Inuktitut is Inuk artist, Elisapie Isaac’s Juno Award winning fourth studio album. A cover album featuring 10 songs, Inuktitut is composed of classics like Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams,” the Rolling Stones’ “Wild Horses” and even “The Unforgiven” by Metallica. Unlike some cover albums which hardly differ from the original, Elisapie adapts the structure of the songs to the language in which she sings them: Inuktitut. She slows down the tempo and simplifies the instrumentals, blending traditional Inuit techniques, such as throat singing and rhythmic drumming, with Western instruments, such as guitars, pianos, and synths. All these elements come together with her soft, crooning voice to stir up a sense of vastness, comfort, and hope. This album depicts the Arctic landscape Elisapie grew up in, purified to its essence and put into song. 

These songs – classic rock for the most part – evoke a sense of nostalgia for the 60s, 70s, and 80s. For Inuit communities, this was a time of radical political and cultural shifts. The songs included on Inuktitut are largely representative of the mainstream pop culture of this era, particularly in urban spaces. But, up in the little village of Salluit, Nunavik, they were played and enjoyed with just as much frequency and appetite as down south. Elisapie recalled in an interview with CultMTL, that her uncle, George Kakayuk, founder of the popular 80s Inuit rock band Sugluk, would often sing covers of pop music at home.“‘I grew up listening to music like “Four Strong Winds” and Charlie Adams doing “Blowing in the Wind,” thinking they were Inuktitut songs,’” she explained. To Elisapie, translated covers of pop songs were not something new, but were instead a natural progression of experiencing and sharing music. 

Inuktitut arose from Elisapie’s need for release – a release for emotions bottled up since childhood. An age defined by personal tragedy and the intergenerational effects of colonial trauma, but also by pure and boundless joy. The emotions and tears she associated with hearing these songs were what guided Elisapie as she chose the songs she wanted to cover. Pearl Jam and Counting Crows were counted out. Elisapie “could not just do a song because it was cool…it had to be emotional.” As she later explained to CultMTL, she had to be able to cry to the songs. 

Originally, the plan was to make acoustic demos just for herself, for healing. Yet, as more and more artists allowed the team to cover their songs, it turned into something bigger. A particularly pivotal moment was when Jimmy Page and Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin, notorious for seldom granting licensing agreements, granted her the rights to their song “Going to California.” 

Besides the songs previously mentioned, notable tracks from the album include “Taimangalimaaq” (“Time After Time” by Cyndi Lauper), perfect for those who like steady beats to dance to in the kitchen. On the other hand, if you like songs that highlight drums and drum solos, check out “Qimatsilunga” (“I Want to Break Free” by Queen). 

For those who need visuals to go with the music, do not fret. The majority of the album has music videos comprised of archival and contemporary footage of Inuit life in the Arctic: gatherings in the community center, trekking across the snow, a father and daughter biking down a gravel road. It’s a glimpse into a life and environment so different from the urban setting of Montreal, but still familiar in its themes of love and home. 

Elisapie has been in the global music scene since 2002, when she and Abitibi-born Alain Auger debuted at the Coup de cœr festival in Montreal as the band Taima (a common Inuktitut expression meaning “it’s over” or “move on”). Their self-titled album won Best Folk Album and Album Cover of the Year at Toronto’s Aboriginal Music Awards in 2004, and the Juno Award for Indigenous Album of the Year in 2005. Their 11-track album is a mix of French, English, and Inuktitut, honouring the languages spoken in most of Nunavik. The album, like the history of the languages it is sung in, explores the relationships between Indigenous and non-Indigenous communities, humans and nature, and the love and violence surrounding Inuit and Indigenous women. These themes have been present in most of Elisapie’s subsequent work. 

Her third album, The Ballad of the Runaway Girl, was also nominated for the Indigenous Album of the Year Award – this time in 2019. On this album, she compiled her own songs in addition to covers of other powerful Inuit and Indigenous singers. A notable track is her take on Algonquin singer, Willy Mitchell’s song, “Call of the Moose.” On the track she sings, “I listen to the man of the law, I listen to his way / I listen to the crack of the gun and the one that had to pay.” Five years later in 2024, two brothers were shot in her hometown of Salluit by police. It is their voices, and so many others with similar stories, that echo throughout this song. 

Though her new album holds a much more cheerful and hopeful note, it is important to remember the reason it came to fruition in the first place. Engaging with Indigenous voices and Indigenous songs helps to spread their stories beyond sharing culture and language. It is a method of raising awareness about history and the present, and a way to create community to shape the future. 

If you haven’t yet already, go listen to Inuktitut. There’s nothing like the feeling of listening to a good song for the first time, especially those great rock classics. With Inuktitut, you get to experience that feeling for a second time. So, what are you waiting for? 

Happy listening. 

If you’d like to experience Inuktitut live, Elisapie will be performing here in Montreal at MTELUS on December 11. For more information on upcoming performances, visit www.elisapie.com.

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November 7 marks eight years since the death of this wonderful poet, singer, and ladies’ man. On September 21, I had the lovely opportunity to celebrate Cohen’s ninetieth birthday at a special event held by The Word Bookstore. Guest speaker and biographer Christof Graf gave a talk entitled “Memories of Leonard Cohen,” during which he shared his experiences accompanying Cohen backstage at his concerts. Graf described himself as a fan “addicted to Cohen,” lucky to have the opportunity to interview Cohen throughout his career and eventually write several books about him. During the talk, Graf provided a detailed account of Cohen’s life here, saying that “Cohen is intrinsically connected to Montreal; he is built into the very fabric of the city.” Audience members were also invited to share their memories of the singer. Though my friends and I were too young to contribute, it was extremely eye-opening to hear from people who had seen him in concert as far back as 1966. Some attendees had even been in Montreal long enough to remember when Cohen would walk up St. Laurent for his daily breakfast bagel, waving hello to his neighbours and to those who recognized him on the streets. 

In the weeks since I attended this celebration, I have spent a frankly absurd amount of time listening to Cohen’s music and reflecting on the legacy of love he has left behind in Montreal. It feels like his ghost is following me wherever I go: walking down the Plateau, where he used to live; going to English classes in the Arts building, where he used to study; even writing this article for The McGill Daily, where he used to contribute. It is impossible for me to separate my experiences in this city from his. 

Part of why I am so submerged in Cohen’s legacy at the moment is because I’ve spent half of my semester analyzing his writing for a class on Canadian poetry. I was reintroduced to “Suzanne,” a song I knew and loved long before I knew anything about its singer. As I heard him sing the lyrics softly into my earphones for the hundredth time, I realized that Cohen himself had put into words what I’d been feeling for him: “She shows you where to look among the garbage and the flowers / There are heroes in the seaweed, there are children in the morning / They are leaning out for love and they will lean that way forever / While Suzanne holds the mirror.” 

Cohen’s poetry is a way for me to reflect on my relationship with Montreal. The more I read and hear from him, the more I feel my bond with this city strengthening. Though his work is rarely explicitly about Montreal, those who have lived here can easily identify what he’s talking about – “our lady of the harbour” in “Suzanne,” images of downtown streets like St. Catherine sprinkled throughout Parasites of Heaven. It’s no wonder that the city is so proud to be known as Leonard Cohen’s hometown. 

“I feel at home in Montreal in a way that I don’t feel anywhere else,” Cohen shared with an interviewer in 2006. Similar to his nomadic lifestyle, I myself have moved around many cities over the course of 20 years, never quite feeling tied down to one particular place. Living in Montreal, however, I have made this place my home on my own terms. I’m sure most people who have moved here from another city would agree with me when I say that there’s something about Montreal that you can’t find elsewhere – whether it’s the people, the distinct subcultures, or the strong sense of local identity, it’s the kind of place that makes you want to stay forever. Cohen put it best when writing the introduction to The Spice-Box of Earth in 1961: “I have to keep coming back to Montreal to renew my neurotic affiliations.” 

Even as I continue romanticizing the city through the lens of Cohen’s work, however, I am careful not to romanticize the man himself. I know there is a lot we differ on in terms of political ideology, with much of it being a product of his time. His background as an upper-middle-class, Westmount-dwelling Montrealer is ultimately quite alien from my experience as an immigrant in Canada. What is important to me beyond these differences is that I am still able to learn more about myself through his work. Both his poetry and songwriting actively engage the audience, inviting them to question their own ideologies as they confront his. He is not interested in making his reader comfortable or catering to their tastes. He only wants us to face our own truths. To borrow Cohen’s words from his poem “What I’m Doing Here,” he is waiting for each one of us “to confess.” 

I’ll confess first: I love Leonard Cohen because I know we share the same love for a city far bigger than either of us. I can feel that love while listening to a song recorded in the 1960s, and I can feel it if I go for a walk down Rue Crescent  today. I can feel that love in the legacy he has left behind in Montreal every single day. 

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For the last five years Launière has been creating art in almost every field at a breakneck pace. In 2023 alone she: premiered her first album on Spotify, Taueu (“in the centre”); published her first book, Akutu (“suspended”); acted in a short film, Katshinau (“Dirty Hands”); and created two stunning (click the link, you’ll thank me later) visual art pieces, Takutatinau and Ninanamapalin – My Body is Trembling. 

In 2019, Launière founded her production company Auen Productions to “interweave the presence of the two-spirited body and experimental audiovisual while drawing inspiration from the cosmogony and sacred spirit of the animals of the Innu world and express a thought on silences and languages ​​through the body.” Launière has directed seven completed performance works so far, and she has another titled Takutauat on the way. 

Earlier this October, I attended a production of Launière’s latest work, a performance art piece titled Aianishkat (“One Generation to the Next”) at Agora de la Danse theatre. The show starred Launière, her mentor Rasili Botz, and her three-year-old daughter Maé-Nitei Launière-Lessard, bringing together three generations of Indigenous women to explore the process of intergenerational pedagogy. The first notes I took after leaving the show were: “Never before have I seen such beautiful hair,” “The child did everything right,” and “Merci, bon nuit.” 

I can’t call it “hairography” because that word would cheapen Launière’s use of hair in this performance. Nor can I leave it at “beautiful” because that would leave out the significance behind its use: Launière utilized her own and Botz’s hair to explore how both trauma and knowledge are passed down through generations. 

Aianishkat began with Botz alone on stage, carefully unwrapping a blanket to reveal chunks of cut black and brown hair, which she spread across the floor as if they were ashes. Then, while braiding her own hair, she fashioned the blanket into a makeshift basket and collected what hair had been thrown away. 

Fabric is integral to this piece; most of the props were either clothing or blankets, which the actors manipulated into different forms to serve a unique artistic purpose. Launière entered the stage shortly after Botz had finished cleaning the floor, carrying a basket of her family’s laundry and sitting down to fold the pieces in an orderly fashion. Her daughter soon joined her onstage. 

Prior to the performance, my friends and I debated how a toddler could participate in this piece. We wondered how a show could run orderly when one of the actors may not understand the concept of a script or cues. I was pleasantly surprised by how perfectly Launière’s daughter performed. Although her actions were, like any toddler’s, unpredictable and spontaneous, everything she did fell completely in line with the performance. Botz and Launière easily ran with the child’s improvisations, occasionally using wind-up toys to coax her back on stage if she wandered into one of the wings. Her sheer joy at accompanying her mother on a stage littered with interesting objects, sounds, and shapes delighted the audience. She not only added a lightness to the second half of the 90 minute show, but also an air of hope for the future. 

Prior to the work, the only performance art I’d seen was a “deconstructed” production of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet performed at Toronto’s Young People’s Theatre. It was titled What if Romeo and Juliet… and had four actors each playing changing parts of the scenery from integral scenes in the original play. One actor played a fountain, squatting and flailing his arms. Someone else was a sword, standing on their tippy toes and pointing their fingers at the ceiling. Another actor played the floor.

It left a bad taste in my mouth when it came to the phrase “performance art.” The idea of a primarily improvised production, mainly told through movement instead of words, didn’t particularly interest me. After What if Romeo and Juliet…, I didn’t see how performance art could function well as a medium. 

Yet I became intrigued by Aianishkat as soon as the show lights came on, revealing Botz. I came to a realization about performance art 30 minutes later when all three actors were brought on stage together. The way they interacted was fascinating and told a story all on its own. I realized that nobody on stage was trying to act out a storyline – they were instead performing a truth. Through movement, they were acting out the process of intergenerational teaching. They visually embodied the struggle and perseverance that Indigenous communities have and continue to demonstrate in the fight to uplift their culture in the face of colonization. The power behind this performance stood in the unspoken bond between mentor and student, mother and daughter, artist and audience. 

Launière ended Aianishkat with the only spoken phrase of the performance, “Merci, bon nuit.” She said this with her daughter cradled in her arms, both waving goodbye to the audience and smiling. It didn’t feel right; I thought she should have said “you’re welcome,” because a “thanks” on my part was in order. 

We are all lucky to live so close to Launière’s work. Her next performance art piece, Takutauat, is still in production – updates regarding the time, place, and runtime will be available on her website, www.soleil-launiere.com. In the meantime, I’d implore any art lover in Montreal to treat themselves to one of her many art pieces available online including her book, visual artworks, and award-winning music on Spotify. You can also experience Launière in person at Mundial Montréal on November 19, the Marathon Festival aux Foufounes Électriques on November 20, and Cégep Saint-Laurent on November 29.

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Powerful words from a powerful artist.

Attention all McGillian music lovers – Mohawk singer-songwriter Shawnee Kish has released her latest single “Reclaim.” This empowering anthem details Kish’s journey of resilience and healing in reclaiming her sense of self, and has yet again served as a demonstration of why her work deserves a spot on your current playlist. “Reclaim” is a window into Kish’s personal experience with embracing her heritage. Her journey in transforming suffering into strength is embedded within the song’s powerful lyricism. “Reclaim”  highlights the intricacies of the Indigenous experience in contemporary society and serves as a rallying call for the reclamation of Indigenous stories. Kish’s moving and soulful voice commands for past narratives to be redefined into stories of pride and perseverance that must be listened to. 

As we observe McGill’s 14th annual Indigenous Awareness Weeks, running from September 19 through  October 2, the significance of Kish’s message becomes even more apparent. Celebrated at McGill since 2011, Indigenous Awareness Weeks have fostered spaces to honour, celebrate, and uplift Indigenous cultures both in and outside of our school community. Through hosting events, welcoming guest speakers, and providing opportunities for engagement, these Indigenous Awareness Weeks call to mind the significance and value of recognizing Indigenous perspectives and contributions both to our school, and our community at large. I would highly recommend that you keep up with the events offered by McGill’s Office of Indigenous Initiatives. Some of these events from the past few weeks included McGill’s Annual Pow Wow, the Lacrosse Legacy Game, and a farmer’s market contributed to and presented by Indigenous artisans and artists. You can also participate by incorporating more Indigenous artists into your daily life. By spotlighting artists like Kish, who provide avenues to gain an understanding of Indigenous perspectives, we amplify voices and histories integral to our ongoing work towards understanding and reconciliation.  

Accoladed as a “Musician You Need to Know” by Billboard, it is clear that Shawnee Kish is not an artist to miss. Originally from Welland Ontario, Kish is a two-spirit singer and lyricist  now based in Alberta. Growing up, music had a great impact on Kish in providing space for emotional release and solace in times of darkness. It was through singing and songwriting that during her experience with depression, Kish was able to navigate mental health struggles and find a renewed sense of strength. Kish’s vulnerability in her lyrics, evident in her latest EP Revolution, offers a space for reflection to listeners who have gone through, or are currently going through similar experiences. I’m sure we can all attest to the fact that connecting with art – music in particular  – in times of sadness provides profound comfort. We feel listened to. We feel understood. We feel we are not alone. 

When interviewed on the intention behind sharing such personal  experiences with her listeners, Kish expressed that using her music as a vessel  is her purpose and strength. She added:

“All of the sudden I had this […] purpose […]  ‘I can share what I’ve been through, I can share what I’ve gone through’ and that is a reason to be here. That is my strength.” 

Shawnee Kish has been professionally sharing her music with the world since early 2021. In just four years time, Kish has garnered over 10,000 monthly listeners on Spotify and released a total of 13 projects encompassing everything from singles to EPs. Her debut and self-titled EP Shawnee Kish, released in 2021, contains six tracks that successfully introduce her style and sound. Kish’s music is a powerful, soulful mix of contemporary pop and rock. Her 11 singles stick true to this genre. They focus on a variety of topics from empowerment, individuality, grief, and acceptance, to love. Kish’s 2024 single “Dear Dad” pays homage to her late father, honouring him through a touching and heartfelt piece. The song opens with an overlay of an old recording of her father’s voice, setting the tone for a capsule-like composition that memorializes her father’s impact, while showing  the ongoing place he  holds in her heart. This is all followed by her most recent release “Reclaim:” an essential example of voicing  the stories of Indigenous strength and resiliency. 

Shawnee Kish’s work has caught the ears of critics and listeners worldwide, leaving her with many awards. Kish won CBC’s 2020 Searchlight talent competition and was named by MTV as one of North America’s Top Gender Bending Artists. Her critically acclaimed work led her to being nominated for the 2022 JUNO’s Contemporary Indigenous Artist of the Year, with two more JUNO nominations in the categories of  Contemporary Indigenous Artist Of The Year and Adult Alternative Album Of The Year for her 2023 EP Revolution. 

Kish’s dedication in the studio extends to her advocacy work, particularly in the sectors of mental health, Indigenous, and 2SLGBTQ+ awareness. In 2023, Kish participated in a recording of “What I Wouldn’t Do,” a charity single by Serena Ryder released to support the Kids Help Phone’s Feel Out Loud campaign for youth mental health. In addition to this, she created and performed “Music Is My Medicine,” with the National Arts Centre Orchestra for Undisrupted – a  CBC Gem series that showcases the talents, struggles, and stories of Indigenous youth.

Ultimately, I hope this quick snippet into Shawnee Kish’s brilliance has given you more than enough reason as to why she should be on your listening radar. Her passionate lyricism in partnership with her powerful voice and authentic messages deem her an accomplished artist not-to-be-missed, with a promising future ahead.

The post Shawnee Kish’s New Must-Listen Single “Reclaim” appeared first on The McGill Daily.

There is an entire cultural language behind queer pop music that cannot be reduced to queer people simply singing about being queer. It’s for that reason that earlier this year, Jojo Siwa came under fire, and rightfully so, for her comments about “creating” the genre of gay pop, and doing “what had never been done before.” There are queer artists who pioneered the aesthetics of the genre and were queer themselves, like David Bowie, Elton John, and Freddie Mercury, among others. But what makes this genre of pop music queer is also its sonic trademarks, influence, association, and on many occasions, the direct recognition and appreciation of queer audiences.

Since the late 20th century, a litany of gay icons like Madonna, Britney Spears, Lady Gaga, and Beyonce have enjoyed popularity while also being embraced by queer communities. Their discographies have become defined by queer pop staples, such as unapologetic accounts of love, sex, and their own bodies – all while accompanied by sexy, glittery, high-fashion stage outfits and danceable electropop. These gay pop icons, or “mothers,” are perfect examples of what actual allyship and advocacy look like: using one’s platform to promote queer artists and imagery regardless of consequences to publicity, and regardless of whether or not something is palatable for the industry. It’s the difference between artists now merely saying they support queer rights versus what that support would’ve signified based on social context in the past. For instance in the 1980s, Madonna spoke openly in support of queer people at the height of the AIDS crisis, doing so even before America’s conservative president Ronald Reagan.

Now, Charli xcx, with her torn-up T-shirts, visible bras, mini-skirts, and club-style production, has entered this elite universe of pop girls. But what makes charli xcx especially iconic among queer audiences is her lexicon of references and associations. Her association and frequent collaboration with the late, great trans producer SOPHIE is widely known, with Charli xcx paying tribute to her multiple times on BRAT in honour of her influence and passing. She has also collaborated with Troye Sivan, an openly queer artist, many times, including on her most recent remix of BRAT’s “Talk Talk.” They are also currently co-headlining the SWEAT tour in North America. Charli xcx’s influences also reside in underground culture and counterculture, a sort of numinous space pioneered by and for queer people.

Chappell Roan is another current queer pop heavyweight, whose image exists at the intersection of queer aesthetics and text. She sings about being a lesbian from the perspective of authentic experience, which is especially resonant considering her comparatively conservative Midwestern upbringing. All the while, she pays homage to pillars of queer culture like John Waters. She’s even dressed as the legendary 1980s drag queen Divine, who starred in most of his movies. Because of her upbringing secluded from queer spaces in the Midwest, Chappell also makes a conscious effort to bring her music and performances to parts of the US that aren’t as inviting to queer performers. For instance, she performed in her Divine outfit at Kentuckiana pride in Louisville, Kentucky this past June.

What Charli and Chappell offer is ultimately a hedonistic rebuttal of the self- pitying and watered-down pop music that has been dominating the charts, which queer pop music has always been about. Freedom of identity becomes linked to musical freedom, with the sound of queer pop music intending for the listener to move their body and enjoy themselves, unconcerned with being taken seriously or rejected by the public. The terms “gay icon” and “gay pop” have far more to do with hedonistic, countercultural aesthetics, which sometimes intersect with actual queer text, more than many people realize. Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face,” for example, is a dance club classic rife with excess, leather, and glitter that is actually about her fantasizing about women while having sex with men.

Gaga’s 2009 track, and its accompanying album The Fame Monster, are an example of where queer pop intersects with recession pop. According to Dazed magazine, “Recession pop” first rose to prominence in the years surrounding the 2008 financial crisis, and refers to the fast, frenetic melodies and hooky lyricism that defines the music of recession periods, “colouring economic hardship with relentless optimism.” But the sound reflects more than an affective response to the economy; Diane Negra, professor of culture studies and co-editor of Gendering the Recession, calls it “a fulcrum moment after which many people rewrote the terms of their engagement with capitalism,”making it a cultural reconfiguration of capitalist hegemony as a whole.

The intersection of queer pop and recession pop is defined by excess, indulgence, club culture, and alternative aesthetics. It’s the idea of idolizing cheap luxury and abundance as a way of aesthetically rebuking economic and identity boundaries, and rejecting expectations outlined by hetero-capitalist society.

The period around the 2008 financial crisis saw a kind of unprecedented countercultural movement with albums like The Fame Monster and Blackout, which are now regarded as classics among queer audiences. They are examples of the connection between marginalized communities victim to both classicism and homophobia, and the way that LGBTQ+ people are denied full participation in the economy. The ostracization of queer people and the middle class from popular culture during recessions causes pop music to cater itself to alternative spaces, relocating the nucleus of pop music into underground clubs and raves as opposed to stadium tours and awards shows.

As opposed to the retrospective lens through which recession pop and its connection to queer culture from the late 2000s is viewed, young people today, more aware of their socio- economic milieu than ever, are actually able to detect the “silent recession” we are in through the indications provided by pop music. The world does not need to openly be in crisis for recession to be considered so, as we continue to globally suffer from post-pandemic economic decline in what is being called a “silent depression.”

The newness and self-awareness of this particular iteration of recession pop is what attracts it to queer audiences: its nostalgia factor is authentic, and it doesn’t shy away from the contemporary moment. It isn’t a recycled formula which tries far too hard to connect to marginalized audiences through unconventional aesthetics. BRAT, for instance, didn’t come to be because it was sensing or jumping on a trend, economic or cultural; Charli’s style has been popular among alternative audiences for some time, and only during the current recession period has gained mainstream popularity. Just listen to 2020’s how i’m feeling now, with the hard-hitting hyperpop intro of “pink diamond,” which embodies the same ideals as BRAT but was recorded at the very beginning of the pandemic, before we could even process its affective and economic impact.

What this self-aware, queer-oriented era of recession pop tells us is that culture has finally caught up to visionaries like charli xcx and Chappell Roan. Artists like Tove Lo, Kim Petras, and Ayesha Erotica are all LGBTQ women who have been releasing BRAT-like electropop music since the mid-2010s. All of them take influence from 2000s icons like Britney and Gaga and have long been overlooked commercially, but have always been embraced by queer audiences. However, it just may be that the state the global economy has put us in has finally necessitated this kind of energy that has been embraced by queer people on the margins of society since the beginning of the 21st century.

The post Why Pop Music is Thriving Again appeared first on The McGill Daily.

This interview has been edited for clarity and brevity.

Philippine d’Halleine for The McGill Daily (MD): Can you introduce us to the band members?

HENRY (H): My name is Henry, I’m 25, from Ontario. I started the band in 2019 and then I moved to Montreal in 2020 to go to the Université de Montréal (UDeM) –at that point I met all of the musicians who are currently in Hank’s Dream and reformed the group with them. I play keyboard and sometimes guitar, and I’m also the lead singer.

FRED (F): I’m Frederic, I’m 23 and from Montreal. I studied guitar at CEGEP and then did a bachelor’s degree in jazz music at McGill University. I’m a guitarist, and I do backing vocals. Then we have Henri who is the bassist – we met at McGill during our undergraduate degree in music – and Zach, the drummer, who met Henry at UDeM.

MD: When did you realize you wanted to start a music career?

H: For me, it was the last year of high school when university applications came around. I had to decide if I wanted to play music or do something else. I really liked history at the time, but I realized that I was so much happier doing music. Also, I was lucky to have parents who wanted me to do whatever made me happy. Then, once I was in university for music, there was no question – I was sold on the whole thing.

F: I think for me, there wasn’t this big moment of realization. I wanted to give a CEGEP program in music a try, and I realized that I loved it. Every show I go see, play in, or listen to, my passion gets even bigger.

MD: Henry, you decided to create the band in 2019. Why did you choose to launch a project like this?

H: Well, it was the last year of my four years of undergrad in music. There weren’t that many people

who were into non-classical music or pop music. So, me and my very good friends at the time ended up playing in every project. Every time someone would have a show, and needed a band, they would get us three to be the rhythm section. In the summer of my fourth year, I wanted to do the same thing, except instead of filling in for parts of a band, we would be the entire band. And then all of a sudden, we were an indie band.

MD: What type of music inspires you? What do you listen to?

H: We’ve all been influenced by our parents. They grew up in the 80s, and have this common passion for classics like the Beatles, my mother also introduced me to new wave artists like Joy Division, or Jonathan Richmond. Much of the music they played for us when we were little influences us today.

MD: How would you describe your music?

H: World music maybe? It’s a hard question. We use dream pop a lot – hence the name of the band. Hank’s Dream is a combination of that genre with my nickname. But the dream aspect is more interesting to us. It comes from, as I said before, the fact that we were always playing behind other people. And then I wanted to just play, without having to back anyone. But on a less poetic level, it came from my username on video games, which was always Hank’s Dream. Another contender was Midnight Croquet.

MD: Your self-titled debut album was released in 2020. What was the intention behind it?

H: 2019 was the last “normal” year right before COVID. We were semi-formed as a band and were starting to introduce people to the original music we had written. At that point, we had three songs in our set that were original, and then a fourth one was written during the recording process. It was during lockdown when there were no more live shows. I think if it wasn’t for COVID, we probably would have continued to develop as a group and then maybe have waited to put out a whole album. But because the pandemic stopped our development, live music, and getting together in general, we decided to put out what we had.

MD: Were you satisfied?

H: I think so. It’s definitely an imperfect album. We’d like to rework some things on it, which is something we will do in the future, but it got the message across. And for people who had been coming to see our shows in person, it was a way for them to hear the music during the pandemic.

F: It’s important for a small band to release at least something, no matter how good the quality is. Just releasing it allows people to find the show at any time. The goal now would be to record a real full-length album – a real LP.

MD: Now that restrictions on live shows have been lifted, how are you back in the Montreal music scene?

H: For a while, we were doing shows around once a month. But we’ve started to become more interested in the releasing music aspect.

F: 2022 was really our year to play and show our music to the world. We tried to get an audience in the Montreal scene, which worked out pretty well. In 2023, we’ve already done some major shows, but the second half of the year is more about working on the album and planning future releases for 2024.

H: Presently we have the four tunes from the EP that came out in 2020, and up until this June we had nothing else besides that. We would play 12 songs in a show with eight of them unreleased. We realized that we can’t keep playing shows with no vision or end in sight for when it’s going to be released. Therefore, we started going full focus on the recording and put “San Francisco” out in June. Now we’re working on getting all the other things out. Our next project is coming out sometime soon in November.

MD: Can you tell us about any future projects?

F: We’re working on the next album, which hasn’t been recorded yet, but we’re making progress. We’ve got lots of crossover projects, and from time to time we get together on the same project.

H: We also have a music video that was directed by our talented friend Guillaume Knobloch. On my side I created a soundtrack for a short film that’s in the editing process.

MD: How do you feel the Montreal music scene is responding to your music? Would you recommend this city as a place for young musicians to start their careers?

H: The scene is so welcoming, that’s the best part. On the level of getting help from festivals or grants it’s harder. You take the good with the bad. One of the ways that I think Montreal indirectly helps musicians is the fact that (knock on wood) rent is so cheap, because with the income that I have from doing music, I couldn’t live anywhere else. I couldn’t live in Toronto for sure. I think just the fact that Montreal is an affordable city for students and young people is part of what makes it a good music city.

MD: Will we be able to catch you on stage again soon?

H: There is a show in November that will celebrate the release of our new song. You can check our Instagram for the address and the date.

For more information on upcoming events and releases, visit Hank’s Dream’s Facebook, Instagram, or Linktree.

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“Golden Child (Jealous)”

The soft, soothing drums and comforting words in “Golden Child” describe the struggle of maintaining authenticity in the face of disingenuity. This song serves as a lasting reminder that we can only do the best by being  ourselves, despite the hostile environments we may find ourselves in. Doing good in return for nothing is sometimes unappreciated, or even ridiculed: the global systems we operate in instead encourage us to constantly be fighting for our own gain, whether that be for a higher salary, or gaining more muscles at the gym. At times, we may feel discouraged to do good in the favour of prioritizing our own goals. But Cleo’s gentle words of affirmation feed our minds and souls. She acknowledges that pursuing individual authenticity can lead to isolation from others who aren’t able to take the same priority, but offers the comforting words: “I hope you know you’re not alone.” Her repeated affirmations are central to this song, and to the album as a whole. Sol’s reassurance to all who listen – that we each have something special about ourselves to cherish – is as powerful here as ever. 

“Airplane”

This has to be one of the most touching songs on the album. It’s a slow one, with beautiful lyrics – Cleo Sol’s speciality. The soothing guitar chords take us on a journey of self-worth and rediscovery, with the help of lyrics like: “You will find your power /  Little bird, wait” and “You will fly again, no fear / High like an airplane.” Without fear, we can always find a path to empowerment. But Cleo Sol remains realistic, and acknowledges the struggles that this inevitably comes with. Her raspy vocals and emotive falsetto echo that it is okay to sit in despair as long as we remember to always look up. One of the most noticeable themes in this album is Cleo Sol’s powerful references to her Christian faith, which she uses to empower fellow religious listeners. Lyrics like “Take a Bible, read the scriptures…” attest to Cleo Sol’s profound belief that the word of God can help people in their struggles towards self-worth and rediscovery. “Airplane” remains uplifting while acknowledging the impact of setbacks on our lives and the troubled state that they can cast us into. 

“Miss Romantic” 

There’s something so poignant about this song. The title says it all, really – this one is for the girlies who tend to delude themselves about a partner, even when they’re shown time and time again that they aren’t being valued or respected. “Looking at him like he’s a God figure, maybe you just need a father figure” is probably the hardest-hitting line. It refers to how the absence of a father or similar figure in some women’s lives can lead them to seek male validation elsewhere at any cost. It’s easy for people who have this need to shape imaginative realities that can be enormously contrary to actuality. Cleo Sol hits us with lines that ring true to this skewed mentality, like “He’s playing on your insecurity.” 

Yet Sol shows us that there’s a way out, through the power of the mind. By making a radical effort and challenging desperate mindsets, we can change our expectations and recognize that we’re not obligated to settle for the bare minimum. “Miss Romantic” is a reminder that we know what’s best for ourselves. The song ends as Sol’s voice slowly fizzles out, imploring us not to feed into our delusions. 

“Old Friends” 

Have you ever been in a situation where you are forced to lose someone in order to take care of yourself? In “Old Friends,” Cleo Sol deals with just that. She sings about prioritizing yourself in a toxic friendship overtop mellow piano chords in the background. “Old Friends” explores a relationship that ends not because of a big fight, but simply because one person has found themselves growing out of  the friendship. The song speaks to an inner awareness, prompting listeners to surround themselves with better people. Something I’ve really noticed in this album is the raw way Cleo Sol expresses her reality. She’s not afraid to tackle the hardships that come with healing and personal growth, including the intense pain of letting go of someone you love. “Years have gone by, tears still stain my pillow,” she sings. Emotions that come from the healing process can take years to get over. 

Towards the end of the song, “Old Friends” takes a heartwarming direction: Sol sings about the confidence inspired by making the decision to move on and knowing that it is for the best. Making peace with this decision can only be achieved through loving and accepting yourself:  “I’ve changed and realised that I can be alone.” 

From beginning to end, Cleo Sol’s Heaven takes us on a journey of self-discovery and growth. It isn’t a manual to fix your problems – nor is it a list of grievances and struggles. It’s a bit of both, I think. “Self,” the first song on the album, perfectly encapsulates all the key themes of the album, from hurt and healing to personal growth and faith. Heaven reminds us of our worth and, crucially, reassures us that it’s never too late to grow. The truth is, many of us will probably need to listen to this album again at many points in our lives.

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Jam for Justice recognizes that music is an optimal activity to connect with others, and have stretched this potential to reach underprivileged communities as well. For years their events have garnered donations under a pay-what-you-can mandate to support different local Montreal charities. “We make our events as accessible as we can for those interested,” says Zeina Alsibai, Jam for Justice’s 2023/24 President. Their primary goal is to raise donations, using music as a means of both building and supporting a community. They’ve collaborated with Montreal Children’s hospital, School of Music Montreal, and Project 10 among other local organizations. Last year they hosted two open mics, a more formal performance at Le Depanneur Cafe, karaoke at Gerts, and an epic Battle of the Bands at Casa Del Popolo where all proceeds went to Midnight Kitchen. They have an upcoming coffee house on November 22. Jam for Justice’s Finance executive Dmitri Pelletier estimates a few thousand dollars have been raised over the last couple of years. 

There’s a lot of potential for Jam for Justice performers – one of the bands, Societal Siege, who performed frequently at past events even “made-it-big” according to Sadie Bryant, Jam for Justice’s VP External. For other performers, the low-key environment of a coffeehouse might be the perfect opportunity to sing in front of an audience for the first time, or showcase a new song they’ve been sitting on. In an article published two years ago, Times Higher Education reported on the phenomena of music groups on college campuses. They found that music on campus is not only an overall rewarding experience for students, but also facilitates initiatives that foster team-building and collaboration.

The hosting of performances on campus to encourage socialization, especially in the wake of COVID-19 isolation, contributed to increased positive mental health effects of students and staff alike. Another study, “Non-Music Major Participation in College and University Ensembles” published in 2021 by the College Music Society builds on this idea further by researching the specific benefits of music on non-music majors. While most research focused on campus music groups targets students who are majoring in music, non-music students’ participation in music groups and music outreach programs is equally, if not, more relevant for higher-education institutions. This is because non-music majors are more likely to spread an awareness of music initiatives to those who are more removed from music environments. Non-music majors who are part of music groups on campus are driven by an intense passion, personal attachment, and high commitment to music that is inspiring by virtue of the fact that these attitudes are not necessarily formally taught or instilled in them by music professionals. Non-music majors also reinforce that involvement in music groups is not about talent, or even the music that is being played, but an overall enjoyment of music as a socially-rewarding communal act. Jam for Justice shows that student-run and student-led organizations can be rewarding two-fold: both by supporting local collectives, and by establishing a student network driven by the unifying aspect of music.

After speaking with others at the park jam, they all said renditions of the same thing; Jam for Justice is where they have met some of their closest friends, and where they can come together to do something they love. It is always collaborative and even more welcoming. These sentiments were immediately obvious from joining the jam, and even by the time I left the music had shown no sign of stopping. 

If you’d like to get involved, consider following Jam For Justice on their Facebook and Instagram pages for information on upcoming events. Other inclusive on-campus groups and organizations include School of Music Montreal, McGill Choral Society, SSMU Symphonic Band Club, and the McGill Arts Collective.

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Simz’s two latest albums, Sometimes I Might Be Introvert (2021) and No Thank You (2022) have been greatly received by critics and fans alike. The former has been widely regarded as one of the best album releases of the year, and was ranked number one by British music publication The Line Of Best Fit. Little Simz was supposed to tour Sometimes I Might Be Introvert last year in the US, but had to cancel due to the mounting financial constraints she faced as an independent artist. Studies show that streaming platforms and services are benefiting hugely at the expense of artists, an example being that Universal Music Group is profiting from the 25 per cent cut that Academy Music Group withdraw from merchandise sales in its venues. Little Simz told the Guardian: “Being an independent artist, I pay for everything encompassing my live performances out of my own pocket and touring the US for a month would leave me in a huge deficit. As much as this pains me to not see you at this time, I’m just not able to put myself through that mental stress.” These struggles are expressed in her newest album, No Thank You, which has just been toured in the US and Canada. It’s safe to say that Simz has overcome this setback and is ready to perform her moving hits across the UK and North America. 

Simz has been very vocal both verbally and lyrically about her experience navigating  the music industry as an independent artist. “No one wanted to sign me! I was knocking on everyone’s doors … and they wasn’t hearing it,” she told Skalvan, a Norwegian-Swedish talk show host. However, now that Simz’ artistry has been recognised by critics and has achieved financial success, she is  being  approached by major record labels. In “Angel,” the first song listed on No Thank You, Simz directly alludes to the exploitation of independent artists within the music industry: “I can see how an artist can get tainted, frustrated. They don’t care if your mental is on the brink of somethin’ dark. As long as you’re cuttin’ somebody’s payslip.” This experience isn’t unique to Little Simz. The dismissal of independent artists’ humanity is rampant within various artistic industries, from books to music. Through her lyrics, Simz is echoing these harsh realities that have been frequently addressed by artists such as Saul Williams in his 2004 album List of Demands. It is no secret that economic success is appealing to major labels. This often leaves emerging artists conflicted, as they face offers that seem appealing at face-value, but hide the looming threat  of exploitation. Simz is one among many who have faced this decision, but she chose to remain independent and dodge the exploitative record labels itching to hop on the ride of her recent critical and financial success. 

Making a decision to go independent as an artist can be liberating – it gives you a certain  creative autonomy you could not otherwise possess. However, it isn’t exactly all happy times. The financial pressures, particularly when touring, can be a nightmare for many independent artists. This summer, full-time independent musician Sarah King spoke about the financial struggles of touring as an independent artist and how they have only  been exacerbated by the pandemic. Since the outbreak of COVID-19, King notes that the most difficult aspect of touring is finding a venue in the midst of  shutdowns. Even if you can find a suitable venue, available dates are limited for “mid-level artists” due to extensive backlogs. 

During the course of Simz’s career, she’s made it clear that she is in it for the long run. Even if she is faced with hardships as an independent artist, for Simz the rewarding nature of an autonomous musical journey is what matters most. Reflecting on her journey as an independent artist, Simz told Music Week that “It always sounds very appealing when you’re being wined and dined and promised things. But I also have friends and peers who are on major labels and I talked to them. It’s not as if they say anything crazy or wild, but I wanted to get all the perspectives. So I don’t actually know what it is to be a signed artist. I mean, I might have it all backwards. I might be missing a trick, but I think I’ve found something that works for me. It’s a lot of hard work, but I’m definitely a stairs person and not on the escalator journey. It’s super-rewarding and I get to do what I want.” This has been noticed by the likes of multifaceted artist and director Robert Swerdlow, who told Music Week: “Very rarely do you get an artist who can work in a global, smart and culturally relevant musical space and stand up 100 per cent for independence. And Simz never compromises on any creative level, from music, to marketing, identity, aesthetic and video making.”

Simply put, Simz’s artistry truly embodies the act of being resilient and trusting that your time will come. These qualities are integral to being an independent artist in the chaotic climate of today’s music industry. As such, Little Simz’s career is one to be watched. Montreal is honoured to receive her work.

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The record, which Mitski has deemed her most American yet, certainly lives up to this descriptor – but in a way that is both layered and critical. The artist uses instrumentation and lyrical imagery distinctly associated with Americana culture to insert herself, a Japanese-American woman, into an aesthetic tradition that has jettisoned her. It is a tradition that fills her and those like her with isolation and uncertainty, something she communicates with outstanding musicianship. She positions herself as a guiding presence for other female Asian-American artists who are inserting themselves into a racially rigid alternative music scene. 

Part of what makes this album so exciting is that it is a new musical era for Mitski. For non-fans, Mitski’s discography can be meticulously broken up into pairs, with each album building on the tonal themes of the last. Her first two records were mainly intimate and haunting piano ballads. She then turned to a grungier style, primed with staticky, fuzzy guitars and intense, purposefully screamy vocals. Her most recent pair of albums were two danceable, poppy synth projects reminiscent of the 80s. All of her albums contain similar themes of lost or unrequited love, reconciling identity, and so on, but they are always developing to accommodate her new musical styles and ever changing mindset. 

The Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We introduces listeners to a musical world untouched by Mitski as of yet – one of folk rock and country tunes, some of which are almost Dolly Parton or Johnny Cash-esque. She swaps electropop reverbs for a more classic sound, with instruments like plucky acoustic guitars, banjos, and snares, while keeping elements from her past works such as her signature rapturous builds. The bluegrass feel of the tracks could not be more distinctly Americana, with the sound of soft, slide guitar transporting listeners to the plains of the past. The naturalist vibes even transcend instruments, with dog barks and cricket chirps audible at the end of “I’m Your Man”. She also includes religious sound motifs, with organs and choirs in the singles “Star” and “Bug Like an Angel” respectively. 

Lyrically, The Land carries on its nostalgic and folky energy, as Mitski’s poetry recalls American literary traditions through pastoral allusions. She describes the natural American landscape in tandem with its industrial side, particularly on the track “Buffalo Replaced.” She sings: “Freight train stampedin’ through my backyard / It’ll run across the plains / Like the new buffalo replaced.” These descriptors of the unruly American West contrasted with its current state perfectly complement her musical combination of classic sounds with contemporary adjustments. She also subtly plays off of religious music, discussing heaven, God, and the devil – all common themes in traditional Americana media. “I try to remember the wrath of the devil / was also given him by God,” she sings in “Bug Like an Angel” as a way of communicating her personal relationship to the spirituality and morality associated with the American ethic. 

Literally harmonizing American sounds, spirituality, and nature, Mitski inserts herself into a musical and aesthetic history that first-generation and non-white Americans have historically been excluded from. Through instrumentation and word painting, she takes a very recognizable and very American style and flips it on its head. She maintains twangy melodies and lyrics that describe the beauty of the American landscape while pointing out the socio-political dynamics of American folk media that get ignored in its depictions. Americana-style media instead tends to opt for imagery of daring outlaws, disparaged and barbaric Indigenous communities, and American myths of defiance and heroism. The album title itself pokes fun at these tropes and stems from a joke Mitski made about spoofing state slogans to make them as literal and accurate as possible. Mitski is therefore subverting the carefully constructed idea of “Americanness” with a dash of facetiousness. 

Mitski also uses this cultural pride against itself. The beauty and divinity of lyrics supposedly representing a land of peace and acceptance are instead used to articulate feelings of isolation. She wrote a good portion of the album during the pandemic, a time in which the United States was a deeply inhospitable place for Asian-Americans. This writing process allowed her to resurrect feelings of loneliness and not belonging explored in her earlier records. Instead of describing an undying faith, Mitski’s inclusion of religious lyricism becomes deeply personal and isolating. Take “The Deal,” for instance, where she speaks of making a deal with the devil in order to exchange her soul for numbness and peace instead of a lifetime of confusion and pain. In situating herself among grandiose nationalistic themes, she is able to explore the deeply personal through lines present in all her albums in a new way. 

While she is certainly a pioneer in uplifting the powerful presence of Asian women in alternative music and its subgenres, Mitski is far from alone in this quest. There have been several female Asian-American musicians infiltrating the mainstream in recent years, all without conforming to its expectations of passivity and apoliticism. Take for instance Japanese Breakfast, the indie project fronted by Korean-American artist Michelle Zauner, who is unafraid of venturing into perverse themes over atmospheric beats. Zauner also published her memoir Crying in H Mart last year, which delved into her relationship with her Asian heritage and received great appraisal. There is also the extraordinary British songstress Rina Sawayama, who, like Mitski, is unafraid of exploring different genres. Take her debut record SAWAYAMA, which includes both nu-metal and 2000s girl-pop tracks. 

Each of these women is committed to challenging norms and boundaries in alternative music, all while being acutely aware of the Western, predominantly white social landscape they find themselves in. And, with The Land is Inhospitable and So Are We, Mitski takes a huge leap in this mission, turning American music upside down to continue to make way for other artists like herself. 

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In 1934, the character of Cri-Cri was created by one of Mexico’s greatest composers, Francisco Gabilondo Soler, for his program on XEW, which is one of Mexico’s oldest radio stations. Soler would take on the persona of the singing cricket and sing fantastical, humorous, and cheerful stories. By the 1940s, his songs and stories grew so massively popular that Walt Disney approached Soler to buy the rights for the character. Disney wanted to bring Cri-Cri over to American audiences, and produce works featuring the singing cricket similar to the film The Three Caballeros. However, Soler famously refused his offer, as he was a firm believer that Cri-Cri’s legacy would be for Mexican children. But what is this legacy?

Francisco Gabilondo Soler was born in 1907 in Orizaba, Veracruz. The stories he read in his youth from the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Anderson, and Aesop’s fables inspired many of his own stories. For instance, many of Soler’s stories often feature anthropomorphic animals. 

It was on October 15, 1934 that Soler sang his fantastical songs on the radio for the first time. After his first few sessions, Soler created the character of Cri-Cri following a suggestion from his art director. Soler was originally granted a 15 minute program on XEW station that was only intended to last for a few weeks. Instead, it spread like wildfire, filling a previously untouched niche for children’s entertainment. It was such a hit that the program lasted for almost 27 years, and the name Cri-Cri (which became synonymous with Soler) became a household name. Cri-Cri’s legacy has lasted beyond the end of the program in 1961, and even beyond Soler’s death in 1990. 

When he sang, children listened. For a brief time, they could be transported to the  whimsical world of Soler’s creation filled with lovable characters and unforgettable songs. As a child growing up in Mexico, I distinctly remember doing one of my kindergarten shows to the Cri-Cri song “Caminito de la Escuela,” which tells of different animals making their way to school (one of my personal favourites). It was adorable! On road trips we would sometimes put on Cri-Cri DVDs and my whole family would sing his songs. To put it into perspective, my father was born in 1966, well after Soler’s program ended, and he can still sing his songs word for word. Cri-Cri has had a cricket-y grip on over four generations! 

Soler wrote 228 songs, which varied greatly in style and genre, but all captured the essence of traditional Mexican music. Soler uses the Tango in “Che Araña”, polka in “El Ratón Vaquero,” the waltz in “La Muñeca Fea,” and Son Cubano in “Cucurumbé.” The song “Cucurumbé” pays homage to the place of his birth — the state of Veracruz. This state is one of great historical importance in Mexico, and is also a state with one of the highest Afro-Mexican and Afro-descendant  populations in the country. My own grandfather and his side of the family are Afro-descendants from Veracruz, and I distinctly remember him singing and dancing to “Cucurumbé” and other Cri-Cri songs with his grandkids. It is very likely he sang these songs with my mom and her siblings too, and as he has been a teacher for most of his life, he would be familiar with the sounds of Cri-Cri around the classrooms. 

However, it is important to note that like other media aimed at children at the time, such as the works of Dr. Seuss and Walt Disney, some of Soler’s works contained racist and classist imagery reminiscent of the time. This is evident in his songs “Negrito Sandia,” “Métete Teté”” and “Chinescas,” which contain blatant colourism, racist caricatures, and tragically normalized violence towards Black bodies that stems from Mexico’s history of colonialism. Old performances of songs like “Métete Teté” were often conduits for minstrelsy. These songs are often forgotten amongst Soler’s repertoire, or in the case of the generally well-known“Negrito Sandia,” have not been recognized as harmful until recently, in the past decade or so.

However, Soler’s grandson Gabilondo Vizcaíno stated in a 2017 interview that he remembered his grandfather didn’t share the racial prejudices of the people of his time, and that his aforementioned song, “Cucurumbé” reflected this. The song tells us the story of Cucurumbé, a little girl who wished to lighten her skin with the ocean foam. But a fish with a hat swims up to her and exclaims that there is no need for that, for she with her black skin, is beautiful the way she is. Gabilondo Vizcaíno recounts that Soler deeply loved Veracruz and its people. Soler is remembered fondly, by my family, by Veracruz, and by most of Mexico, as many of us have memories of family and childhood attached to his music. Although throughout his life’s work, Soler created a space for children to explore their imaginations, even great composers like him are not free from accountability. The impact of his harmful works should not be excused because of all his positive contributions to musical traditions. It is important to face, recognize, teach, and remember the harmful works he created that helped perpetuate racism, regardless of Soler’s association with childhood innocence.

One thing remains true, and that is that Cri-Cri is part of Mexico’s cultural and musical history, as well as many of our personal stories. I, for one, will forever hold in my heart the memory of laughing and pretending to howl with my jaded, Gen-X father, while we sing about a dog with a tooth ache in “El Perrito.” It is these moments of connection between generations that I cherish, and where Cri-Cri has carved his music into our memories. I don’t know if a decade from now school children will still perform “Caminito de la Escuela” like I did. Or maybe they will. I do hope that if Soler’s music and legacy carries on, we would do right by history and not sweep his harmful works under the rug and remember Cri-Cri as he was.

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You know her, you love her; this 23 year old NYC it girl skyrocketed to fame just last year and has since become one of the internet’s most loved pop culture sensations.

In the words of one viral tweet by Twitter user  @BADENDlNG, “she’s literally the closest thing we have to a modern day Princess Diana” — Ice Spice has the same widespread support and adoration characteristic of the late Princess of Wales. Born and raised in the Bronx, Ice Spice went from an underground New York drill artist to mainstream stardom. Since the release of her first hit “Munch (Feelin’ U)” in August 2022, Ice Spice has remained on the public’s screens and in their hearts. Ice Spice is truly for the people; she funded some of her first projects with pandemic stimulus checks, and blew up on TikTok before finding commercial music success. With a knack for virality, she rose to the top with the help of chronically online outrage cycles and internet thirst. So what is it about Ice Spice that made her so famous so fast?

 Vintage Juicy Couture sweatsuits, bedazzled oversized belts, and Prada puffers combined with the ongoing Y2K craze played a part in elevating Ice Spice’s into fashion girl status. The dizzying torrent of pandemic-era microtrends, curated personal style, and “deinfluencing” may finally be receiving their 15 minutes of fame. The era of everyone wearing the same green House of Sunny dress or knockoff Vivienne Westwood pearl choker seem to have passed (thank god). These days, it’s all about who can be the most esoteric, achieve the ‘editorial aesthetic,’ and have the biggest individuality complex. What cultural critic and feminist auteur-blogger Rayne Fisher Quann refers to as “micro-individuality” has served to increase public attention for the authentically stylish as something to emulate. Ice Spice is one of the few Instagram famous figures who seems to genuinely have what others crave: the elusive “personal style.” Without excessive filters, lip fillers, or a Shein-sponsored wardrobe, Ice Spice repeatedly goes viral for her hybrid streetwear-2000s-designer look. In her upcoming music video for “In Ha Mood,” Spice dons a Powerpuff Girl-esque jeweled necklace with a red bra, red thong, and a red Balenciaga bag to boot. She has personal style and the confidence to back it up. In other words, everyone wants what she has!

From her dozens of viral tweets to every quotable hook in her new album, Ice Spice’s contributions to the cultural canon are undeniable. Combined with her down-to-earth attitude (she is a Capricorn after all), her quotable catch phrases work especially well in the era of memes and Twitter celebrities. The Ice Spice Effect is an example of the same phenomenon presented in Douglas Quenqua’s 2012 article, “They’re, Like, Way Ahead of the Linguistic Currrrve,” where he rightly observes young women as “incubators of vocal trends.” Uptalk (pronouncing statements as if they were questions), using “like” as a conversation filler, and creating new slang words are all linguistic phenomena associated with teenage girls. Despite the misogynistic association of these young women with immaturity or even stupidity, Ice Spice’s hooks and snippets are receiving some recognition for what they are: trend-setter behavior. Gretchen Weiners may not have been able to make “fetch” work, but Ice Spice definitely made “Munch” here to stay. 

But Ice Spice isn’t just a pretty face. Her stardom and legion of ‘Munchkins’ have become a cultural phenomenon for the better. Ice Spice is a well loved Black female rapper who preaches confidence, and is unafraid of making a political statement in the process. In her 2022 interview with Erykah Badu, she cited her as a major influence, particularly her Baduizm album. During their conversation, they talk about the double standards for female rappers in the industry, and the importance of wearing her natural hair. “Hair bias” remains both a historic and modern phenomenon — as shown in the “Good Hair” study, Black women are by far the group most often portrayed as less professional, less attractive, and lesser than their white counterparts. So while Spice may have started rap wearing wigs, she immediately noticed the positive reception by her fanbase to her authentic curls, stating “I don’t think they was ready for me to be in heels and a lace front. I think they like that I’m being myself.” Male rappers are often afforded the benefit of the doubt when it comes to appearances. For their female, Black counterparts, the pressure is on to pinch, prod, and mold their bodies into the LA sex symbol du jour. Amidst a predatory cycle of consumerism that preys on women’s insecurities, BBL’s and wigs that reach your ass have become cultural mainstays. Ice Spice recalls moments of self-consciousness that will be familiar for any young woman of color— of being 15 years old surrounded by white girls, obsessing over appearances in an effort to fit in. As Badu puts it, her signature ginger afro is a political choice: “[Black women] only think hair should be covered because we were ordered to cover it.” 

Ice Spice’s first EP “Like..?” is New York City drill infused with a little…spice. Far from a one-hit wonder, the album is track after track of Ice Spice’s experimental style imbued with a sense of casual effortlessness. For a genre known for its more macho, aggressive sound,  Spice’s almost-cutesy demeanor stands out. From the “Digimon basslines of Princess Diana” to the “squiggly puffy sample Gangsta Boo,” as described in a Pitchfork Review of her album, Spice’s music has hip-hop, soul, pop, and more. Although she primarily makes Bronx drill, part of her musical diversity is the range of artists she takes inspiration from: Pop Smoke, Lil’ Kim, Nicki Minaj, and other New York natives to name a few. She names even more inspiration artists such as Azealia Banks, Kendrick Lamar, and Coldplay in an interview with Elle. “What’s Ice Spice Listening To?” 

Recently, Ice Spice released Boys a Liar pt.2 with fellow internet princess and singer songwriter Pink Pantheress, which one Twitter netizen described as “the gen Z version of Telephone”. It’s rumored she has even more projects in the works, including a song with experimental avant-pop icon Arca, and Spice’s own “dream collaboration” Doja Cat.  

Safe to say, we can expect more great things from the People’s Princess, so keep an eye out on social media. And if you haven’t heard her music yet, clearly you have some homework to do. In Ice Spice We Trust!

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This likely won’t be the last time you make a fool of yourself; imitation has always played an integral part in music production. The process of emulation is as old as written music itself – Western classical composers studied the old masters by quite literally copying their work. By mirroring the sounds of accomplished artists, the Beatles were able to perfect their craft and develop their own style of composition. In our current era of streaming, referencing musical touchpoints is more prominent than ever. In fact, many of the songs that defined 2022 relied on sampling, the process of incorporating a section of audio from a previously recorded song into a new song. References to the past were featured on singles from well-established artists like Beyoncé, but they also aided the ascension of newcomers such as Tate McRae, revealing the role comfort and nostalgia play in generating and sustaining stardom in the modern age. 

As we entered a post-pandemic era, Beyoncé unveiled Renaissance, a dance music album that sought  “to inspire joy and escapism in listeners who had experienced isolation.” Released in July, the record is a tribute to the post-1970s club culture that encouraged outsiders and people from marginalized groups to let loose on the dance floor. Nearly every song on the album samples pre-existing rhythms, beats, and vocals created by disco, house, and dance music’s Black and queer pioneers. The album comes with an extensive list of production and songwriting credits because the singer wanted to give centre stage to the creatives who helped pave the way for her success. 

Many creators have expressed gratitude to Beyoncé for featuring their work on this project. Ts Madison, a reality television personality whose YouTube video “B**ch, I’m Black” is sampled on the track “Cozy,” said she felt thankful for being given the opportunity “to use her voice” in front of such a “global audience.” On the flip side, conversations have arisen surrounding music ownership and the legality of songwriting credits. Singer-songwriter Kelis, whose 2003 hit single “Milkshake” was sampled on “Energy,” did not feel as grateful – her track was used without her consent. Beyoncé turned to Pharrell Williams and Chad Hugo, the production duo behind the song and the sole rights owners of “Milkshake,” to gain permission to use the interpolation. Kelis called out the misdeed on social media, claiming that she should have been notified of the song’s use in advance. The sample was ultimately removed from “Energy.” 

Beyoncé utilized sampling to celebrate the work of artists that came before her. As one of the most potent pop stars in the world, she knew how much visibility Renaissance could bring to the music of the past. Yet sampling can also be used in a reverse scenario. Artists who may already have a bit of momentum but who wish to solidify their position on the music scene can use track referencing to implicitly associate themselves with more established stars. Jack Harlow incorporated this technique in Come Home the Kids Miss You, an album released this past May. His song “First Class,” which hit number one on the Billboard Hot 100, used a sample of Fergie’s 2007 classic “Glamorous.” Newcomer Tate McRae put herself in a similar position by sampling “Ride Wit Me,” a track by Nelly featuring City Spud from 2000, on her song “Don’t Come Back.” 

Harlow and McRae were at a similar crossroads. Both had solid fan bases but needed to deliver strong projects in order to truly make a name for themselves. In a conversation with Complex, Angel Lopez, an executive producer on Harlow’s album, claimed there were discussions early on “about finding something obvious that’ll connect with people instantly.” He mentioned that the American rapper had sent him “a playlist of about 12 songs” to choose from, which led to the sampling of the multiple tracks from the early 2000s heard on Come Home the Kids Miss You. In both Harlow and McRae’s cases, channelling the energy of their predecessors came with big rewards – the former was nominated for three Grammy Awards, while the latter used her success to embark on a tour across North America, Europe, and Australia. 

The act of borrowing sounds from yesterday’s successes was a hallmark of last year’s music production, to say the least. But what happens when our obsession with nostalgia brings back an entire hit altogether? In late May, Netflix released the fourth season of its massively popular series Stranger Things. Kate Bush’s 1985 hit “Running Up That Hill” played a vital role in the show’s plot, which led to the song’s resurgence in popular culture. The track could be heard everywhere for the better part of the summer and introduced many of the show’s young viewers to the ’80s icon. In turn, the song’s edgy synthesizers served as inspiration for artists working today. When Taylor Swift released Midnights in October, music critics pointed out that the album’s lead single “Anti-Hero” relied on synth-based instrumentation similar to the one heard on “Running Up That Hill.” 

Swift, who is known for delving into themes of reminiscence and yearning in her songwriting, is certainly one to understand the power of nostalgia. She went so far as to sample one of her own songs, “Out of the Woods” from her 2014 album 1989, on “Question…?,” one of Midnights’ thirteen tracks. It is also worth mentioning that the country singer-turned-pop star, who is in the midst of re-recording her early albums following a dispute concerning the legal ownership of her masters (yet another exercise in nostalgia), was nominated for a 2023 Grammy Award in the Song of the Year category for the ten-minute version of “All Too Well,” a song released in its original format more than ten years ago.  

Elton John is another artist from a bygone era that had a big moment this year. In August, he re-released “Tiny Dancer” as a single featuring Britney Spears to huge commercial success. The song combines elements from John’s original 1971 version of “Tiny Dancer,” “The One” (1992), and “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” (1976). This is not the first time the British icon has collaborated with a pop sensation in recent years. In 2021, his duet with Dua Lipa, “Cold Heart,” which references his 1972 hit “Rocket Man” as well as “Sacrifice” (1989) and “Kiss the Bride” (1983), became John’s first number one single in 16 years.  

So what does our infatuation with nostalgia say about us? Has the pandemic condemned us to constantly seek comfort? Has streaming made old and new sounds indistinguishable? More importantly, how can new voices find success in such a context? Maybe the answers to these questions are not so profound. As long as artists have wanted to gain a foothold in popular culture, they have sampled, borrowed, and copied from other musicians. And is that really so bad? A case in point: 2022’s Grammy Award for Best New Artist went to Olivia Rodrigo, a youngster who is praised for her moxie but whose music is a pastiche of punk-pop sounds we have heard before. Yet this may be the very reason for her success. Rodrigo’s demographic is young, but by making use of sonic touchpoints that recall artists such as Paramore and Alanis Morissette, the 19-year-old can make her music legible to a wider audience. In fact, Rodrigo appeals to a lot of older millennials because her songs bring them back to their own adolescence. Truth is, it’s brutal out here. Sometimes we just need to indulge in a little nostalgia to get through, and in 2022, it seems we did just that. 

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The score and soundtrack by returning composer Ludwig Göransson ambitiously aim to cover the music of two distinct regions: Sub-Saharan Africa and the Yucatán Peninsula. In an article published by Marvel entitled “‘Black Panther: Wakanda Forever’ Music From and Inspired By Soundtrack Launches Globally on November 4,” it is made clear that Göransson’s vision for the film required extensive research. More than 2,500 hours of score and soundtrack were recorded over six studios, five countries, and three continents. Both Coogler and Göransson made the conscious decision to centralize the sounds of Wakanda and Talokan in the sonic traditions of Nigeria and the Yucatán Peninsula, respectively. In order to create a score and soundtrack that were as authentic and respectful as possible, Göransson immersed himself in the music of the Mayan Classical Period (200–900 AD) by working alongside music archaeologist Alejandro Rojas. Additionally, Nigerian singer and producer Tems was consulted to help oversee the production of the recording studio Göransson established in Lagos. 

So, how does the music of Sub-Saharan Africa and Mesoamerica manifest in the final film? Rhythm, instrumentation, and language are key. As establishing shots of Wakanda sweep across the screen, the first track “Nyana Wam,” features stunning vocals from Senegalese performer Baaba Maal. This song thrusts the audience into the brilliant world of African polyrhythm, with a special focus on tuned percussion. Unlike Western classical music, which centres mainly around harmonic structure, the traditional music of Sub-Saharan Africa is composed around rhythm. The layering of multiple rhythmic lines on top of one another is referred to as polyrhythm, an incredibly important and distinct feature of music from this part of the world. “Nyama Wam,” along with several other melodic motifs that Göransson peppers throughout the film, exemplifies
 polyrhythm beautifully. 

The complexity and nuance inherent in polyrhythmic structure are enhanced by the use of tuned percussion in Black Panther: Wakanda Forever. Sub-Saharan African music frequently features drums that produce different pitches when struck in different locations. One example of such an instrument is the Udu drum. Native to the Igbo people of Nigeria, the Udu is a drum traditionally fashioned from clay with a hole in the center that allows the player to create an array of different tones depending on where they strike the vessel. Göransson includes the Udu in several instrumental scores throughout the film as well as in the titular track “Wakanda Forever.” 

The  variety of artists who lent their voices to the soundtrack also aids in creating a rich, expressive sound. South African singer-songwriter and poet Busiswa provides powerful staccato vocalizations on the track “We Know What You Whisper” that make up the leitmotif for the Dora Milaje Warriors. This song, along with most of the other tracks written to represent Wakanda, is in Xhosa, a tonal Bantu language of South Africa. However, Göransson and Coogler incorporated a multitude of other languages into the soundtrack, especially when representing the Talokan nation. As their underwater city is revealed to the audience, the track “Laayli’ kuxa’ano’one” accompanies the establishing shots. This song is both rapped and sung entirely in Yucatec Maya by Adn Maya Colectivo, Pat Boy, Yaalen K’uj, and All Mayan Winik. 

Additionally, Mayan aerophones, or instruments that produce sound via air vibrating through a chamber, feature prominently on this track. In an interview with Variety, Göransson explains his process of experimenting with “hundreds of ancient instruments” during his research in Mexico City. He took special interest in the materials used by the Mayans to create their instruments, such as clay for flute-adjacent aerophones or turtle shells for percussion. The choice to place the Yucatec Maya language and instrumentation at the forefront of tracks such as “Laayli’ kuxa’ano’one” highlights the strength of the Talokan people, as outlined in the film, to revel and thrive in their culture despite outside colonial forces who would have them assimilate. 

Why is the music of Black Panther: Wakanda Forever so revolutionary? Unfortunately, respectful and faithful musical adaptations of non-European cultures tend to be the exception, not the norm. For instance, in Walt Disney’s 2003 film Brother Bear, the crux of the story occurs when the main character Kenai must take the form of a bear. A choral piece laden with haunting harmonies and powerful drum beats entitled “Transformation” accompanies this emotional sequence. The track is touching, emotive, and at first glance appears to fit the visuals and context of the story quite well. So what seems to be the problem?

Brother Bear aims to ground itself in Iñupiat traditions, folklore, and imagery. Yet neither the score nor the soundtrack features music native to the region where the film takes place. To add insult to injury, the track “Transformation,” which plays during the most important scene of the entire narrative, has absolutely nothing to do with Iñupiat music. Written by Brother Bear’s composer Phil Collins, “Transformation” was created in the style of Bulgarian choral folk music and performed for the film by the Bulgarian Women’s Choir. In a 2003 interview with the Oklahoman, Collins claimed that “We had to keep the music ethnic, as we did with Tarzan […] and unfortunately Native American instruments don’t sound that great. The drums are small.” He added that his team, “opened up every part of the world excluding Africa and we took things from everywhere, hence the Bulgarian Woman.”

Unfortunately, this mode of thinking exemplifies how many creators in the film industry have long approached music from marginalized cultures. Composers often rely upon simple instrumentation substitutes or unconventional harmonies to portray the music of non-Western cultures in the hopes that most audiences won’t know the difference. This practice can result in subconsciously alienating and burying the music of marginalized peoples even further, while at the same time perpetuating the overbearing dominance Western classical music has had over the film industry. 

Black Panther: Wakanda Forever asks us to step outside these parameters and fully immerse ourselves in the wonderful music of Sub-Saharan Africa and the Yucatán Peninsula. By placing the rhythms, instrumentation, and languages of these regions at the front and centre of the film, Göransson and Coogler give weight and importance to the musical traditions in which they originate. This choice grounds these fictional Marvel nations in reality and elevates the music of their real-world counterparts to a worldwide scale. Music is an integral part of any nation’s culture, history, and legacy. As long as there have been humans, there has been music. It is important that we represent the music of non-Western cultures with reverence and accuracy and that we work toward removing the filter of Western classical music that has too long obscured these wonderful sonic traditions.

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The band started off small; their first EP,  released in 2002, was self-titled and self-produced. All members of the original group were based in Montreal. Butler was studying religious studies at McGill. Butler’s future partner, Regine Chassagne, and Josh Deu, were studying at Concordia. For these reasons, many McGillians, Montrealers, and Canadians feel connected to Arcade Fire’s members and their journey to stardom. 

Four people have now accused Butler of sexual misconduct and assault. At the time of the incidents, the survivors’ ages varied from 18 to 23, while Butler was 34 to 38. The allegations are backed up by text messages sent to Pitchfork (which first broke the story) and by friends corroborating the survivors’ stories, although they have not been proved in court. While one accusation involves an instance of groping, most of the incidents are alleged to have taken place online. Survivors stated that they started as Arcade Fire fans before Butler came in contact with them and asked them to send him sexual videos and photos. Although Butler denies the accounts, he did later “apologize for any harm done” in a second statement sent to Pitchfork. Butler also admits to having been in relationships and to sexting with fans over a decade younger than him. The stories show a persistent pattern of predatory and harmful behaviour. 

This fundamental shift in character has been difficult to grapple with for the band’s large following. Recent posts on the subreddit r/arcadefire perfectly display some fans’ struggle to reconcile their emotional ties with recent developments. At the time of the Pitchfork article’s publication, when sorting through the top posts of all time, “A woman attempted suicide because of Win Butler’s sexual harassment” comes first and “Win took our phone last night, and this happened!” comes second. 

Perhaps the reason people find it so heartbreaking to swear off Arcade Fire is because of their music’s vulnerability, which is a source of solace for many. Their first album, Funeral, released in 2004, is about personal grief. One particularly raw song from their discography, “Creature Comforts,” tackles depression and suicidal thoughts. It’s difficult to listen impassionately to the lyrics: “She told me she came so close/Filled up the bathtub and put on ourfirst record.” 

Parasocial relationships have been developed over years through interviews that reveal Butler’s quiet charisma and  humble, down to earth nature, often going out of his way to credit outside influences and speaking about the spirituality of music. In an interview with Tom Power, Butler is open about his depression at a young age, which resurfaces in his discography, particularly songs like “Unconditional I” and “Age of Anxiety I.” It’s a powerful story for those who’ve faced similar struggles. 

Conflicting attitudes on how to move forward knowing Butler’s crimes are especially relevant considering the upcoming shows. Fans will be forced to choose  whether to support a known abuser or to compartmentalize these scandals to maintain the magic. 

An immediate defensive reaction argues that the music Arcade Fire creates is divorced from Butler himself. However, Butler is impossible to avoid in the band’s work. His voice is present in all the songs, and he tends to dominate the stage. More than a lead vocalist and writer, Win Butler was a person we could trust. 

To condemn a fan for going to a concert is unproductive, especially when Ticketmaster is refusing refunds. A more fruitful approach might be to question the instinct to defend Butler from deserved accountability. Often, parasocial relationships can form between fans and famous personas who seem down to earth or approachable. But the persona emanating from Butler, or indeed any celebrity, is a facade, given the distance between the rich and famous and the average person. Butler’s own underdog narrative is an especially biting blow considering how he has abused his status as a person with a fanbase. Butler’s public personality is cherry-picked; his interviews and articles did not reveal his relationships with much younger women until Pitchfork broke the story. Butler’s outward humility diverts attention from the power of his celebrity status. The perception of the public that Butler was “one of the good ones” allowed him to exploit his younger fans for years before the survivors disproved that impression. If we are to take away anything from this, perhaps it is to stop idolizing those we don’t know in person and abstain from worshiping celebrities.

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