Tamara Lindeman is the Weather Station, for all intents and purposes, so what’s remarkable about her seventh album is how she slips into the mix. She flutters and flourishes like a wild jazz flute. She eddies and cascades in slithery runs. She matches the syncopated stop-go of a piano run, her voice just off center enough to be interesting. She spits out knotty strings of striking imagery. But she does it all as another instrument in a breezy, jazzy mix, as significant but no more so than complicated patterns of percussion, sharp outbursts of flute and cloudier eruptions . . .
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