Some records are bound to the places and people that made them; shining with soul, blood, tears and love for something that’s gone and is never coming back. Rob St. John’s Weald embodies this melancholy acceptance better than any other album in recent memory. The Edinburgh-by-Lancashire musician draws from the wistful rural landscapes that have surrounded him throughout his lifetime, creating what is arguably the most understated record of the year.

Location effects Weald more so than any other influence. Recorded in three separate locations; the morning fog of a Cambridge kitchen, the brisk dawn of mornings spent at St. Michael’s Church, Oxford, and a shutter drawn house in Edinburgh, each in turn make their mark on the record. Their presence on the album resonates the beautiful, ethereal quality of a British winter. ‘Sargasso Sea’ is the first to peak over the smouldering blanket of Cambridge, and ‘Acid Test’ and ‘Vanishing Point’ resign themselves to a life of steady contemplation because of it. Yet the rising sun carves its way through Weald, repeatedly infusing a sense of perseverance and hope that, on opener ‘Your Phantom Limb’, gives the impression of cheery abandonment. Perfected on ‘Domino’, an icy determination secures Weald to its surroundings and replicates a glimpse of warmth after a long and putrid night.

Another theme engraved into virtually every song is the idea of rural dominance. The album’s name literally means a “wooden or uncultivated” area in Old English, a description that comes to a head on ‘Stainforth Force’, an ode to St. John’s native landscape. Elsewhere the diligence of nature is represented by billowing strings and a jagged, picked guitar to capture Weald’s sombre mood on ‘Sargasso Sea’, and is challenged by the progression of time on the monumental rumble of instrumental track ‘Emma’s Dance’. Its final conclusion is heard on closer ‘An Empty House’, the very title alone suggesting that the prevailing countryside can overcome human loneliness and failed romantic endeavours.

Rob St. John’s musical heritage is equally as important to Weald. By using acoustic instruments and lyrics not-too personal the release is fused with the sound of traditional folk, but it’s not overcome by it. Rob St John’s involvement in the Scottish music scene is also clear. At times his albeit gravely vocal echoes the velvet coo of King Creosote, and on ‘Acid Test’ in particular the rough hack of James Yorkston shines through. Unsurprisingly Scottish musicians are physically present throughout Weald – Rob St John frequently collaborates with various members of Mersault, whose Neil Pennycook helped to produce the record, and Ian Humberstone of the Fife Kills collective and Tissø Lake contributed to the Cambridge leg. Likewise an array of Edinburgh musicians lend their hands and ears the project, kindling a bold and enticing spirit.

Despite its often bleak subject matter and sprawling composition, Weald is a strangely compelling and absolutely engrossing listen from a promising new talent. Rob St. John is surely a name we’ll hear more frequently in 2012 and thereafter.