This is an album that you buy because you once heard "Little Star" on the radio, remembered Stina Nordenstam's name, couldn't find "And She Closed Her Eyes", and so bought this instead. It then becomes the sort of album you recommened to others because it glides in and out of your mind, sings you to sleep, and replaces all the words you ever heard sung with the continually beguiling charm of her voice. Like flawed glass, there is a terrible and forboding quality that surrounds this album. Beautifully underproduced, the record seduces you with its fractured perfection. And unlike other cover albums, it avoids the pitfalls of emulation. You cannot compare Stina Nordenstam to any other artist when she sings her own material, and so you resist the temptation when she perfoms songs by Leonard Cohen, Rod Stewart, Prince.
This album is winningly and consistently original. It prickles like raw glass fibre. And, as you listen, the sounds swaddle you in the discomforting warmth of a favouite rash.