Sunday Night at Sala

by Fanny Kaplan

A scant crowd gathered under the chandeliers, on a Sunday night. The building in which La Sala Rossa can be found is an old Plateau institution. The main doors read "Centro Social Español" in fading letters.

Suddenly, Infopolice commands your attention. They blast Gaga's "Paparazzi" over the speakers. They hurl into the mic: "I love you." These two millenials are dressed like they're going boating in Maine, in waspy button-ups, polos and pastels. But their destructive, fast-paced drums and snares are paired with a whiny, orgasmic spoken word: Industrial emo. Every single minute of this short set holds you ensnared in the intensity. The lights flash like a malfunctioning operation room. As the lead flails around his arms in the manner of a fallen angel or a sick bird, the crowd is coaxed into the venue. Silly and toxic, or as an audience member described them: "Psychotique, haute énergie, vapes et l'amour." Another track begins with high-pitched distortion, and howling – nevermind, that is the whole track. The lead alternates between skipping like a rabbit and flinging his crotch. Soon another interlude, this time like a laser-equipped UFO crashing into the Trump tower. Is this the sound of US imperialism coming to a halt? No, the lead later tells me, his music is not political:

"Because it divide too much people right now. It's good when people have political opinions. I like to bring just joy to overall people," he says, as the producer accapellas that Crazy Frog song.

Sure, I guess. We look for joy amidst the rubble. The producer joins in the howling and soon both bandmates are shouting at each other, with traces of forbidden eroticism. "I am your new mother," the producer says to the lead, off set. "He is my mother," the lead confesses. "And I am inspired by her beautiful beard." The crowd wants to dance, to mosh, but unfortunately there is not quite enough of them and they are shy, so they cheer loudly after every track. Before his last song, he announces: "I will split my head open with the mic if no one dance." The bass drops and he steps down from the stage, hunches over and flails his arms around like a chicken. A healing ritual, a Delphian hospice for those masses of us who are plagued with some form of ADD, and everyday punished for it, deprived of our sleep and our community by the nine-fingered hands of the state and the monopoly. We leave our woes behind; but do we ever forget the sorrow of loved ones?

The next artist steps onto stage in socks, PJs and hangover shades. A shift in the mood, the slow crescendos of Goodbye Karelle are the main act of the evening, judging by the audience. Her deep voice, "planante et bouleversante, difficile à décrire," resonates through the halls over the strumming of an electric guitar. Karelle begins with a ballad on love and dirty sheets. She is nonchalant at first, when suddenly the guitarist's melodic riffs are supplanted, overthrown by synths played off a laptop, the organ-like synths drop and blare, the artist stops singing and begins to shout over the congregation. Karelle's yearning is stretched between quiet intervals and blasting synths. And before the next track begins, they apologize in French for their hoarseness; they spent all night at the karaoke bar. Like the stories of a weary traveler, her music carries you across different cities and decades. The crowd hollers, satisfied hearing the lead complain over the bends of the guitarist. All of Karelle's songs waver between simplicity and epic drops. One track sounds like a western, a long adventure into the uncharted. Another is moody and ethereal, thick with pedals. A breadth of sound, which the artist justifies by a philosophy of metamorphosis:

"You can change everything with music. You can change your mindset, your family patterns [...] Music changed so many things for me in my life. We like people who listen to the same music, we like people who listen to weird music. [...] I think artists have a big power."

To convey the transformative power of music, Goodbye Karelle emphasizes the lyricality of their work. The artist cites "Interlude" off her first album, which ruminates precisely on the in-ability to overcome oneself, to transform, she explains, "when you feel stuck and you're not living the life you want" :

"I live in a home, with a garden
Where I bury my freedom.
I live in a house with my mother
And my hopes have been lost.
I wouldn't know how to become a man,
Lullabies better than screaming.
I wouldn't know how to become the man,
The man she sees in me."

The largest crowd of the night has assembled for a spiritual experience, when suddenly, quick and heavy drums burst into the act. Her voice takes on an autotune wail, reflecting on the human condition, repeating: "Sing for me, why I'm here, people are funny." Her final track, returning to the simple guitar riff, is a bluesy narrative: "I think my hopes are low, maybe my love will grow, maybe it will never..." Her voice echoes on the mic, as she bemoans the loss of love, threatening to drag herself out to sea. "I'm going to kill the last version of me," she later explained. "To become something new." And with this, she disappears underwater.

Shirehead is the 'proper' band of the night, with two guitarists, a bassist, a synth player and drummer. The lead's voice, leaning into his deep tones and stylized, exaggerated British accent, is starkly reminiscent of King Krule. Like his work, their post-punk sound is softened by a melodic and moody, jangly and bluesy curve. The tempo picks up and now they are an early rock band, the Clash, while the lead repeats: "Shake me down." As the song progresses it speeds up, the rhythm is uneven, and the remaining crowd appreciates the choas, hollering again and again. Next the atmosphere darkens, and soon the drums take the lead, while the other instruments combine into a muddy nether. This controlled chaos is the product of a British transplant and a Facebook-assembled Montreal team. Despite this, he emphasizes the influence of his home country on the sound:

"A lot of the lyrics come down to political stuff, a lot of lower-class, middle-class living in the Shires in the UK, hence the name Shirehead. [...] In the streets playing as a kid. A lot of inside talking and stories of growing up there as well. Childhood."

And then, they drive straight into a loud, post-punk complaint, with the drums leading the petition. High-energy, ominous jangling that is heavy on the pedals, a bring-the-walls-down kind of shoegazy sound. Between tracks, the lead shouts out the racists from his hometown in Derbyshire: "Fuck racism," he announces. "Death, death to the IDF," the crowd begins to chant in my imagination. "Must I be a fly on the wall?" I think to myself – too late, the moment is past. Later, the lead gives an example of his investigations on the racial and class dynamics of his neighborhood, in "Kids Just Being Kids" :

"He doesn't wanna go out now
Cause the kids being mean to him now.
Doesn't wanna go play now
Cause the neighbors being racist now.
Didn't get the memo,
They don't like his kind,
It's all in his mind."

The following track, "The Villager," is laden with sadness and complaint. Here even the drummer quiets down slightly for the narrative about Shire life to take the front stage. Whereas "Crisis" united two friends amongst the audience: "It's about acknowledging the fact that life isn't perfect and there's shit going on and you gotta keep going." As the set develops, the tone get progressively darker. A slow, ominous riff, the walls close in, the absurdity of poverty blurs one's sight. The drums accelerate and the sound descends into madness. The crowd is spurred to motion; in the back, a row of teenagers in oversized metal tees and jeans jump in unison, their hands over each other's shoulders: "Sa voix, la guitare, le tempo est trop fort," they later tell me. Their last song begins with urgent, melodic synths and uniform drums, but ends with the hammering of all the instruments as the lead's voice, along with all of his memories, echo out into the streets, thick with desolation.

The last few members of the crowd gather round, for the enigmatic final act. Spookystack's synths and drums roll in all at once, lights flashing. This one-man act begins practically mid-song, in media res, with no forewarning. His voice gives commands like a sergeant, contrasting with his thin frame and "Vote For Pedro" tee. The synths morph into organs, and back again. Next, futuristic synths are accompanied by his barking over the mic, his English sounding more like German. The drums are varied, the 80s-heavy sound entrancing. He turns and leans into his Midi keyboard and suddenly a wave of ethereal synths rise over the rest. After announcing "I fucking love Montreal," the next track is straight house; he descends from the stage and dances with two dozen members of the audience, amongst them his stylish friends. He later explains:

"My friends inspire me every day. All my friends are artistic, and they have a passion. And I think that is what's most important."

But this community of artists is separated anew, as the track morphs into a heavier, industrial sound. He jumps back on stage and screams all of his pain into the mic. With the next track return the synths, signalling danger. The drums fall to the ground like an earthquake. He marches on stage fascistically, minimal in his movements, he hops up and down the stage like a toy soldier. The drums are high-paced and powerful throughout the set, and he mixes silly electronic sound effects and post-punk darkness into one industrial landscape. His last track – he hangs his head sorrowfully over the keyboard – begins with a heavy, moody, highly reverberated guitar melody, a snowstorm covering mountain peaks. It courses on and on; centuries pass, in one's mind's eye, before suddenly a heavy, fast drum rolls down like an avalanche. And for the first time, he sings, about pain and confusion. The crowd lets the layers of sound tremble under their feet. Now he is on a different plane of performance, a disembodied one, a complex state of being he elaborates on, off set, via a separate track, "God is Sick" :

"God is sick,
Open his head,
Give it five years,
And you'll wanna be dead.
Understand that Hell is close.
Forgive me father, I've tied the rope."

And when the crowd demands an encore, he returns to simpler times. An upbeat and distinctly 80s pop ballad, his voice swaying, "So far away..."

The scattered few stumbles out onto the street, the Summer night a reprieve from the inside heat. They latch onto their cigarettes for comfort. Those who stayed on from beginning to end, were rewarded with an eclectic set of performances, each a brilliance in a different key.