The break-up album is dangerous ground for many an artist, inspiring many a response through pop music history from the dark vulnerability of Frank Sinatra to the recent outrage and disgust of Lily Allen. Beck, however, has been here before, documenting his split from a long relationship on 2002’s Sea Change and revisiting similarly reflective ground twelve years later on Morning Phase. Now he responds to a painful divorce after 15 years of marriage, a break-up finalised just before the release of previous album Hyperspace.

The blue sky thinking of that record had the rarefied atmosphere of a sunny day in winter, given its pop sheen through production from Pharrell Williams and crew. For the autumnal shades of this album, however, Beck returns to regular collaborator Nigel Godrich – who was at his side in the studio for Sea Change – and takes up an acoustic viewpoint once more. The resultant songs, deeply heartfelt, stand repeated comparison with the down tempo beauties of Neil Young and Nick Drake.

Time slows as we listen to Beck’s heartfelt sentiments, for these are utterances taking music back to the basics of singer and accompaniment. There is no hurry to be anywhere but here, along with a privacy taking the music behind drawn curtains, a reminder the parting has not yet fully healed.

Take the heart-rending Bleed, for instance. “I don’t know how to feel”, sings Beck with disarming honesty. “I’ve been struck down by your quicksilver tongue”. The voice is confidential, but the orchestration – through stunningly beautiful arrangements from the hands of Beck’s father David Campbell – reeks of regular Drake collaborator Robert Kirby. Its depth, akin to that of English composer Gerald Finzi, is complemented by reverberation suggesting the singer is looking out at a wide natural expanse while contemplating his plight.

The solemn observations continue. “There’s nothing left to say on desolation day” is Beck’s resignation statement on Run Away, “gonna drive through the city with the headlights off”.  In The Night finds hope in this darkness, its gently winding guitar complemented by subtle yet insistent breeze from the lower strings. Beck sings almost without accent, looking back with scarred affection but with a warmth in the voice that stays throughout the album. The strings gather themselves, energising the listener to look up and outwards.

Failed Words goes even deeper, the longing sadness at the heart of its chorus lamenting, “All my nights in vain, All my days in vain, All my words in vain, my love”. And yet, though such lyrics point towards solitude and over-reflection, Ride Lonesome is far from cold and depressing. A singular album, yes, but one drawing strength through its multi-layered harmonies, pointing to acceptance and ultimately a way up and out. The bursts of colour from the strings are like placing your hand on a radiator to find it much warmer than you expected.

Nothing suggests the arrival of autumn more vividly than closing track Beyond The Light, the sunlight dipping tantalisingly low in the sky as the song uncannily evokes Procol Harum‘s A Whiter Shade of Pale. Beck captures the moment where the last beam of sunlight burns with piercing clarity, just before giving up the ghost to the night. As it does so, the music is captured in a flash of piercing clarity, capping a wondrous and uniquely uplifting album.