Tamara Lindeman has always been a songwriter of quiet intensity, but Humanhood feels like a grand artistic statement - an album of deep emotional weight, vivid musical detail, and a sense of wonder even in the face of despair. The Weather Station, led by Lindeman, has consistently delivered introspective and evocative music, and the band’s seventh studio album turns inward, with a deeply personal exploration of the human experience showcasing a blend of jazz-inflected art-rock delving into themes of personal crisis, self-discovery, and the complexities of existence. Where previous records have often explored the external - whether that be relationships, climate change, or social anxieties, Humanhood is a deeply intimate reflection on what it means to exist, to endure, and to make peace with the uncertainty of being human.
Sonically, Humanhood is lavishly detailed yet feather-light, full of intricate layers that unfold with each listen. From jazzy flourishes to sweeping string accompaniments, there’s a magical quality to the way the album moves, with nothing ever feeling cluttered or overdone. Every subtle embellishment and each instrumental choice feels carefully placed and deeply intentional. Lindeman’s voice, soft yet commanding, transmits the weariness of someone carrying a heavy emotional load, with a breathiness that makes every lyric feel lived-in and deeply felt. The themes are weighty - the exhaustion of existence, the search for hope in a hopeless world, and the quiet struggle to stay afloat. But the album never feels in the slightest bit suffocating, instead offering a palpable sense of wonder, a belief that even in the worst moments, there is still beauty to be found.

Humanhood is a perfect encapsulation of the strange, liminal emotional state of 2025 - a time when so many people are still processing years of collective grief, burnout, and uncertainty. Lindeman manages to articulate those feelings with a grace that feels both deeply personal and completely universal all at once.

The title itself encapsulates the record’s central idea: that we are all bound by this fragile condition, shaped by forces beyond our control, and yet, ultimately responsible for pulling ourselves through it. The cascading piano and delicate woodwinds throughout Neon Signs mirror the exhaustion of trying to navigate a world that won’t slow down when you need it to, accompanied by the warm hum of a double bass and the soft shimmer of brush perussion wrapping around Lindeman’s voice. Unlike the sparse folk arrangements of The Weather Station’s early work, this album is orchestral in scope, layering flourishes of woodwinds, brass, strings, and electronic textures to create a sound that’s both intimate and expansive all at once. Gentle swells of saxophone and minimalist acoustic picking, a sudden burst of trumpet or a humming synth, layer by layer the instrumentation expands. The percussive detail is striking, with fluid and expressive rhythms built from soft hand percussion, brushed snares, and even the sound of fingers tapping on wood in place of traditional rock drumming. The production is impeccably warm and organic, with no clutter or excessive reverb, and a clarity that makes each invidual element shine. A breathtaking work that doesn’t claim to have the answers, but offers a deeply moving document of the search for them, layering sound upon sound until you’re completely immersed.