Mitchell’s titular Young Man is something straight out a Hollywood storybook. Here’s a man who “came out like a cannonball / came of age with alcohol.” His father didn’t care. His loneliness guides his every action and thought. He’s prone to casual, cryptic biblical references. A big part of him wants a pretty blonde girl by his side. If he could only, just only, leave behind his goddamned life of romantic independence.

There’s a talent in telling these folk legends, of semi-clichéd, generalised men and women who aren’t entirely real but not so detached from reality that they lose their emotional allure. Mitchell has a talent, for certain. She tells a damn good story.

The record is driven by Mitchell’s excellent songwriting. Her lyrics vary from playful, almost-adolescent musings on love and attachment (‘Tailor) to more sombre reflections on loss and disappointment (‘Coming Down,’ ‘Dyin Day’); they favour stark simplicity and repetition over more elaborate, specific tales, while maintaining a subtly political relevance that renders them vital.

Many of the songs are abstract and ambiguous yet still effectively swing on your emotional hinges. The aforementioned ‘Coming Down’ provides a great example, as she painfully repeats “I’ve never felt so high” and “I’ve never laughed so loud” if only to say, it’s all come to an end. No backstory heard, none necessary. This rawness and ambiguity is exquisitely consistent, flowing through the album seamlessly. The album never jars, never stutters or falters, regardless of whether an individual track is, by taste, better or worse. A wonderful rarity indeed.

The instrumentation is a cunningly twisted form of the modern folk songwriter's arsenal. No sound here is particularly new but all are used interestingly and effectively. We hear the tinkling of mandolins and accordions, dramatic background strings, guitars and pianos.

Many of the tracks have satisfying oddities in addition to the standard – the dramatic, pounding bass drum of ‘Wilderland’ behind ringing, distorted guitars and the surreal trumpet-guitar conversation on ‘You Are Forgiven’ are particular highlights of this twisting.

What emerges is nothing of violent shock value but often Mitchell offers quiet, felicitous surprises that catch the ear. Impressively often. Her voice, too, is ever so slightly cutting and reedy: not quite beautiful and aware of it too. Admittedly I’m a sucker for rather inflammatory voices; all I may say is, she satisfyingly engages that perversion but by no means overwhelms it.

Mitchell has successfully hit the pop music sweet spot: the region between the novelty value shock tactics of a musical schizophrenia run amok and a derivative cut-and-copy record, repeating what’s been done without any real creativity.

Pretensions aside, there’s a tangible sense of vitality here, but she doesn’t shove it down your throat, rather choosing to surprise subtly.