The Weather Station @ Saint Luke's, Glasgow, 10 Mar

Atmospheric harp rumbles from the PA and causes the creaky floorboards of this historic building to shudder. Applause commences as support act Georgia Harmer appears from an orange oblong at the back of the darkened stage. A copper cone of light spills from the pipes of the church organ and rests on her head as she tunes her guitar. Her effortless fingerpicking, caramel-smooth vocal tone and pensive penmanship has everyone immediately enraptured. Existing somewhere between Emmylou Harris and Mitski, Harmer’s sound is plain-sailing yet unafraid to venture into choppy waters with its tense chord structures and ambitious melodies. “This is my first time in Glasgow,” she remarks, to much whooping and hollering. “I think my ancestors are from here…? Feels good to be home.”

As Harmer disappears back through the portal she emerged from, a stagehand yanks the black coverings off three large stones encircling The Weather Station’s equipment. These mystical set-pieces feel particularly apt on a Scottish stage, and suddenly the East End of Glasgow feels more like the Isle of Lewis. They glisten electric-blue, like the reflection from a swimming pool, as ominous figures clamber around in the darkness to collect their instruments. The soft hi-hats and macabre piano stabs of Wear introduce singer Tamara Lindeman, who fills the room with a muted hearthlight and hits us with an arresting delivery of the song’s brilliant lyricism. Crackling sparklers are projected onto the stones as the saxophone kicks in, battling for the spotlight with glitchy electronic embellishments. Between Lindeman’s beguiling vocal (and equally beguiling hand gestures) and multi-instrumentalist Karen Ng’s wild clarinet work, it's clear that they are stirring up something primal – and everyone is here for it. 

“If you’ll indulge me,” Lindeman puts forth, “I imagine this show in three parts – the first of which you just heard. It’s so common we can feel disconnected from what matters most, and to push through that film of negativity can be overwhelming. That’s part two, which is now.”

The hopeful wurlitzer piano of Loss takes us by the hand and leads us into this introspective second segment of the show. Groaning strings and thrashing ghostly chains begin to creep in as Lindeman stares somewhere beyond stage right, looking simultaneously vacant and in complete control. An imaginary campfire burns, giving the standing stones an amber glow as guitar lines soar overhead like shooting stars. The major cavity of the saxophone twinkles like a halo as Ng plays breathy, muted tones which melt together like television static. 

“So we’ve come to part three of the show in my mind,” Lindeman announces. “This part of the show is about connection. To get to connection, you have to be willing to be vulnerable. To be moved. To be touched.” She seems to sink into the stage as the lights go down and Ben Boye plinks out a long, ruminative interlude, encouraging us to look around at one another. Then, gold. Smiles travel across each of the band members’ faces as they settle into the uplifting groove of Parking Lot. Searchlights scan the audience and it’s plain to see these smiles are infectious. Lindeman’s shadow dances off stage in the mirrorball blizzard as the music dissipates and the applause roars. She returns shortly, not even trying to feign that there wouldn’t be an encore, and sends us into the night with the self-accepting sentiment of Sewing – 'Too late for perfection, to clean up the mess / Too late to take it all back, I guess / All I can do is sew this in, too'.