It's only right that Cleo Sol should have chosen a surname that sounds like ‘soul’ but translates, from Spanish, to ‘sun’. Her voice is warm, airy and bright. Her tone is soft and mellifluous. Her public presence, like that glowing ball of plasma, is underscored by long stretches of absence or self-effacement. She can conjure Sunday mornings from a lilting string arrangement, can evoke, from a plaintive piano melody, sunlight across hardwood floors, a spoonful of honey, the feeling of sinking into a hug from an old friend – or, maybe, into a confessional booth. Often we encounter the singer in medias res, appealing to her God in the face of spiritual crisis: “Release me from this pride / Turn anger she pleads sweetly on “Self”, her voice light and feathery over a jazzy bassline. Really, Sol has a way of reupholstering the listening room, of making you feel like you're intruding on something private, something intimate. Like you're looking over her shoulder while she scribbles into a diary, purging self-doubt or improvising bits of scripture. Are these R&B songs, pulpit testimonials or therapy sessions? What does it mean if they're all three at once?
