath on the back of your neck. It's rich with life.

Björk exudes a lust for life again on her self-styled ‘Tinder album’, a hope-filled set powered by flutes and birdsong.

Björk seems to have reconjured the elements that made her music so exceptional, and consistently enough that one can imagine a shorter, more curated iteration of Utopia that could stand with her very best albums.

As it is ... ‘Utopia’ remains, in its flawed honesty, floridity and explorative nature, as good an expression of late-period, high-concept Björk as one could hope for.

Utopia is one of Björk's most majestic and revealing albums yet, but it's also her most bloated and unkempt.

Utopia’s idyllic voyage eases Bjork triumphantly out of Vulnicura’s thorny darkness, where endurance is a necessary attitude that is central to her patient story arc. The elegant orchestrations she develops are oftentimes rewarding, even if they gloriously highlight some of her nagging indulgences.

Utopia, for all its new tricks and ideas, still sounds very much like a Björk record, meaning it will neither disappoint her dedicated base nor catch the casually interested much off guard.