Pitchfork

I know nothing about this woman. I'm sitting still, listening for meaning in every nuance of her voice. It's reminiscent of sitting by a woman on the subway and making up a life together without even meeting her eye. For five stops, I haven't even turned the page of my book for fear of disturbing us. I'm trying to find a way to set my hand next to hers, or even just to hear her breathe.

Susanna Wallumrød doesn't grab you immediately: Her voice is attractive, but it's cool and pure. She sings in English, but her Norwegian accent hints reedlike through the edges, and so do the feelings she evokes, as subtle as a catch her voice. Her sound here spans from the whimsical and dreamy, to torch songs-- like her pleas to a rival on Dolly Parton's "Jolene", or the cool lust of "Sweet Devil"-- but her tone makes her intentions inscrutable, and even a sad whisper won't tell you what she's really thinking.

Wallumrød is backed by keyboardist Morten Qvenild, who's as careful with the mood as a waiter with a trayful of crystal. Rune Grammofon is increasingly home to artists who have mastered small strokes, which suits Qvenild: While the electronic spritzes and near-beats on "Friend" or "Sweet Devil" recall Björk's work with Matmos, the keyboard line on "Baby" is pared to the bone, and the spaces between the words start to sound like a void.

The "magical" side of the orchestra comes out in a few flashes of color, like the sudden eruption on Leonard Bernstein's "Who Am I". But Qvenild always stops short of exuberance, and in the tight ambience, he remains an orchestra-in-a-suitcase. It's easy to wonder what Wallumrød could do over bigger or more varied arrangements. But they made the trade-off to get that intimacy, which draws you in so close that it should be uncomfortable.

On a record this moody, the ambience can carry too much of the weight. This is a gripping record but not a great one: A few of Wallumrød's originals could have been replaced with covers. But they've written at least one flawless ballad, titled "Believer". When this appeared on recent compilations, the naked melody and pure voice sounded almost quizzically bare. But when embedded at the center of this album, it's a staggering anti-anthem, as Wallumrød justifies a break-up with a single line: "You are a believer, I am not." And there isn't one extra syllable to ease the blow.