Seems like you can’t really escape a certain Ms Sheryl Crow right now, no matter how hard you try. Her unmistakable tones blare from the radio any number of times throughout the day. Then there are those videos, the album cover in the record shops, the face on the newstands. Sheryl Crow is everywhere.

She was the preferred bargain-hunting soundtrack for the entire duration of the Christmas shopping spree, no matter what kind of store you were in. And now, in a major coup, coming from nowhere last year, she has by-passed Kate Bush, Madonna, Tori Amos, Annie Lennox, Chrissie Hynde and a dozen other well-established names to top a number of the critical categories in the HP Reader’s Poll as well. Has the whole Western World gone stark, raving Crow-mad? Apparently. Sheryl Crow: Love of the Year.

The singular ascent of the same Ms Crow is as fine a success story as you’re likely to encounter – and fuck the begrudgers. Some say it’s those sultry Native American looks, that mischievous curl of the lip or the whiskey’n’cigarettes inflection that lends an edge to her clear voice. Others argue it’s the new-country, almost-retro flavour of the record, when Wynonna Judd is too Nashville and Nanci Griffith a tad too serious for the mainstream big time.