A record more shorn of cynicism and plump with wonder than Icelandic singer Olof Arnalds's fourth long-player will be a struggle to identify this or any other year. As fresh and cleansing as meltwater, Palme's singular songs are distilled to the point of 100 per cent purity, a canvas of lilting acoustic and electronic instrumentation crowned by a voice so honeyed it ought to come with a health warning.

With Palme, Arnalds not only sings in English throughout for the first time, but also changes tack to step fearlessly into the digital realm abetted by her compatriot Gunnar Orn Tynes of the collective Mum, whose electronic impulses interweave with the jazz leanings of Arnalds's regular collaborator (and partner) Skuli Sverisson to conjure a playful and plangent palette that spans bossa nova, electronica and tiki-pop.

It's a recipe that reflects the laudable war on the flabbiness of western rock classicism that's been waged by Icelandic artists since The Sugarcubes first put the country on the map. The result is a succinct octet of free-spirited reveries that defies easy comparison, whether the single Patience's mesmeric sway, the salut d'amor of Han Grete or Hypnose, a ravishing brew of syncopated beats, digital glitch and childlike melodicism.