Quebec Spring

The Old Blue Last

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Inside Quebec Spring’s Beautifully Unhinged London Takeover

If the walls of The Old Blue Last could talk, we’d be in a lot of trouble (all of us), fortunately tonight there’d be more singing than talking. The last to make it through the door we’re first shredded for our attire (Oilers jersey) by Sarah the Quebec delegate in charge of international publicity and then hustled upstairs with a non-descript envelope shoved into our hand. Hawa B’s on stage and her set is kicking off.

She’s on stage, solo, framed by a crisp white spot. Picture a Targaryen with long cream coloured dreads that dangle loosely past her butt. She’s got a strangle hold on the mic, and her voice is that of a siren. It takes a lot of guts to get up on a stage, solo, with what’s probably an insane amount of jetlag, but there’s no cooling her jets, she’s off like a rocket. Her voice control, and range, is exceptional as it is unpredictable. Scratchy, full and low, or banshee-esque it’s a roll of the dice and you get whatcha get.

There’s a point on stage where she begins to twerk, it’s maddeningly hypnotic, and we know she knows it. She pops sly glances over the shoulder in-between gyrations. She finishes her set in the same manner a hot air balloon rises, only in reverse. She pushes out the last of the hot air out of her with a force that lifts her off her stool. She disappears off stage and into the crowd as her backing track vanishes along with her. A bedroom burlesque set culminates in a full chorus of ‘wooooooooooooos’ from the audience. Our throat is hoarse from whooping along with them.

There’s a break where we peruse the contents of the envelope. There are instructions for a social game and… drink tickets! Libations are served and introductions/reunions are baptised in tequila. We run into a few Mothland label reps, who not only have a critical eye for budding talent but are a ripping good time. Catching up, we’re introduced to Cultural Directrice, Ingried Boussaroque, who’s not only helped organise this bangin’ soiree but is also a multi-instrumentalist themselves (and amateur whiskey aficionado). We chin-wag about the importance of bringing people together, dragging them out of their flats and into venues to experience music live and the importance of keeping the exchanges of cultural ideas free flowing and alive. We couldn’t agree more. She palms a raffle ticket into our hands and says, “Good luck”, even though we’ve done nothing to earn either. We miss out on every prize including the grand prize (a trip to Montreal) by literally one number, and a pair of tickets to the sold out Angine de Poitrine that very night. Still though, we can’t help but feel fortunate for just getting to be here. The crowd’s a vibe and the scene is buzzing (and so are we after a few more tequilas). We’re asked to line up along the stage for thank-you prizes which are FLASKS FULL OF BOURBON!

Next up, we have the completely un-hinged Annie-Claude Deschênes who represents the energy of a Mogwai that’s had water poured on it. She announces that she got off a plane four hours ago but doesn’t look the part. She oozes the slick trash goth core vibes of Italians Do It Better with a powder pink pastel foundation locked in and framed by a ruby red do. Annie clutches a half empty uncorked bottle of wine with the supermarket security tag still around its neck, ‘it was a gift!’.

Annie is a party in a pair of slip-on Vans, a dark wave pop punk. She’s a huge presence in a tiny package, like her tunes, she’s TNT. The set is as performative in as much as it’s an event horizon, no one is safe but they’ll all be fed. She bounces off stage with disinfectant spray and a rag cleaning a table, and setting it for two. She feeds the two (un)lucky audience members a smorgasbord of disgusting gelatinous shapes of different viscosities. This was only track two. As the set progressed, there was no safe place for anyone, or their drinks. We tried to put our pint down, multiple times, but it just kept bouncing and rattling towards the nearest edge, her set deaf-ined a new level of mega-sound. Her dank-ass beats slapped to-fuck and reminded us of the early years of DFA, music that sounded like dinosaurs fighting. By the end, she’s wrangled everyone into the pool, the stage, for a dance-off while plastering them with mouthfuls of whipped-cream straight from the can. Annie looked like she was psyching herself up for a fight more than pumping out the set for a dance, and we’re here for it.

The set ends and 50 pizzas show up. Everyone is stuffing their mouths with slices of molten cheese; smiles pulled taught from ear to ear. The night is electric. ‘Hey, CAPTAIN!’, is shouted at us. We look over the crowd to see the bespeckled Marilyne ‘The Sqwanch’ Lacombe hopping up and down. They were heading to Camden and we were invited,  Angine de Poitrine was on the agenda, and we were on the list. Fucking-eh. We bopped our way over, got in, the Electric Ballroom was packed to the brim, the gig was out of this world, and the night was unforgettable. You, dear friends, still have time to catch the aforementioned and MUCH MUCH MORE! They’re touring all through the weekend and beyond. Catch ‘em while you can and tell ‘em the Captain sentcha. 

M for Montreal

The Old Blue Last

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

QUÉBEC SPRING BLOWS THE ROOF (AND THE PLUMBING) OFF THE OLD BLUE LAST

Ballsy and Alix Fernz ignite M for Montreal’s 20th with soaked ceilings, soaked riffs and soaked shoes
 

It’s bucketing down in Shoreditch and the roof at the Old Blue Last is leaking like it’s on strike, but that’s hardly enough to drown out the buzz as M for Montreal hits town. Celebrating 20 years of building transatlantic bridges between Québec’s artful misfits and the UK’s music heads, the Canadian crew are throwing a party worthy of their rep, and yeah, the bar’s open and the pizza’s free. Good luck topping that, Camden.

First up, it’s Ballsy, and she’s not easing anyone in. Launching her set like a confetti cannon at a kindergarten rave, she’s all heart, hooks and heavy pop glow, the kind that makes you feel like you’re twelve again at your rich mate’s birthday bash. Except this time, the sugar’s swapped for wine and the cake’s a fridge full of free booze.

Her blend of dream-pop and indie grit, fresh off debut EP Bisou, has all the fizz of someone who’s not here to “warm up” the room; she is the room. “We just wanna have a fun time and party with you tonight,” she says, all swagger and sincerity. At one point, there’s talk of death by electrocution, “If I die tonight, someone clear my search history,” she quips, eyeing the water leaking from every crevice. It’s Montreal-in-May levels of damp, but Ballsy’s defiance is electric enough to dry socks.

There’s no drummer, but who cares? The beats are tight, the vibes are looser, and by the time she hollers, “Let’s get fucking weird on this one,” we’re already there. Closing with a shout-out that lands like a manifesto — “Fuck transphobia, fuck genocide, and fuck Donald Trump”, it’s clear: Ballsy isn’t just a party starter, she’s throwing Molotovs at the status quo and handing out glitter for the fallout.

Next up, Alix Fernz, in his UK debut, steps up like he’s been playing these shores forever. No filler, no chat, just a relentless, propulsive stream of fuzzed-out post-punk and lo-fi synthwave nightmares. If Ballsy lit the match, Alix is the firestorm after. It’s all in French, a bold choice that feels like a flex, and it works, tapping into that Molchat Doma-style otherness that makes lyrics feel secondary to vibe.

Imagine early-2000s French indie dragged through a dystopian wormhole and spat out in a leather jacket. There’s a gritty, magnetic stage presence that feels part Iggy Pop, part space crash survivor. At times, the band sounds like they’re playing inside a collapsing satellite, all chaotic drum assaults, upstroked bass lines like twitchy nerves, and synths that glue the madness together.

And yeah, that sound? It is like love songs interpreted by wild animals. There’s something rabid and romantic in the way the disjointed rhythms and maniacal vocals spiral together – and it turns out, they may owe part of the process to mushrooms. Alix is the rare kind of performer you can’t look away from, not because he’s begging for your attention but because you’re afraid you’ll miss something important if you blink.

It’s keenly, violently interesting. A showcase that proves “performance art” and “punk” don’t have to sit at opposite ends of the room, they can pull the pin, then calmly finish the verse.

As the night ends, the crowd spills out into the soaking London streets with cheap pizza slices and a buzz you can’t fake. M for Montreal’s London takeover is more than a showcase, it’s a reminder that the next wave of musical greatness doesn’t always come from LA lofts or East London basements. Sometimes it’s born in snowy provinces and explodes outwards, loud, weird and proud.

If this is your intro to the Québec Spring scene, consider it your call to action. Fernz plays The Lexington on Friday. Ballsy’s still gigging across the UK. The rest of the M for Montreal crew, from Geneviève Racette’s haunting folk to the post-genre chaos of Patche and Truck Violence, are dotted around the country like sonic landmines. Step on one. Trust me.