For those that way inclined, symbol and symmetry abound in the timing of Rebekka Karijord’s accomplished third LP, its January 10th UK release date making it wonderfully topical. True, the songs have for months been available in the actress and singer’s native Norway, but there is also an elegance to be found in that when heard here at last in January many of us will feel the way this album sounds. The record is profuse with a Janus-like sense of gazing both backwards and forwards, a heady feeling ideally suited for listening at new year’s ambiguous crossroads. Of course this tendency is what gives January its name, and that’s a fact not lost on Karijord, laden as the album is with references to melting ice, the dawning of the new year and the first days of spring.

The prospect of an actress moonlighting as a singer-songwriter often arouses scepticism, but in Karijord’s case there’s barely a shred of pretence or insincerity to be heard. In fact the opposite is more commonly true: The Noble Art of Letting Go possesses a powerful kind of nakedness and honesty which on occasion makes it a mildly uncomfortable listen in the best possible way. Indeed this is the only important link between Karijord’s musician and actress selves; despite the minor distractions of her sometimes idiosyncratic use of lyrical English, she retains a capacity to make her audience feel her emotions.

On a first listen, those emotions appear to paint a bleak picture. On several of these ten songs, the relatively sparse palette of Karijord’s crystalline voice, a stark piano, scuttling drums and strings results in a fairly icy scene that chimed perfectly with this winter’s “Frozen Britain”. In truth, a good deal of unease and unhappiness does stalk the album, but Karijord’s deployment of this material is nuanced and varied enough to keep the tone and the temperature from falling beyond retrieval.

It is on later listens that the sometimes hidden warmth of The Noble Art of Letting Go becomes apparent. While Karijord’s ruminations on past events are often wrought with sad memories, there is another side to the album on which our hostess makes explicit her refusal to give up hope on the future. Most obvious of these songs is ‘Parking Lot’, a glassy paean to reckless love, with talk of unleashed horses and spinning wheels providing the ideal visual companion to the idea. It’s a wonderfully struck performance, its piano and drums bouncing along with the same giddy abandon as the lovers it depicts.

Also inhabiting the more forward-looking part of Karijord’s emotional spectrum is ‘Life Isn’t Short At All’, which recounts the simple realisation of its title in a bright and subtle way which makes the song’s renewed optimism as infectious as winter flu. Elsewhere, Karijord’s fellow Nordic talent Ane Brun makes a very welcome vocal appearance on final track ‘Morning Light Forgives the Night’, a song which features not only elegant harp and string performances and a tender duet by its singers, but which also brings to a climax the dualistic uniting theme of the record.

There is no objectivity in music, each creator inescapably infusing into their work a part of themselves. Perhaps it’s partly because of this that there is a slight chill in the air of this album, a thin coating of frost which at first separates the listener from the songs. It is surely evidence of that infusion of personality, though, which means that once early listens have penetrated that icy barrier, there is a warm and human core of songs to be found beneath. Especially at this time of year of which it is so reflective, The Noble Art of Letting Go is an album emphatically deserving of that investment.