Review Summary: Weathering the storm
To one degree or another, life inevitably takes its toll on us all. There is a time in our lives when something as simple as the luminous blur of streetlights flitting past a car window, or the phosphenes that materialise when you rub your eyelids a little too vigorously could inspire a genuine sense of wonder. It was a time when ‘life’ meant just existing on a planet in motion, rather than it being a literal full-time job. A job that seems to take far more than it gives. But, like a cliff face being washed in constant waves of saltwater, achieving a state of awe through such simple means becomes nearly impossible. Through weariness, disillusionment or more severe psychological ills, the toil becomes weightier as life progresses, and for some, the load can become unbearably heavy.
Humanhood explores the notion of a soul attempting to retain its sense of self in a world seemingly designed to strip it out piece by piece. Through the lens of singer-songwriter Tamara Lindeman’s own mental health struggles, she writes both candidly and abstractly in an effort to come to terms with her experiences. Although this central tenet renders the album deeply personal, the band’s focus on musical improvisation allows for- and indeed, invites- a great deal of listener engagement with
Humanhood’s themes.
The lyrical content, while consistently poetic and alluring, wields a razored edge that reflects an emotional distance between the environment, family, friends, and the self. Similarly, the instrumentation mirrors the slow, inevitable process of alienation with its offhand, lightly jazzy tone, crafting a duality of dreamy atmospherics and brutally immediate content. ‘Descent’, the brief but evocative introductory track, sets the tone for the album perfectly with a rumbling texture that recedes as the album begins in earnest, readying the stage by drawing the heavy curtains fully aside. This unclouded simplicity permeates the music; a collage of twinkling folk and jazzy indie pop elegance that skilfully meanders the album with a leisurely but purposeful flow. The choice to roll back certain pop tendencies found on The Weather Station’s previous album
How Is It That I Should Look At The Stars affords the release a greater sense of individuality, which works superbly in tandem with the confessional nature of the lyrics. The looser songwriting structure synergises with the thoughtful, stream-of-consciousness style, almost as if raw diary entries have been set to music.
Although there are occasional moments of more fully-formed vibrancy, such as on the jazz-hop stylistics of ‘Mirror’ or the catchy hook of the title track, the soothing, reflective tone that courses through the record is its heart’s blood, and creates a warming environment for Lindeman to exorcise the tumult of her day-to-day battles. Though undoubtedly revealing in its content, there is a nagging sense of familiarity that loosens the rivets supporting the powerful display, feeling in part a well-brushed retread rather than an entirely new experience. Development within songs is low-key and never is there any real sense of new ground being broken, despite some sporadic branching out into adjacent genre trademarks. Nevertheless, the sentiments therein deftly distill a headspace that is both individual and universal, striking a chord that will hit much too close for home for some, and in another stratosphere for a lucky few. The pangs of emotional distress are explored through simple, meaningful language, cushioned by lovingly textured melodies that stir as much as calm, scoring the thematic preoccupations with an undeniably strong undercurrent. ‘Window’, ‘Body Moves’ and ‘Sewing’ are some standout examples of this merging of form/ content, richly orchestrated without ever being overpowering.
As a passive experience,
Humanhood is airy, charming and palateable. As a dive into Lindeman’s own trauma and a portrayal of mental health woes at large, it’s intimate, frustrated and occasionally somewhat garbled. It makes its points with a honeyed yet steeled affability that will hold very few surprises for those familiar with The Weather Station’s ouvre. Yet, the simultaneously serious and contemplative overtones allow the music a comforting sense of relatability that is both pleasantly gentle and uncomfortably confrontational. Those who take the time to unpack and absorb the content will almost certainly find aspects that crawl beneath the skin, but the collection is only as hard-hitting as the listener is receptive to the experience. It’s musically calming like a dusky sky pinpricked with stars, but unforgivingly immediate in its focus, like the underlying promise of thunder.
