The artist was born and raised in Montreal Nord’s vibrant community, which played a role in developing her narrative voice early on, writing intimate and cinematic songs straight from the heart. Armed with unbreakable determination and a pure love for music, Cinzia has amassed a dedicated following, as well as strong streaming numbers throughout the years. She has performed at major festivals including Festivoix, Ottawa Bluesfest, Festival sur le Canal, and St. Roch X. Most recently, she performed at Cafe Campus on March 3.

In late 2025, Cinzia released “When I Think About Us,” followed by “Runner” — both tracks included in the newly released EP, The Wax, which was released on March 20, 2026.

“When I Think About Us” kicks off The Wax with an upbeat tune reminiscing on a love that never could be, in spite of its greatness. On the other hand, “Runner” is a slow introspection of the writer’s unhealthy attachment to emotionally unavailable partners. Both singles pave the way for “Thread,” the latest single Cinzia released before sharing her completed EP. The Daily spoke with Cinzia about The Wax, why “Thread” means so much to her, and what the listener should look out for while listening to her work.

This interview has been edited for clarity and conciseness.

Youmna El Halabi for The McGill Daily (MD): How did the idea of your new EP come to be? Why “The Wax”?

Cinzia: Most of what I do with Cinzia & The Eclipse is based on the magic of the moon and her cycle. The waxing crescent actually begins this Friday so I thought [it would be] a perfect time to take her beauty and [immortalize] it within the music that we’re sharing.

MD: How did you decide that “Thread” would be the lead single?

Cinza: “Thread” is the song that means [more] to me than anything I’ve ever written for myself. There was something extremely cathartic and therapeutic about writing [about] how I really fell to my knees at one point and would’ve done absolutely anything for the person I love. I know people say that, but in that last relationship I really understood what it meant to love someone unconditionally. I saw every scar, every crack, every ounce of heart, hurt, beauty and ugly of this person, even the parts he thought he was hiding, and I have to admit I loved this person. I would’ve quite honestly walked through fire if it came to it. So when we wrote “Thread,” I didn’t even know I was writing about myself and that relationship. I really thought I was just writing a cute little song until I started to piece the lyrics together and be like, “Ohhh, she was me!!”

MD: What was the people’s response to “Thread,” and what are your thoughts on their reactions?

Cinzia: People locked in, which was really incredible. I had people messaging me in tears because of the chorus, which honestly fills me with gratitude because that chorus is truly a beg. You’re begging for someone to stay, that you’ll become whatever they want. I think the music driving those words and the repetitions really captures the anxious state of mind you end up in when you’re so in love and begging someone to stay.

MD: You’ve put out several EPs throughout the years, and I’m guessing with each one there was a unique process that was followed. What was it like for The Wax during production?

Cinzia: To be honest, I was a pain in the ass with this EP. I’ve become really confident in the sound and elements that I want in my music. These songs have evolved into exactly what I want them to be. In the past, I’ve had a little more of a pop sound, but it never spoke to me as an artist, even though everything [producers] Markybeats and Luca did with those songs is absolutely everything. It’s always a great pleasure to work with friends because they understand me without me having to explain [my vision] too deeply, so I’m really grateful for their talent and friendship.

MD: Describe your writing process from inspiration to creating a song.

Cinzia: I don’t know if I have a process. I think it’s just being real, getting in a room, having real conversations and spinning that into cool lyrics and melodies. That’s the beauty of the arts in my opinion. You’re kind of spinning something out of nothing, something you just pulled out of a subconscious place. I think the more in tune you are with yourself and the universe, the easier it is to tap into songwriting and connect with people. We’re in a hub where all thoughts and experiences cross over. That’s why songs can become so relatable! We’re all living some of the same experiences.

MD: What do you hope people get from the album?

Cinzia: Some closure, maybe some spells they can repeat and chant. I hope people have fun with it and get whatever they need at the time they hear it.

MD: What is your favourite part about performing your new songs versus your old ones?

Cinzia: I’m an impulsive person, so doing anything new will always be where a lot of my excitement lies. I also think these songs are the most real and honest I’ve been, so it’s nice to be able to play music that truly resonates with me as a human.

The Wax is available for listening on all platforms. Cinzia & The Eclipse will resume touring on April 26.

The post The Wax Talk appeared first on The McGill Daily.

The line between performance and identity has become increasingly blurred in music. Be it EsDeeKid’s carefully hidden persona or Gorillaz’s quarter-century of lore, artists now construct themselves as deliberately as they write songs. Every physical action and digital trace carries a magnitude of importance. Optics are king, and a misstep could spell the end of an artist’s career.

Singer-songwriter Phil Elverum, talking to the Daily from his home studio in Anacortes, Washington, USA, has noticed this modern obsession with a carefully crafted image. “I think it’s an expression of what’s happening in the culture at large,” he says, gesturing for emphasis. “Everyone on social media is always performing for their followers, so everyone is used to putting on a face and presenting themselves in an idealized way.”

The goal of “perfect” performance is not restricted to social media or mainstream artists. “I think that it’s even finding expression in independent music,” Elverum adds. 

Performing as The Microphones and Mount Eerie, Elverum leans into lo-fi production, recording many songs with analog tape recorders and sparse acoustic arrangements. From hellish sound collages to delicate love stories, his music exudes vulnerability. The result is an intimate sonic landscape listeners can immerse themselves in.

Having released more than 40 records since the 1990s, with standouts like The Glow Pt. 2 shaping the independent scene, Elverum is no stranger to the pressures of presentation. Like many public figures, he holds his actions in high regard — but rather than chasing flawlessness, he actively avoids it. “People forgot that human touch is so important,” says Elverum, who is known for manning his own merchandise booth when on tour. 

Still, his goal of showcasing imperfection is most evident in his music. “My mind was formed in the era where sloppiness and imperfection were important to feature prominently,” Elverum says. His musical identity is shaped by Seattle’s grunge scene, which he describes as “raw and imperfect.” That era of music was not burdened by today’s technology, a development which tends to eliminate the mistakes and human touch that make recording music so special in the first place. 

Hence, the contrast between Elverum’s sound and the majority of today’s new music is evident. 

“I’m weirded out by how clean everything sounds. Also, people’s singing is so pretty.” He laughs, flashing a wide grin. “What’s up with that?”

Our algorithm-driven world is relentless in its crusade to force individuals into fixed boxes. Whether it’s new technology or the latest viral trends, the pressure to conform to social pressures seems unavoidable. In this day and age, a student showing up to class in skinny jeans would likely face judgement from classmates — even though the opposite might have been true ten years ago. Elverum faces a similar dilemma. Instead of skinny jeans in a room of straight-cut or bootleg denim, he arrives at a technically faultless musical landscape armed with uneven vocals and untamed instrumentals.

How has he resisted the expectations of conformity from the music industry, remaining aligned with his north star of imperfection? “I’ve just been careful to maintain my own weird little corner off to the side [and] to not really participate in the music industry as a whole in a way that feels like it’s beyond me,” Elverum explains.

His independence, facilitated through his own label P.W. Elverum & Sun, allows him to release and sell his work on his own terms. 

“I don’t work with other labels, I’m small, so I’m free and liberated to just do whatever I want. Also, I don’t really follow music very well, so I don’t even know what the expectations would be… I know how to do one thing, and that’s just what I do. If I were to try to do something that would be well-received or cool, it would be embarrassing and it would not work.”

The authenticity with which Elverum pursues his craft is poignant. Despite the talent and influence he has accumulated, he has not abandoned his ethos of imperfection for a path that almost certainly would have brought more commercial and financial success. 

At his essence, Elverum is an artist, and while he may continue to ponder the mysteries of human existence through his music, one thing he does not question is the importance of making art. “My ideal is to be engaged with some kind of art practice. Whatever it is, if it’s music or something else, I don’t know,” Elverum says.

“That’s who I am. That’s who I want to be. That’s the life I want to live, until I die.”

The post Phil Elverum on the Power of Imperfection appeared first on The McGill Daily.

It was a deliberate reframing of what “America” can mean, delivered on one of the few stages left that still pretends to speak for everyone at once. That’s why the “Benito Bowl,” the fan nickname that spread almost as quickly as the clips themselves, became inescapable this past week. People weren’t only reacting to the performance; they were reacting to what it symbolized, and the people who got to be centred on his own terms: linguistically, culturally, and politically.

Bad Bunny’s rise to stardom make that centering feel especially pointed. He didn’t arrive in North America as a “crossover” project. He arrived as a Puerto Rican artist whose work has always proudly uplifted Puerto Rico and its unique culture. Puerto Rico’s political status makes visibility complicated on contact, as the country is not a sovereign state, but a US territory. Puerto Ricans are US citizens, but residents of the island cannot vote for president and do not elect voting members of Congress.

When halftime stopped being background noise

The Super Bowl halftime show usually aims for one thing above all: broad agreement. Even when viewers complain, the show is built to feel familiar and contain recognizable hits, universal cues, and minimal risk. Bad Bunny’s set didn’t play that game. It made Spanish the default language, Puerto Rico the centre, and “America” the hemisphere rather than the brand name. That shift alone explains a lot of the reaction cycle: celebration from viewers who felt seen, and backlash from viewers who felt the centre move without their permission.

One detail made the performance feel less like a medley and more like a statement. During the set, a couple was married on the field, and multiple outlets later confirmed it was a real, legally binding wedding. In a broadcast built around scripted spectacle, that choice landed as intimate and political at the same time: a reminder that legitimacy, belonging, and who gets to be “official” are arguments happening in public life right now, not just in comment sections.

This is what turns a halftime show into a cultural event, not just the fact that “people had opinions,” but the reasons they had them.

Puerto Rico isn’t an aesthetic, it’s the context

Bad Bunny’s Puerto Rican upbringing isn’t a footnote, it’s the core of his public identity. References in the halftime show weren’t random decorations; they were modes of insisting Puerto Rico’s belonging at the centre of the story, not on the margins.

What looked like set dressing was actually a kind of geography lesson, not the textbook kind, but the kind you feel. The show unfolded like a moving “tour” through Puerto Rican life: from a sugar cane field to a casita, then into the streets of San Juan, with domino players, block-party energy, and even a piragua (shaved ice) vendor stitched into the visuals.

That choice matters right now because it insists on ordinary Puerto Rican life; not Puerto Rico as a vacation backdrop, a headline, or an American afterthought. Sugar cane hints at the island’s extractive histories and the economic story behind “paradise”; the casita reads as continuity and home in an era shaped by debt crises, austerity politics, and displacement pressures; and the street scenes refuse the idea that Latin identity has to arrive on US television in a simplified, export-ready form.

Even the smaller gestures were calibrated. The light-blue Puerto Rican flag signalled a political lineage many viewers recognized immediately, and “seguimos aquí” (“we’re still here”) landed like a compact slogan of survival. When he spiked a football stamped “Together, We Are America,” the Super Bowl’s most patriotic object became an argument about what “America” includes and who gets to claim it. It was capped off by a billboard that read, “The only thing more powerful than hate is love,” alongside an “Easter egg” cameo that quietly nodded to diaspora memory.

That insistence carries weight because Puerto Rico’s relationship to the United States continues to be politically unresolved. As a US territory, Puerto Rico is tied to US power while lacking equal federal political representation. So when Puerto Rico is centred on the most symbolic US stage, a broadcast typically soaked in national mythology, it can’t help but read as political. Representation becomes less
“visibility” and more “reckoning”: a reminder of who is included, how, and at what cost.

In other words, the controversy isn’t that Bad Bunny “made it political.” It’s that Puerto Rico’s position already is, and has always been, and the Super Bowl simply doesn’t usually invite viewers to sit with that.

A halftime show built to be read

You don’t have to treat the halftime show like a puzzle to recognize it was built to be read. It’s a choice about audience: who is assumed to understand without effort, and who is expected to lean in.

Taken together, these choices make the halftime show feel like something greater than entertainment. They render it a cultural message delivered in the language of Bad Bunny’s characteristic effusive Latin trap: spectacle, symbolism, and the kind of visibility that becomes disruptive simply by refusing to shrink.

Resistance, in plain sight

The temptation with any “art as resistance” story is to hunt for one definitive political message and call it a day. However, Bad Bunny’s version of resistance is often quieter, and, in some ways, harder for a mainstream audience to dismiss. It’s not only what he says, it’s what he refuses to dilute. He made that refusal explicit at another high-profile event before the Super Bowl. At the 2026 Grammys, Bad Bunny used his acceptance speech for Best Música Urbana Album (for Debí Tirar Más Fotos) to denounce ICE and call for an end to what one report described as an “ongoing immigration crackdown,” punctuating it with the slogan “ICE out.”

That’s not symbolism, but a clear alignment with migrants and immigrant communities at a moment when immigration enforcement has become a flashpoint in US public life. And it sits alongside a different kind of milestone from the same night: Debí Tirar Más Fotos also won Album of the Year, marking the first time a Spanish-language album took the Grammys’ top prize.

The resistance here isn’t just “a pop star being political.” It’s a global superstar insisting that Spanish, Puerto Rico (and Latin America at large), and immigrant life aren’t side stories, even in the most mainstream room.

Backlash, then the rumour mill

Backlash was predictable. A Spanish-heavy halftime show on the Super Bowl stage, and a Puerto Rican artist refusing to soften his message, was always going to trigger the usual reactions: “keep politics out of it,” “speak English,” “this isn’t for you,” and the more familiar accusation hiding under all of that: you don’t belong here.

But the backlash didn’t stay in the realm of taste. It moved into the realm of narrative-making, constructed through the spreading of misinformation. In early February, social media users claimed Bad Bunny wore a bulletproof vest to the Grammys because of threats tied to xenophobic hostility. The rumour was investigated and no evidence was found for the “bulletproof vest” claim, explaining that his sharply tailored outfit (and altered silhouette) fuelled speculation.

The point isn’t just that “people online lie.” The rumour frames Latino visibility as inherently dangerous and controversial, transforming a historic career moment into a security conspiracy. This converts prejudice into something resembling concern. It also shifts the conversation away from the actual stakes of Bad Bunny’s work, language, belonging and power, toward whether he’s “too political” to be safe.

In that sense, the rumour becomes part of the cultural reaction: a way of policing what kinds of artists are allowed to be visible, and on what terms.

Why this lands in Montreal too

From Montreal, it’s easy to treat US culture battles as exported noise: loud, constant, and somehow always trending. But the themes that surfaced around Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl and Grammys moments are not uniquely American. They travel and translate because they interrogate fundamental questions: who gets treated as “normal,” what language gets to be default, and who has to translate themselves to be heard.

Those questions land differently in Quebec, where language is never just language, but identity, law, power, and a recurring public argument. This is a city shaped by diaspora, where belonging is lived rather than theoretical.

Bad Bunny’s journey, from a Puerto Rican artist building momentum on his own terms to winning the prestigious Album of the Year at the Grammys and headlining a Spanish-forward Super Bowl halftime show, matters because it shows what art can do when it refuses to stay in its lane. It may not be able to rewrite policy or put an end to structural abuses. But it can shift the centre of the frame, force a mainstream audience to notice what it usually treats as peripheral, and remind people that “unity” without inclusion is just branding.

And maybe that’s the most useful way to read the “Benito Bowl”: not as a victory lap, not as a controversy, but as a moment where pop culture briefly stopped pretending that belonging is uncomplicated.

The post Bad Bunny: Resistance Through Art appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Directed by the recently-deceased Rob Reiner (also known for rom-com royalty When Harry Met Sally), The Princess Bride is a family-friendly classic filled with adventure, romance, and iconic quotes. Following a fairytale told by a grandfather to his grandson, the film, starring Cary Elwes, Mandy Patinkin, and Robin Wright, portrays the treacherous journey a swash-buckling pirate undertakes to reunite with his one true love, who had been taken captive. If he wanted to, he would, am I right?

In addition to memorable characters and complex storylines, music has been a key part of film since the dawn of sound cinema. After all, we can’t all claim to have watched the Harry Potter or Star Wars franchises in their entirety, but I’m sure most of us can recognize their musical leitmotifs once played. Unsurprisingly, this public consciousness and instant recognition of cinematic soundtracks has led to a soaring popularity of the film-in-concert format over the past few years. All over Canada and the world, films like La La Land and Jurassic Park (among many others) and their legendary soundtracks have been adapted into this performance format. 

“It takes the best elements of the theatrical experience and adds live elements through the orchestra,” says Evan Mitchell in an interview with the Daily. Mitchell is the musical director of the Kingston Symphony, a professional orchestra. Humans, he muses, are hard-wired for connection and shared experiences. Live performance and music thus heighten the usual cinema-going experience by connecting attendees via their common multi-sensory immersion into a fantasy world through film and music. “It’s the most exciting format for a popular orchestra that I’ve ever encountered in my career.”

The process of putting together the film-in-concert experience as a symphony’s musical director is complex. “It takes several dozen viewings of the musical parts of the film [for me] to become familiar with it, and I have a monitor so I can see what the audience sees,” recounts Michell. “It requires a lot of coordination because the orchestra has to be in perfect sync with the film. With a concerto or opera, the artists can react to changes, but movies will continue playing with or without you. It doesn’t matter how good [the music] sounds if it isn’t in time with the movie.” 

Nevertheless, according to Mitchell, the orchestra, made up of local, Montreal-based musicians, will only be conducting one singular rehearsal for the showings of The Princess Bride In Concert, which speaks volumes about the mastery and brilliance of its members.

The Princess Bride In Concert is set to be a treat for the eyes and the ears. Originally, the score was played on a synthesizer known as the Synclavier, an early digital synthesizer and music workstation produced in various forms from the late 1970s into the early 1990s. However, transposed into a live orchestral score, Mitchell declares that the musical experience of the film in concert will be “an improvement” from the original. “Artistry is incredibly important. You will be more connected to the music than ever before, so much so that you might forget the orchestra is even there.”

So, what are you waiting for? Sharpen your swords, hold onto your hats, and book tickets for you and your knight/jester/princess (or even just yourself) for The Princess Bride In Concert today. Tickets start at $54.98. Missing out would be… inconceivable!

The post The Princess Bride Swings into Concert this Valentines’ Day appeared first on The McGill Daily.

The open-air winter music festival, held at Place Jacques-Cartier in quite literally freezing weather, has been anticipated with ever-increasing fervour every January and February for almost two decades. Premiering in Montreal this year on January 15, the 19th edition of Igloofest promises to bring heat and adrenaline to the deep Montreal freeze. 

According to numbers provided to the Daily by the Igloofest team, Igloofest attendance is on an exponentially upward trend, with ballpark numbers leaping from 85,000 attendees in 2023 to over 118,000 in 2024. Evidently, the novelty of the festival’s trademark outdoor format, especially in the winter season, lends itself to great interest of both locals and tourists alike. But why would one, or thousands, subject themselves to a night out in temperatures akin to those of Antarctica? 

The answer to this, besides the promise of being able to drink copious amounts of alcohol with the excuse of keeping oneself warm, lies in the line-up of artists that Igloofest promises. Each artist promises a night of music that leaves no person stiff and awkward on the dance floor. This year is no different: opening with Disco Lines (of “No Broke Boys” notoriety), peppered with global household names including DJ Snake (2016 summer, anyone?), Sofi Tukker and Hamza, then closing with Max Styler, there is truly something for everybody.

Constance told the Daily that Igloofest contacts performers anywhere from a year to a few months in advance. While artists’ availability and schedules are constantly in flux, one indisputable element among them is their interest in performing at Igloofest. “One of the big pluses of organizing Igloofest is that it’s so unique,” notes Constance. “When we approach artists, they’re mesmerized by the fact that anybody is producing this kind of event, and generally really intrigued in participating.”

That being said, Igloofest is all about bringing in the most exciting names in dance and electronic music. This includes not just big international names, but also up-and-coming artists who are breaking into the industry. As live dance music genres have seen a surge in popularity in the last few years, Constance emphasizes the importance of appealing to as many generational and music demographics as possible to keep festivals like Igloofest relevant.“Being able to foster the new generation of Montreal talent and give them an opportunity to play at an event of this scale has been one of Igloofest’s primary objectives since the beginning.” 

At the forefront of this is No Police, a techno and trance DJ who is also part of T.I.T.S. Collective, a rising all-female DJ collective based here in Montreal. No Police performed on Igloofest’s Videotron stage on January 16 alongside her fellow collective member Cori. Igloofest, she writes in correspondence with the Daily, is her “favourite festival ever” and one that she has attended regularly over the last 12 years. Hence, the opportunity to attend from the other side of the stage was exhilarating. “I love being able to experiment and play new sub-genres of music that I’ve never played before,” she writes. “Having that platform is extremely important as a female artist, and I’m really grateful.”

While I wouldn’t call myself a rave or techno expert, I can say with conviction that No Police’s Igloofest set was absolutely electrifying. The Videotron stage, accessible through a side entrance, is not one to be underestimated. While smaller than the Sapporo stage and bereft of its SFX screens and psychedelic visuals, it provided the perfect platform for a distraction-free immersion into No Police’s set, which featured strong basslines and hard-hitting kicks that brought an infectious dynamism to the dancefloor. Accompanied by flashing blue lights and complete with songs dedicated to her family, who were also on the dance floor, No Police’s three-deck performance was certainly not something to be missed. The energy only continued as she passed the decks along to Cori, who played her own effusive, entrancing set into the wee hours of the morning.

Amid concerns of Montreal’s dying nightlife despite an ever-growing demand for new configurations of live performance and music by way of experiential formats, Igloofest’s large-scale occupies a limbo-like position. While the noise restrictions specific to Igloofest are confidential, Constance remarks that they are nonetheless a concern, and stresses the need for open dialogue and discourse between all involved actors, and not just those with the loudest voices. “With venues closing and certain laws changing or not changing, the city is definitely hitting a turning point,” he voices. “I think that the key is to be able to listen, and dedicate certain spaces to things that will be tolerated or allowed.” 

The Montreal nightlife crowd, evidently, is not one to be dismissed or stifled. No Police describes this demographic  as “very open minded [and] receptive,” with their vocal feedback after impactful moments in the set being one of most special contributions to shows. Given how the attendees continue to show up year after year in larger groups in spite of Canada’s frigid winter, Igloofest is a testament to the durability and enthusiasm of Montreal’s thriving nightlife community. Constance believes that anyone who attends, no matter their age, familiarity with the artists, or experience with music festivals, can discover something new. 

“It’s really important to come and to leave with the most open mind possible,” he states, “whether that’s musically, because you don’t know what you’re getting into; or just discovering new relationships with new people and new music…
I think that’s probably [how you have] the most fun that you can have at these kinds of events. When we go back to the history of clubbing culture, that’s where [the fun] comes from, so being able to continue and respect that [is crucial].” 


Igloofest is a cultural fixture that is undoubtedly here to stay. Since its initial conception in Montreal, Igloofest has expanded into Quebec City, Gatineau, and this year, marking its first foray into Western Canada: Edmonton. Anecdotally, I saw far too many people I knew on the nights I was there, and know for a fact that more of them will be in attendance at upcoming sets, which I will also be present at. At minus twenty degrees Celsius (let’s not even talk about the “feels like” figures), it seems that the heat is only just starting to build.

The post One Hundred Per Cent in Minus Twenty appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Antics performs across McGill’s arts and bar scenes, sharing work shaped by their Chinese heritage and creating community around the love of Chinese rock. The band’s five members represent McGill’s various academic faculties, ranging from computer science to nursing. Meeting through mutual friends, the band members bonded over their shared love of grunge and rock genres, selecting the name Antics for their playful and lighthearted approach to music. According to the band, not being associated with the Faculty of Music can pose a challenge due to the limited access that non–Music students have to resources such as practice rooms and artist networks. This inaccessibility can make finding like-minded musicians difficult. Still, Antics’ members crossed paths and came together to form a rock band built on mutual connection and passion.

When Zhou introduce Chinese rock into their musical repertoire in September 2024, they quickly embraced the genre and incorporated it into their sets. Unlike the rebellious intent of rock in China, which often contests the government. For Antics’ members, Chinese rock is about the enjoyment of performing and the community it creates.

“For me, it’s [for] my girlfriend,” Moola says, while Zhou adds that it’s about “making our friends happy.”

The band’s energy has caused listeners to fall in love with their music, although they often have to play genres that cater to specific venues, rather than their own choices. The music scene at McGill can be fragmented due to the disparate nature of the university’s bar scene, which pulls focus away from artists and their music, instead highlighting the specific atmosphere of individual bars or events. At BdA, the riveted crowd displayed enthusiastic reactions to the Chinese songs, despite the language barrier separating most of them from the lyrics. Just as they announced that the next song would be Chinese instead of English, a member of the crowd yelled, “Let’s go!”

Zhou is proud of the way that Antics brings a piece of the Chinese diaspora to the mainstream McGill party scene. “[I’m] sharing the joy I felt when I first listened to [Chinese rock],” he says. Antics’ primary objective isn’t to “make it” like much of the Montreal music scene. Rather, it is to create music in a fun, informal manner, not just for their own satisfaction but also for their loved ones, thereby spreading their passion and unique fusion sound to the McGill community.

As Zhou puts it, “We should [remember] that university is not just about homework, coding, finding a job … but is [also] a place to be with friends.”

Antics can be found on Instagram @anticstheband.

The post Antics Bring Chinese Rock to McGill’s Music Scene appeared first on The McGill Daily.

With the subsequent release of the star’s twelve-track record on October 3rd, the toll of the death knell disappeared any lingering hopes of a return to the tantalizing pop-perfection that was Swift’s 1989. Labelled by the singer herself as “catching lightning in a bottle,” this recent release fell devastatingly short of such a claim, lacking a clear connection between the record’s title and its lackluster lyrical content.

An egregious example comes in the form of Showgirl’s fifth track, which is a placement canonically reserved for Swift’s most devastating lyrical confessions. Titled “Eldest Daughter,” the track struggles to find any type of sensical narrative, swaying between “I’m never gonna let you down” and “Every eldest daughter / Was the first lamb to the slaughter … and we looked fire.” While the star seems to be addressing her athletic beau, the song collapses into numerous tirades surrounding a childhood reality check, Swift’s inability to act “punk,” and finding one’s twin flame in a “youngest child.” Not only does the song lack direction, the writing itself is also some of Swift’s worst. When compared to her earth-shattering ballad from just one year earlier, “I Hate It Here”: “I hate it here so I will go to lunar valleys in my mind / When they found a better planet, only the gentle survived”the singer’s facile delivery of, “I’m not a bad bitch, and this isn’t savage” sounds like an embarrassing outtake from a Bo Burnham special.

In addition to Swift seemingly losing her lyrical prowess, the eventual out-of-touch fate of every billionaire has also wrapped around her work like a vice. The tenth track, “CANCELLED!” is a particularly visceral example of this, as she proudly announces, “Good thing I like my friends cancelled / I liked ‘em cloaked in Gucci and in scandal.” While a good-faith interpretation of the song may give Swift the benefit of the doubt (her intention being to clear up any misconceptions surrounding her
scrutinized friendship with Blake Lively), the singer still chose to release a one-dimensional and smug diatribe against “the haters.” One can see she is clearly neglecting to take accountability for the very valid criticism she’s received about her carbon footprint, her silence surrounding the genocide in Gaza and lack of commentary about one of the most turbulent presidential reigns in recent American history.

Although many listeners share this viewpoint, countless self-proclaimed “Swifties” are defending the track and the album, claiming that it’s not so different from other rage-filled songs such as the star’s 2017 single “Look What You Made Me Do.” While not one of Swift’s best lyrical showcases, this Reputation track far outweighs our current example’s trite reference to the star’s 2016 cancellation. The biting electropop banger signaled a sharp and cutting shift in Swift’s direction at the time, watching her lean into the performance of pop culture’s villainous beauty queen: “And then the world
moves on, but one thing’s for sure / Maybe I got mine, but you’ll all get yours.” Meanwhile, “CANCELLED!” is a superficial, politically tone-deaf drag that harps on about an eight-year-old wound that is the least of the listener’s worries: “Did you girl-boss too close to the sun? … Come with me, when they see us, they’ll run.”

Swift does manage one major success on Showgirl: a catchy and picturesque four track run that opens the album with a bang. “The Fate of Ophelia” is a complete earworm, despite the lyricism being somewhat overwrought with extensive use of trivial expressions; while track three’s “Opalite” is an infectious pop ray of light, detailing how the singer managed to make her own happiness in spite of “life [beating her] up.”

A standout productional moment finds itself on “Elizabeth Taylor,” a brooding and sensual electropop heavyweight reminiscent of Swift’s 2017 track, “Don’t Blame Me.” The infamous production duo, Max Martin and Shellback, have managed to measure up to their historically proven pop perfection with Swift injecting the song with some of the album’s most interesting narrative moments: “All the right guys / Promised they’d stay / Under bright lights / They withered away.”

Track four, “Father Figure,” is, in my opinion, the record’s magnum opus, as Swift manages to take on the role of both naïve ingenue and calculating overlord. Rather than fighting off allegations of fake niceties, the star touts that her “dick’s bigger” than those of the men who used her (a nod to her disillusionment with her relationship with former manager and American music executive Scott Borchetta), while claiming her spot on the throne of pop music’s kingdom. Still, many listeners may read the menacing track as power-hungry, a possible stab at newer artists looking to the singer for
guidance. Swift’s befuddling relationship with 22-year-old pop sensation Olivia Rodrigo might re-enter
fan discourse; however, the song is strong enough to withstand any character-related criticism directed at Swift. If only she could have made the album’s other tracks clever enough to outweigh the inevitable resentful accusations thrown her way.

The Life of a Showgirl is one of Swift’s most confusing and, let’s face it, bad pieces of work. From stumbling lyricism to practically offensive levels of reality detachment, the star has finally proved to listeners that she’s reached that unfortunate peak of elitist societal withdrawal. “They want that yacht life, under chopper blades / They want those bright lights and Balenci’ shades” she croons on track eight’s “Wi$h Li$t.” Frankly, most listeners simply want a disposable income, but the star may not be aware of such meager goals when she was recently spotted wearing a 26 thousand dollar necklace to dinner in Kansas City.

Regrettably for Swift, money cannot buy her most important asset: relatability. Known and beloved by fans for her unpretentious lack of cool-girl status, the singer has built much of her career on being the popstar-next-door who prefers “t-shirts” over “short skirts.” The Life of a Showgirl blatantly turns this carefully constructed legacy on its head, proudly promoting that Swift herself now knows “the life of a
showgirl” and she’ll “never know another.” Sadly, this closing remark highlights the worrying questions left behind by Swift’s lackluster release: where did the independent, emotionally sprawling singer go, and will we ever get her back?

The post Has Taylor Swift Lost (Her) Touch? appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Over coffee and eggs Benedict, Stephen-Ong, currently running for the position of Borough Councilor of the Jeanne-Mance District (spanning from McGill campus to Parc La Fontaine) in Montreal’s municipal elections, to be held on November 2, speaks to the Daily about his hopes for the vitality and future of the Plateau-Mont-Royal.

His party, Transition Montreal (hereafter, Transition), announced its emergence in a press conference in mid-July 2025, along with an ambitious progressive agenda spanning social housing and Metro construction to safe streets and police reform. Since then, the party has gained significant momentum in the municipal polling, catapulted by their strong stance on key issues such as a steep wealth tax, divestment from genocide, and cost of living. According to Stephen-Ong, many of the party’s candidates are first-time political hopefuls, but provide a compelling story, and have experience in various vital sectors. Polling at eight per cent in early October, Transition still falls behind many other parties in popularity, but with 41 per cent of the voter base undecided, a run for the majority is not impossible.

Stephen-Ong didn’t start out with political ambitions. Growing up in Montreal, he followed the desires of his parents to McGill University, where he studied computer science. After university, he entered the job market in the late 1990s in the fervor of the early stages of the internet, finding work in the developing tech industry. However, the allure of large tech companies in the United States couldn’t pull him away from his city, and Stephen-Ong quickly fell in love with the Montreal music scene. Although he had played the saxophone since high school, witnessing a few “transformative” shows convinced Stephen-Ong to change courses, enrolling once again at McGill, this time in the Faculty of Music (now Schulich School of Music). He began playing gigs around the city, and eventually dropped out of McGill to pursue his professional saxophone career full-time. Stephen-Ong quickly made a name for himself in the Montreal scene both as a band leader and sideman, playing at myriad venues throughout the city. His turn towards politics in recent months comes, in part, from his desire to protect a music scene under threat.

While rising housing prices, and cost of living are central issues in municipal elections throughout Canada, there is another policy point that has risen to the surface in this election as a part of Transition’s campaign: nightlife. Much of the Transition team, in fact, are musicians with strong ties to the local nightlife sector. Stephen-Ong described how Craig Sauvé, the party’s mayoral nominee, is a heavy metal guitarist, and Sergio Da Silva, running for Borough Councilor of the Saint-Jacques district, is a musician and owner of the popular local venue Turbo Haus. This strong musical affiliation is not a coincidence. These figures have decided to join forces to take on the persistent deterioration of cultural fixtures throughout the city. 

“I have played at every venue that has closed in the past 12 years,” says Stephen-Ong. In fact, he explains that these experiences are what led him to politics in the first place. 

At around 11 pm one night in 2013, police interrupted a weekly performance Stephen-Ong was playing with his regular band, Kalmunity, at Les Bobards. A noise complaint had been called on the then-popular Saint-Laurent Boulevard bar, causing the police to arrive. The bar was faced with a $1,250 fine, an enormous and unsustainable amount for a small venue to pay. Even worse, they were told that the infractions would compound, making future police encounters exponentially more costly. After investing heavily in soundproofing in the following few years, Les Bobards, unable to reckon with the inevitable noise produced by live music, ended up closing its doors for good in 2015.

In recent years this has become all too common among Montreal’s cultural hubs. As CBC found at the time of Les Bobards’ closure, Stephen-Ong provided a similar autopsy after speaking with me in October of this year, highlighting the unwavering severity of this issue. He believes that the root causes of nightlife venue closures in Montreal are the gentrification of the Plateau, and the suffocating noise complaint laws throughout Montreal. 

Currently, when police respond to a noise complaint call, they are allowed to present the venue with a fine if they hear any noise whatsoever from the street, regardless of the volume. Closing their front doors on the night of a show for risk of noise complaints can rob these venues of valuable revenue and attention, which is often enabled by the curiosity of passers-by drawn in by the music. 

Stephen-Ong argues that gentrification of the Plateau neighbourhood exacerbates these issues, “If you rent an apartment and there’s a noisy bar next door and you’re [only] paying three hundred dollars in rent, who cares?” 

 However, as expensive condominiums pop up on these corridors known for nightlife, people begin to believe that the steep price tag should entitle them to silence at night, despite expecting the same vibrancy from the city that attracted them to it in the first place.

 “[When] people think ‘music venue,’ that’s like Place-des-Arts, the Bell Center,” says Stephen-Ong. “Yes, those are music venues, but so is Barfly, so is Grumpy’s, so is Turbo Haus.” It is these latter establishments that act as incubators for the local music scene.

After this police encounter in 2013, having had no prior experience or interest in politics, Stephen-Ong took to social media to voice his concerns about the state of the Plateau and the vitality of its night life. He didn’t realize the municipal election was the following week. This political climate helped his post go viral, and Stephen-Ong found himself doing interviews with major news networks such as CBC and CTV to draw attention to these issues, which had so far gone without notice in the media and public consciousness. Realizing the necessity and public support for legislative change, he began working with local policymakers, advocating for venues and cultural institutions, and slowly finding himself emerging into the political realm. Talking to venue owners across the city provided Stephen-Ong the resources and connections to kickstart his largest initiative which continues to this day: Le Cypher X. 

Le Cypher X is a weekly improvised music experience that incorporates some of the best musicians and rappers in the Montreal scene. Held every Thursday night in the live music venue O Patro Vys, with the comforting smell of weekly home-cooked catering, it is truly a one-of-a-kind event. Musicians of all kinds provide sonic support for a rotating cast of freestyle rappers — your favorite backing tracks brought to life. There, Stephen-Ong is front and center, giving cues to the band, outlining ornaments on his saxophone, and calling up visitors to the stage. The attitude of the event can be seen throughout Stephen-Ong’s political messaging: Politics, like Le Cypher X, is supposed to be an open and collaborative space; he wants to help make it that way.

Despite trusting his party’s mission, Stephen-Ong doesn’t believe in voting along party lines. “Do your own research,” he says. He believes that his policies, if heard for what they are rather than through reductive labels and buzzwords like ‘socialist’ and ‘communist,’ have the power to swing many self-proclaimed conservatives. Once in power, Stephen-Ong believes he will “100 per cent” be able to solve the nightlife crisis by establishing a night mayor and night council (in the case of Sauvé, Stephen-Ong’s fellow Transition party member winning the mayorship), bringing light to nightlife and safety issues that frequently go overlooked. Stephen-Ong intends to put forward Agent of Change legislation, where “planning policies and decisions should require new development to take into consideration existing businesses and community facilities, that will also be a priority for the party in managing the changing city fabric. Transition also aims to lower rent prices by building more social housing and establish electoral reform using ranked choice voting to ensure that the candidate that wins is a better reflection of the constituency. 

“I’m coming in with a lot of raw, unfiltered ideas of what’s wrong and how to fix it,” says Stephen-Ong, when asked about the strengths of being an outsider in politics. “This is a problem, we need to fix it, and this is how.”

Polling day for the Montreal municipal elections will be held on November 2. Don’t forget to vote!

The post Montreal’s Culture Scene is Under Threat: Transition has the Answer appeared first on The McGill Daily.

​The conversation surrounding this album cover raises the larger issue of women taking charge of their own sexualities, and at what point sexual agency comes full circle to satisfy the male gaze. Some people online insist that the consistent subject of romantic relationships with men in Carpenter’s songs characterizes her as anti-feminist. While many of her songs are centered around men, we think there is an overarching expectation in online spaces for female artists to represent feminism and women as a whole. The insinuation that a woman would have her feminist or non-feminist views skewed by Carpenter’s album assumes that fans cannot make their own opinions without pandering to their favourite celebrities. If anything, synonymizing Carpenter’s album cover with a how-to for women fans is an insult to women’s ability to think critically and to separate art from their self-view.

When Carpenter sings “And I like my men all incompetent,” in the album’s first track “Manchild,” listeners might first take it as a show of her un-feminist lyricism. We think this song should be taken as a satire, as she is poking fun at the incompetence with which her past partners have gotten away. We think that the criticism of Man’s Best Friend as anti-feminist says more about critics’ failure to read into the lyrics than Carpenter being internally misogynistic.

Successful female pop stars have always been criticized for depicting their relationship with sex through their songs, music videos, or performances. In Man’s Best Friend, Carpenter refers to Marilyn Monroe, Britney Spears, and even movies like X, Pearl, and The Rocky Horror Picture Show. All of these pop culture icons and sensual works of art have represented the complex theme of sexuality, with most of them having also been victims of this decade-old debate that Carpenter now confronts. In addition, exploring one’s own sexuality does not have to equate to wanting to please men. The presumption that Carpenter’s album cover was created for that purpose feeds into the idea that sex is only enjoyed by men.The amount of attention placed on this album highlights that, comparatively, male artists are not held to the same standards as female artists, and are rarely criticized for having too many songs about women. Male artists like The Dare and Ye (formerly Kanye West) have had sexually explicit album covers and have not received nearly as much online slander as Sabrina Carpenter. We believe that, despite the provocation of her album cover, Carpenter’s Man’s Best Friend is a feminist piece of work that shows her will to explore her own sexuality. All in all, the backlash she has faced represents an ongoing issue within our culture that holds female artists to a higher standard of moral and sexual purity than male ones.

The post Stop Being A Manchild! appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Released in 1975, the album followed the earth-shattering success of Dark Side of the Moon (1973), which has since become the longest-charting record in Billboard history. With a well-documented history of interpersonal struggle amongst band members and the enormous pressure of having to follow one of the most important projects in music history, Pink Floyd emerged with an album centered on the themes of absence, isolation and loss—particularly in relation to former band member Syd Barrett whose substance abuse issues and declining mental health culminated into his departure from the band in 1968. 

Half a century later, its themes feel more relevant than ever before.

Having been introduced by my once-hippie father to Pink Floyd’s The Wall (1979) at a young age, I have always had a profound admiration for the uniqueness of the band’s psychedelic style and experimental sound. Revisiting them now, it is evident that their work has not only withstood the test of time, it has successfully predicted how young people feel in relation to the dystopian world it once imagined.

“Remember when you were young? You shone like the sun.”

Written as a tribute to Syd Barrett, the opening lines of the album’s first song “Shine on You Crazy Diamond (Pts. I-V)” romanticize a brighter past before exploring what it means to feel truly alone in a world where chaos and social turmoil reign supreme. Unlike Dark Side of the Moon, which focuses on existential themes, Wish You Were Here only comments on the outside world to the extent that is relevant in understanding our own positionality as listeners. The effect is a deeply personal one: listeners are invited to reflect not only on the state of society, but on their own place within it.

“You gotta get an album out, you owe it to the people, We’re so happy we can hardly count”

In “Welcome to the Machine” and “Have a Cigar”, Pink Floyd openly expresses their resentment towards the demands of the music industry and capitalist greed. Then and now, these songs allow young people to connect with the voices of teachers, politicians and anyone else imposing unreachable standards on those still trying to understand themselves. In a world marked by a new kind of social and political turmoil, the message lands with a renewed strength on the young people of today. On university campuses, at family dinner tables, and across social media, the division which has become stronger than ever has led to greater feelings of isolation and being lost. One can’t help but feel like the dystopian universe that the band once warned us about has come into existence.

“We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl year after year, running over the same old ground. What have we found? The same old fears, wish you were here.”

That refrain from the album’s title track, “Wish You Were Here”, captures a mood familiar to 2025: the sense of longing for connection in an era defined by disconnection. Above all else, the lyrics of Roger Waters, the voice of David Gilmour and the band’s instrumentals make us, the listeners, feel like outsiders in our own home. This song in particular demands that listeners ask themselves the following; how did things get so messed up? In a society where anxiety and depression rates are skyrocketing to unprecedented levels, it comes as no surprise that its themes have taken on a renewed importance. Arguably more so now than in the 1970s, young people feel increasingly resentful and powerless against a system that they did not create.

And yet, Wish You Were Here is not without hope.

For all its darkness, the album maintains a nostalgia and wishfulness for better days. Even in its most somber moments, Pink Floyd looks back fondly at what has been lost and holds onto the possibility of renewal. Perhaps this is where the record’s timelessness lies: in its ability to balance despair with longing, anger with understanding and pain with beauty.

Fifty years later, we are reminded that the themes of the album are not only still relevant, but are more important than ever before. Looking beyond all its cynicism, Wish You Were Here doesn’t just describe a fractured world; it helps us endure it. On this anniversary, the teenagers of the 70s all the way up until today’s generation are reminded that the album’s greatest gift is the comfort of knowing that someone else feels these emotions too.

The post Welcome (back) to the Machine appeared first on The McGill Daily.

In Montreal, we’ve had our share of cultural disappointments this year, with institutions like Blue Dog closing down, and noise complaints hailing from across town, threatening to kill the nightlife Montreal is known for. 

That being said, we still have bands bringing in the heat and staying loud and proud.  A great example of that is none other than Dali: a new wave rock band known for their gravelly rock textures, soulful melodies and contemplative lyrics. Dali is fronted by singer-songwriter and rhythm guitarist Naïla, with David on lead guitar, Indiana on bass, and Pablo on drums. 

The band was originally a two-person guitar duo formed by Naïla and David. The pair would attend open mics in Montreal with just two guitars and a hunger for performance. At that point,  singer-songwriter Naïla had already written quite a few songs and was itching to play more shows with a bigger band. 

“David brought on Pablo, who came to one of our rehearsals, and it really clicked,” says Naïla. 

“Indie and Pablo are dating, and she also happened to have a bass, and we needed a bassist. It just worked. It was not really planned.” 

Dali has been tearing up a number of Montreal bars this summer. From Quai des Brumes, to L’hémisphère gauche, to TurboHaus, you can find their tunes rushing crowds into moshpits and dance breaks. 

Youmna for the McGill Daily (MD): Do you find that you all have similar musical tastes for you to become a band, or is it very eclectic throughout, and then you agreed on the sound for the band?

The four of us have a lot in common. Most of us like bands like Radiohead, The Strokes, Arctic Monkeys. But we are also very different in certain aspects, especially when we’re writing songs. While coming up with solos, one of us could think of a certain Metallica phrase or riff or whatever that maybe the rest of us don’t necessarily know or listen to, but we all roll with it, and for whatever reason, it works with the tune. So, we guess both statements are true. Musically, it works because of bands and songs we have in common, but it also works because of our different influences.

MD: How would you describe a typical songwriting session with all four of you?

A: We have this new song, and we just jam to it. We created it this way pretty much, but we don’t write that much together. We’re trying more and more to collaborate even more on every aspect. We’ve had a few spontaneous moments and it feels so good once it comes all together organically. Also, sometimes [we] set out with a plan, and then the plan completely changes, and then “Woah”. 

MD: What do you love most about playing live? 

A: Playing live is really fun. We’re with different crowds all the time. Sometimes it could be people our age. Sometimes it’s that weird 47 year old guy that brought his friends, you know, but they’re really funny. soIt’s definitely cool to navigate all the different personalities of the crowd because they’re the one feeding the energy to the band.

MD: What’s one thing you would change in your gigs? 

A: Maybe the fact that the crowd is mostly the one feeding us energy. We shouldn’t wait to receive energy to give it.

MD: What’s your favorite moment when you’re playing live in general? 

A: Playing live is such a big release of energy. There’s a little bit of nervousness at the beginning, but then you release and then you have all this energy with the crowd, and it’s very powerful. 

MD: What would be your song that made you fall in love with music and fall in love with making music? 

P: I got into music kind of because of destiny. I just kinda fell into it. I was struggling to truly find the motivator that would propel me forward. And then I ran into the album Swimming by Mac Miller. I went deeper into his discography and him as an artist just kinda lit a little fire under me.

D: When I was 11 years old, I heard “All the Small Things” by Blink182 for the first time and it blew my mind. I was playing Guitar Hero on the Nintendo DS, like, the worst way you could play Guitar Hero and that’s what I played. The audio was really bad, but I heard the song and I loved it. I just thought it was so energetic [and] so catchy. It just stuck in my head. I remember my mom took me to see them when I was 12, and they played it. 

N: When I was younger, I listened to a lot of psychedelic rock and I wanted to play a tune. I also listened to a lot of Quebec francophone music. I love to play and sing. I: I kinda always wanted to play music as an activity, and I did for six years. But when I was 15, I went to high school, and that’s when I met people that were 18 and they were making it their job. And I was like, “What? You can be a musician that young and play gigs at, like, 19? Okay. I’ll get serious.” And I did. An ex-boyfriend of mine got me into a conservatory. I did classical upper bass, and then I just continued. My mom is a photographer, so being an artist is normal. Even if she wanted to keep me away from it, she couldn’t, clearly. 

MD: So why the name “Dali”?

A: It’s like Salvatore Dali and the clock painting. When you listen to a song or you play one, you’re kind of suspended in time, and time can feel different. Depending on the arrangement of the song, it can feel longer than three minutes. It’s just the way music can almost manipulate time, almost like a melting clock or something.

Be sure to follow Dali on their socials to keep up with their upcoming performances!

The post Dali: Montreal’s up-and-coming eclectic band! appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Lower field: bell-like peals of laughter, the faint aroma of grilled burger patties, and a snaking queue of students stretching around the perimeter of what looks like an outdoor party with an endless waitlist. Friends separated over the summer reunite with shrieks and hugs to the exhilarating soundtrack of musicians playing just steps away. It’s no surprise some McGill students, and the event itself, call Open Air Pub (OAP) the “Best Place on Earth”.

Since 1987, OAP’s legacy has resonated across generations of McGill students as the stage for golden memories. Ivan Zhang, one half of the Head Management duo for the most recent edition of OAP, tells us he found the first documented mention of OAP in the 1980 McGill Yearbook, which at the time was a gathering of engineers at Three Bares Park for Welcome Week 1980. Now organised by the Engineering Undergraduate Society (EUS), OAP has grown exponentially in scale, taking up half of McGill’s Lower Field and attracting thousands of McGill students, alumni, and their external plus- ones alike.

The COVID-19 pandemic halted OAP for a few years, which was enough to weaken the event’s influence and place in the collective McGill consciousness. “We saw a few years of not-great profitability and lower capacities post-COVID,” says Zhang. “Right after COVID, there was a bit of a lull where McGill students didn’t even know what OAP was, especially the new ones coming in.” Now, after some time and vested publicity efforts, it’s back and bigger than ever, renowned for its cheap (though warm) alcohol, good food, and overall vibrant ambience.

As one of the few large inter-cohort McGill social events, organizing OAP is, naturally, a massive endeavour. From supplying various food and beverage options to recruiting managers, bands, and artists to spray the iconic OAP stage graffiti, the 13-member team works tirelessly both on and off the ground to ensure the event runs smoothly. Most recently, the OAP team has implemented new environmental initiatives which have, according to Nicole Shen, OAP’s food manager, earned them a Gold certification from the McGill Sustainability Office. These developments include the introduction of new mats to protect the grass on Lower Field, the recycling of cans (rather than giving out plastic cups), and the use of propane rather than charcoal grills for food, among others.

Providing the soundtrack to this one-of-a-kind student festival are a variety of bands, singers and DJs. This year, OAP hosted 26 amazing acts. From soulful harmonies and acoustic covers to head-banging rock tunes and DJ sets, there was truly something for everyone. A few of the acts actually found their
start at McGill, despite the predominantly academic environment. DJ Clément Gabriel, who describes his music as “dark and euphoric,” learned how to mix in an hour before a party at his former fraternity. In addition, rock band Dollhouse recruited their bassist Sacha when drummer Emilio spotted him walking around with his bass at Activities Night last year.

In fact, the significance of OAP within the McGill community means that many performers had already attended the event from below the stage. Of course, this means that they are or were McGill students themselves, lovingly carving out time between tutorials and lectures to hone their craft. Still, the process of becoming an OAP act is complex and multilayered, with the OAP team having to sift through a substantial number of applications and music samples.

OAP has provided a platform for students to test the boundaries of expression and find their own unique voices. Experimental DJ trio Dance Engine describes OAP as “a really nice musician[‘s] playground” where they can showcase “what they really want to do” because of the “easy to win” receptiveness of McGill students to novel ideas and new music. Similarly, DJ Nina Baby closed this year’s OAP Boiler with “music that [she’s] rarely had the chance to play”, sharing her infectious electronic sound with the McGill masses.

OAP has even pushed new voices to the forefront. The common pursuit of a good time across all involved parties fuels OAP’s lively and accepting atmosphere. Compared to other festivals, the beauty of OAP is that the person on stage could also be your friend, which makes it all the more exciting. Acoustic folk duo Dave and Sarah (whose names are neither Dave nor Sarah) describe the sensation of performing at OAP as “not even comparable” to their previous gigs, not just because of OAP’s sheer scale but also because “everyone knew [them], which made it scarier but also so much fun.”

The added layer of thrill as a result of being surrounded by familiar company rings true not just for OAP’s performing artists, but for their patrons, who get to commemorate the end of summer (or winter, depending on when you go) by letting loose amidst a crowd of friendly faces. “As a student, I love that I get to hang out [at OAP] with my friends, and also play there as an artist,” house-inspired DJ Dante says. By playing for the community he is part of, he feels like he can stay true to the sound he loves. “You can kind of tell when you’re in the that the positive feeling people experience kind of rubs off on each other.”

Moreover, OAP’s relatively relaxed format extends music and performance not only to those who practice it professionally, but to anyone with love and respect for the craft. “We are engineers, but we have hobbies,” jokes Nella Craft, one of OAP’s music managers. As mentioned, many of the acts are McGill students or alumni from various faculties and disciplines.

GarageMDs, for instance, is a band made up of McGill medical students – not your usual candidates for a school band, given the rigour of their program. Moreover, Gianni, founding member of dream rock band Flying Dream, is a post-doctoral fellow in the McGill Faculty of Engineering. “Academia and research are fascinating, but they’re very rigid […] Music is more free, and you [have room to] explore.”

That being said, OAP’s free-flow is also calculated. As one of the main goals is to keep the audience entertained, the event’s management must curate cohesive sets throughout the event. Niney, a Montreal-based DJ, says he enjoys this aspect of the festival. “The goal is to bring it from zero to on the way to the tech house,” he shares, “so I had to get [the crowd] dancing, to sing songs they may or may not know.” Niney describes himself as an avid dancer, and changing up his style to get a crowd warmed up and grooving is one of his favourite things to do. OAP allows for this part of him to shine. “As a DJ, you can never have too many styles.”

However, music serves many more functions than just inducing hype in a crowd. It provides the soundtrack for our morning commutes and gym sessions, sets the mood at our local cafes and bars — it surrounds us, giving it immense and intrinsic power. Mica, a disco music DJ says, “Music exists in many forms in every aspect of my life. Study nights, kickin’ it with friends, football games, preparing food — no matter what I’m doing, there’s always a perfect soundtrack.” With the growth of streaming services and subsequent increased accessibility of music, it has become so integrated into our daily lives that we might not fully appreciate its special quality. Music has the capacity to influence our thoughts and emotions, not only stimulating our senses but acting as a mode of idiosyncratic expression.

This is no different amongst the performers of OAP, to whom music is a multi-functional tool that holds a special place in their hearts. When asked how music has enriched his life, Owen, founding member and lead guitarist of Montreal indie rock band Willy Nilly, joked, “My depression now has a musical twist to it,” referencing songwriting’s critical role in conveying his personal realities. Dollhouse’s genre-bending songs, composed and arranged by the entire group, also tackle a plethora of issues like mental health and activism, among others. “It’s just like, we hear you,” says Nikita, the band’s singer, “‘cause we all have our own kind of struggle. It translates into our music.”

And isn’t that what all this music and all this partying is about? It’s all to be heard, to be seen. While it might sound a little corny, the tunes and the booze and the (very good) corn on the cobs at OAP are all designed and calibrated for a specific purpose: connection. This is the crux of OAP, the secret sauce that makes it as celebrated and anticipated as it is by the McGill student body.

This sentiment was echoed by almost everyone we talked to about OAP’s impact and legacy. “In the back of my mind, OAP was a sort of dream,” contemplates Gabriel Jon, a folk and R&B singer and McGill Engineering student. “It was a big step towards my goal of not overthinking things too much and just going for things that I want to do.” Similarly, GarageMDs comments, “There’s something special about seeing your friends and classmates cheering you on, creating moments that remind you we’re all in this journey together […] that make this experience so meaningful.”

“Seeing the impact that [our performance] can have on people who come to the shows means the world to us,” relates The Howlin’ Gales, a country rock band from Toronto. In an increasingly divided world plagued by individualistic ideals, to be seen by your community and to have your voice not just heard but uplifted is perhaps what we all yearn for. The bond between a performer and their audience, therefore, is made all the more sacred, as the effort and love invested by a performer into their craft is rewarded by the energy they receive from their audience. “What I hope to gain is a deeper connection with that crowd, because they’re the true supporters, the ones who come alive no matter the circumstances,” puts Clément Gabriel.

Beyond this, there are also the little points of connection between patrons, which all OAP attendees can attest to. “It’s the one place where I’ll actually see all of my friends, who you can never really combine in one room all together at McGill,” explains Claire Levasseur, VP Services for the EUS. From chatting with strangers in the (more often than not) hours-long line to bumping into dear friends scattered across the field, the spatial configuration of OAP is one built for interaction. “I hope OAP is remembered like that, where you can meet new people from so many different types of programs, so many different places.”

And not just students! Karl, a security guard from OAP, recalls feeling heartened by the warmth students showed him in their brief interactions entering and exiting the venue. When checking McGill IDs, he recounts seeing a string of 6 people with the same birthday as him — Valentines’ Day, which he says is rare. “At events, people usually try to avoid talking to security,” he says, “but here, I get to interact with cool people, young people.”

Love it or hate it, OAP is a McGill cultural staple that is here to stay. While seemingly just a superficial student festival on the surface, OAP’s purpose is much deeper than that. As a critical facet of McGill culture, it weaves a golden tie between decades of McGill alumni all the way to the present, strengthening an already formidable bond that exists between us students. It promotes local and student artists, ensuring a steady stream of art in a world where creative expression is unfortunately deemed less productive and therefore less valuable. OAP also fosters inter-faculty and inter-cohort interaction and connection, ensuring that people get the opportunity to form new bonds and strengthen old ones. “We take a lot of pride in being able to put OAP on and create a space that so many people can enjoy, that connects everybody,” expresses Josh Negenman, the other half of OAP’s head management duo.

So, OAP. You may or may not have attended, but you sure as hell have heard of it. In any case, it’s energetic and lively, with an atmosphere best described as electric – a buzz on your skin, a welcome high.

Is it really “The Best Place On Earth”? Nothing’s perfect, of course, but we’d say it comes pretty damn close.

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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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