Ólöf Arnalds’ second One Little Indian release is best enjoyed passively. A pleasant departure, but nothing to write home about.
The centrepiece of the record is Ólöf’s fluid guitar and vocals, each instrument harmonically tessellates and songs always meet a satisfying, if predictable, cadence. Her voice is a Newsome-Bush hybrid, folky in essence, but with her singular intonation she intuitively avoids cliche.
Hints of childish innocence exquisitely contrast with insightful lyrics. Arnalds’ liguistic grasp is impressive, especially considering this is the first record she has ever written written in foreign tongue. Lyrics have a poetic flair to put natives to shame.
The artist’s conceptual premeditation is the records greatest weakness, it’s a little too perfect. This records impetus isn’t to be groundbreaking though, it stands as document of an honest and able artist, with no motivation but self expression and vicarious pleasure.