Music journalism is rife with stories of personal exorcism. These days, it's impossible to flick through a few pages of live reviews without encountering tales of on-stage catharsis - the unleashing of demons into a microphone, and out onto an unsuspecting audience.

I was fortunate enough to be involved in one such experience the first time I laid eyes on Julie Baenziger, aka Sea of Bees, on a cold winter's night in Tunbridge Wells. Taking to the stage for the first night of a UK tour, Baenziger reduced the crowd to a deafly hush. A mesmerisingly intimate performance, it showcased the power of her music to transcend locales and stereotypes; here was a freaky, almost asexual, woman from San Francisco using just her voice and guitar, drawing every ounce of attention from a group of people residing in a staunchly conservative, archetypal middle-English town. It's safe to say there's something very special about her then.

What's most immediately striking about her sophomore album Orangefarben though is that it doesn't really do anything particularly interesting stylistically. It strays little from chamber pop and indie folk conventions, in fact. Though it may be a largely comfortable suite of songs, what sets Baenziger apart from many similar songwriters is her ability to invest each and every track with a fine-tuned degree of emotion and sensuality. Hers is a voice both coyly playful and deeply serious, often at the same time, and she manages this balance to stunning effect.

Opening track 'Broke' is the perfect example of this. An immediately striking, uplifting, pop-rooted song, it builds from a gently strummed guitar line to an acoustic stomp-along. Vocally, Baenziger echoes Sharon Van Etten here, albeit in a less sombre, more twee manner. It's far from original but as an evocatively emotive, and surprisingly contagious track, it's second to none. This sense of emotion, that Baenziger purveys with such ease, is grounded in the jarring manner with which she delivers her vocal lines – lyrically adept and wonderfully simple, she avoids any esotericisms and adopts a far more clear-cut agenda, speaking to her listener in layman's terms. It's no wonder she's able to bring crowds of people to stunned silences, her music is wonderfully democratic and profoundly involving.

As Orangefarben progresses it retains this emotional investment, even if it never sucker punches you quite as powerfully as it does with 'Broke'. 'Teeth,' a paean to a crooked yet beautiful smile, and the mind behind it, – most probably a former lover – begins with delicate, reverb-drenched guitar, eventually morphing into an ebullient chorus decrying the inability to choose those with which we fall in love, it's a simultaneously bouncy and heartfelt affair; a juxtaposition Baenziger, as we've already seen, is capable of ringing for every last ounce of soul and sentiment. The album's closer, 'Grew,' is equally affecting. It sees the California native gently cooing against a backdrop of droning keyboard chords, rustling guitars and ambient sound, and is one of the album's most original and thoughtful moments; a wonderfully subdued end to Orangefarben - you can almost see the last breath leaving her delicate frame and drifting gently across the ether.

It's not surprising that Orangefarben is such a strong record. Baenziger is an accomplished, hugely talented performer – even if she does wrap this up in a veneer of naïveté and shyness. As an album, it won't set the world alight in terms of originality, but then again it's not really trying to. Simply put, it's far more concerned with content than concept; it wears its heart on its sleeve, a little too obviously at times, perhaps, but effectively so nonetheless. A wonderfully evocative set of songs, it's very hard to imagine Orangefarben not reducing more and more audiences to deafly silence, as they are left hanging on every sweetly-plucked string and softly-spoken syllable.