The Weather Station

“I know that festivals go like this, but it’s hard anyway”. Put yourself in the shoes of Tamara: a set of such tormented delicacy as hers is already, on its own, constantly at risk of storms; pitting her against a rowdy "dance party" (far too polite a term for what it actually was) just one stage away wasn't exactly considerate on the part of the organizers. The ocean can inspire either unchallenged peace or deep unease, and here we have two of them facing off: the silent viewer lying in front of the Plenitude (also projected, mirror-like, onto the screen behind the musicians) and the enchanting dress the weather presenter wore so as not to look out of place, as she herself admits. Well then, you asked for it. Who will come out on top?

“Let’s do this thing”. Sure, let's give it a shot anyway: you not getting distracted, us not letting ourselves get distracted. It's immediately clear who'll have the easier job: no four-on-the-floor beat stands a chance against the sinuous soul of “Wear”, with its caressing touches of wurlitzer, its crescendo that never quite crests, and its laconic ending, dissolved into the almost psychedelic womb-like nuance of “Loss”. And if the frontwoman eclipses the sun as it begins to set, it would be ungenerous to overlook the happily plural nature of the band, which behind a modest first impression colors the problematic Canadian's postmodern avant-roots il songwriting with freshness. A miraculous formula, carved into a ballad lindemanian 100% like “Separated”, to which the gallop of “Thirty” acts as a mirrored counterpoint - a calling card for her overtaken folk-leaning identity, where, not by chance, she picks up the guitar again after setting aside the ringing claves of the previous stage.

The shattered moods of “Look” capture the adorable fragility of both songwriter and performer, who grows ever more uneasy in the less-than-comfortable setting but remains determined to repay the affection of an audience that, right from the hurried pre-show soundcheck, has been holding her hand with human tenderness. “We’ll do our best,” she assures us, and we have no doubt: proof enough is the endless shimmer of “Tried To Tell You,” the finest song on last year’s finest album, a lesson in perfection that leaves you speechless, with that falsetto bridge that raises goosebumps every single time.

“I don’t have the heart to conceal my love/ When I know it is the best of me,” she confesses to us in “Heart,” and once again there’s no reason not to believe her, such is the passion poured into these few intense minutes, even as they’re sprinted along by an aseptic motorik pulse.

Then Tamara sits at the piano and it's a hail of pearls drawn from the first, unforgettable side of the sublime “Ignorance“: the deconstructed “Robber”, the highest expression of the anti-Trump protest song, with a searing violin solo; the disoriented “Atlantic”, where the voice turns up the whispers just as the arrangement thickens, like some dutiful treasure hunt; the melodramatic “Parking Lot”, which anyone else would have made cloying. Anyone, that is, except an angel who melts an Ontario glacier with every note she sings.

Few could claim to have any ammunition left after a medley like that, but Tamara has “Subdivisions”, and once again scalding tears pour down during the aching singalong of the chorus, breaking its resigned pace with an explosion of life and love. A bit of a metaphor for this incredible show, really.

Exhausted but smiling, she withdraws after having heroically kept her promise. There's a lot of gratitude owed to someone who doesn't go back on their word in the middle of a panic attack. Rarely have I witnessed such stoic tenacity on one side and such complicit support on the other. No offense to the workhorses camped out on the Estrella lawn, but this was the most epic set of the festival. Certainly the one I'll carry with me the longest, and with the most gratitude.

A side note: no songs from “How Is It That I Should Look At The Stars“ade it into the setlist. Because the occasion wasn't right for it, but also in keeping with the curious paradox of this edition (having been booked last summer, the lineup showcases the hot names of 2021 rather than of the current year). That, too, means knowing how to play the game. And win it.

Let the Catalan rave-Goliaths tremble before a blonde dressed in ocean. Play it again, Tamara.