Broken hearts are a synonymous form of inspiration to artists; as much as anything, and are responsible for much of the clichéd regurgitation we often hear that at least proposes to feel something in that sphere. It is inevitable that one of the few universal experiences should find prominence in every outlet of art, and it must be recognised that among the wreckage are a few treasures. I suspect Sudden Elevation, to some, may be one of them.

Similarly to Jens Lekman's aching I Know What Love Isn't, Ólöf Arnalds attempts to infuse personality as much as feeling, and this individual interpretation is imbued with subtleties that distinguish her style. With an unusual tone that’s immediately distinct, echoing another release of 2012, Jessica Pratt, as well as the more obvious connections with Kate Bush and Björk (whom she's previously collaborated). She is inspired by honest accounts of memory, accepting the frailties and even the lack of groundbreaking originality, "Is there a love song that has not been sung before?" We absorb, both, into her tribulations but also her battle with creativity itself.

Sudden Elevation is an intellectually aware and inwardly brittle record that intertwines this conflict into mesmerising ephemera; crystallised moments; impressions of emotions and their profound impact. Written entirely in English for the first time, we can be in no doubt of her ambition to delve deep into the psyche as well as the heart with acerbic irony, "How difficult of me, to fall in love with you."

The production centres around Arnalds; spot-lit with plucked acoustic and arpeggiated sequences of blushed tones, with deep, layered sounds merely to compliment. After all, a classically trained vocalist ought to be celebrated as she is here.

Arnalds' song-writing is astoundingly complex at times, effusively simple at others; threading liquid harmonies through her quirky falsetto and pirouetting upon melodies. You can imagine her voice spiralling like pea shoots in the winter sun; delicate, precious, optimistic but frail. Still it isn't without its blemishes, leaving a few fumbling moments of intimacy at the opening of the title track, and a whispered count-in on 'Bright and Still', that adds charming character.

Yet it's balanced, understated; even mature and measured. And, somehow, for heartbreak; for emotional turmoil, it doesn't implore us to feel. Rather, we can appreciate it, admire its beauty, admire its intelligence - but can we connect? Perhaps the concepts are too intellectualised and the melodies a little too convoluted. For all of the angelic perfume which emanates through the sound, do we ever experience a moment of clarity, where the record becomes more than beautiful, and becomes the heartbreak itself?