Ace announces its intention before a single word is sung with an opening instrumental passage of piano arpeggios, strings and woodwinds unfurling before Shore arrives, gently lilting with Madison Cunningham placing narrative at the centre of this luxuriant, story-first folk record, and allowing everything else to follow her lead. The songwriting on the album is governed entirely by the storytelling, with chord changes, melodic climbs and sudden shifts in structure dictated by the emotional logic of the lyrics rather than any traditional sense of form. The piano, strings, and woodwind instruments move in service of her voice, adjusting their shape as her story unfolds.

Time signatures turn and change abruptly, but it doesn’t feel technical or clever because it’s answering to the narrative. Across a generous hour, Ace builds an extraordinarily rich acoustic palette without tipping into excess. Woodwinds, strings, piano and guitar are layered with care, sometimes barely whispering and sometimes swelling like an orchestra, constantly playing with dynamic range and shifting between moments so intimate you could hear a pin drop and vast, enveloping passages. Ace is a deeply immersive listening experience that rewards patience and full attention, driven not by hooks but by narrative gravity with Cunningham’s voice and stories sitting at the centre. The world these instruments create feels intimate yet expansive, making this record one of the richest and most thoughtfully constructed folk albums in recent memory, with ambitious orchestration that elevates the scope. The studio work is meticulous, all in service of a hushed, tender performance that allows songs to feel intimate even as they occupy a vast sonic space. Closer to a film score than a collection of folk songs, Ace is impeccably written with a lush grandeur that’s risky on paper but expertly performed.