Year of Glad - Aquatic Ruin

By Charley Ruddell

We are living in an age of environmental collapse–the Anthropocene–the latest ecological chapter in Earth’s history, in which humans have irrevocably impacted every major ecosystem. We stare into the ruins with the smoke of the human machine billowing from our backs.

As the sound dwindles from Montreal experimental folk group Year of Glad’s newest project “Aquatic Ruin,” a chorus of frogs chirp into the faded black. Lines of text appear above a digitized shot of a campfire: “In matters of life and death, there are breaks that define a before and an after. The Anthropocene is a break; we are in the after.” It’s a plea for restoration while extinction lurks within a sniper’s range.

Created and developed at the Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity, the gorgeously haunting video for “Aquatic Ruin” follows a horse-headed “hooded druid” through a digitally contorted dystopia. Creators A.P. Bergeron, Nicolas Bergeron, and Bucky Illingworth draw on the tension and trepidation in the song’s opening act, as A.P. rasps with a menacing scorn: “Heed my word / You pothead / It’s an awful game / Aquatic Ruin.” Low synths and static noise hum like an aftershock; drums rattle and churn with an impending eruption. The druid stands perched on the rock cliffs above bleached tides, saturated, distorted, and confined to the simulation against its own volition. “What an awful game,” Bergeron wails with despair as noise swirls around his voice like debris in a tornado.

Then, the vision breaks. The focus shifts, the warped portal closes. Reality emerges. Pristine images of water, earth, and sky feel like a consolation following the turbulence. We see the cloaked figure staring off into the crystal waters of a freshwater lake as the music softens. A single cello whinnies in the peeper’s cadence. “Lead the way,” Bergeron murmurs, his breath trailing the last word like a crisp zephyr.

“Aquatic Ruin” raises the alarm that the vision of our own reality is reversing. What once began as pristine and beautiful has devolved into distortion. We are the druids stuck in the simulation. We are in the after.

Best Fern - When I Die

Gerard Marcus

I first encountered Best Fern last September when ThrdCoast went up to the 2017 POP Montreal festival and filmed a live session with them (if you dig their vibes, check out the video here). The dream-pop duo, consisting of Alexia Avina and Nick Schofield, immediately intrigued me with their ethereal sound and use of ambiance. Their music had a real since of place, albeit a place comfortably nestled between the realms of reality and fantasy. 

The new video for their latest single, ‘When I Die,’ is a fitting visual counterpart to Best Fern’s sound. Filmed and edited by Luke Orlando, the collection of super8 footage flickers like the last images of someone fading away into a peaceful eternity. It's a contemplative setting perfect for pondering the track's themes of longing and existence. The video also enhances a certain element of timelessness that’s present in the song. At two minutes and 32 seconds it's certainly not the longest song in the world, but watching the video I feel almost suspended in time, like I suddenly found myself walking from a gaseous environment into a liquid. This might be my favorite part about both the track and the video–they offer a brief respite from the world around me.

REVIEW: Isaac Vallentin - Amateur

Will Shenton

There's a timelessness to Isaac Vallentin's new LP, Amateur, that gives its melodies, narratives, and vignettes a sense of hard-to-place familiarity. At times this is because it draws from recognizable influences, but largely it's a result of Vallentin's own stylistic touches. From the psudeo-'70s aesthetic of "Loudest In The Universe" to the more modern folk-rock of a song like "Carol," each is replete with intricacies that give a new impression on every listen.

Vallentin's distinctive baritone and knack for folksy storytelling are occasionally reminiscent of fellow Canadian singer-songwriter Andy Shauf ("Flying Pigeon" would feel right at home on The Bearer of Bad News). But Vallentin's eclectic background seems to imply greater depth to his artistic goals. How does one go from the minimal, experimental synths of 2015's Hedera to the rich, cozy folk-pop of Amateur without some sort of intricate conceptual map?

Maybe it's because he lists "anti-folk" among his genre tags on Bandcamp, but it's hard not to hear a hint of parody in Vallentin's occasionally over-the-top sincerity. "They said you shouldn’t be a dancer / You’ll be eaten by the dog," he sings on the penultimate track. "I wish I’d gone to college / And forgotten dreams of dancing / As the dog is lacking appetite / For those holding accreditation." It's an invitation to laugh, and it's unclear whether this is just Vallentin letting his sense of humor shine through or whether it's meant to be a broader dig at the tropes of sad-sack narrative folk.

Regardless, Amateur's only obvious irony comes in the form of its title. Vallentin is clearly an accomplished songwriter, and each layer of instrumentation feels effortlessly refined. Lush but never overwrought (except perhaps where it wants to be), this album is truly a joy to listen to, as it must have been to create.

REVIEW: Bernice - Puff LP: In the air without a shape

Raquel Dalarossa

When we listen to music, we typically respond emotionally. We talk about how it feels to listen to a certain song—or, perhaps more accurately, how the sounds communicate those feelings to us. 

Bernice, on the other hand, create music that communicates on an entirely different sensory level. It travels through space, it seems to have dimension and body, and it's much more easily imagined or seen than it is felt. The Toronto-based band, led by songwriter and vocalist Robin Dann, treat sounds like shapes and songs like spatial playgrounds. In their new Puff LP (subtitled In the air without a shape), out today via Arts & Crafts, they take a minimalist approach to their sound design that draws attention to the negative space, creating a boundless and playful atmosphere for us to revel in.

Many of the songs on this seven-track album (yes, they are minimalists in the volume of their output, too) have been around for a while—“Puff” was, after all, originally the name of an EP released nearly a year ago. But there are new additions as well as new imaginings of older work, proving that the experimental group are always up to try things just a little differently. Where previously, on the EP, the songs were largely produced by Shawn Everett (best known for his Grammy-award winning work on Alabama Shakes' Sound & Color), now we find Bernice themselves at the helm, alongside engineer Matt Smith. The resulting differences are striking, and very telling of the band's tastes.

Though they've been compared to Sade in the past, their R&B leanings are on full display in this album with a re-recorded version of the smooth, reverberating "David" and richly sensual "One Garden." But things get especially interesting when they pick up the pace just a little, as in the LP's single "Glue." It juxtaposes soulful interludes with catchy, electronic-leaning verses, similar to how the lyrics juxtapose Dann with the person she's addressing: "I am rubber and you are glue." Another favorite of mine is "St. Lucia," which has been cast in an entirely new light for this release. Doing away with the song's dense, industrial character when it appeared on the Puff EP, Bernice transform it into something much lighter on its feet yet simultaneously more ominous.

There's something at once aqueous and stark about the album as a whole. It can feel like being submerged at the deepest depths of the ocean, or floating through the vacuum of space. Closing song "Boat" showcases this effect perfectly. An endearing vocal melody sits front and center, while a cacophony of ornamental sounds buzz by or float softly beside us, creating a sort of aural parallax effect. You get the sense that our attention is always exactly where the band wants it to be, which goes to show how well constructed Puff really is.

VIDEO PREMIERE: Isaac Vallentin (and Trails) - Loudest in the Universe

Will Shenton

At first glance, the understated folk of Canadian art-pop musician Isaac Vallentin's "Loudest in the Universe" might seem better-trod territory than his usual brand of inventive, experimental synths. But with the interplay of Trails' wistful croon and Vallentin's own resonant baritone, the restrained bandstand setup, and the short but captivating songwriting itself, it's clear that this track is rife with his creative touches.

The second single from his forthcoming LP, Amateur, "Loudest in the Universe" is an achingly beautiful entreaty—seemingly to humanity itself—to calm our innermost fears and conflicts. Avoiding the saccharine pitfalls common to that sort of theme, Vallentin couches the lyrics in the intimate language of love songs: Trails' voice soars into the first cloud-parting chorus, "I love you / Stop crying / There's nothing to fear about dying / Everything is all that you are and ever will be."

The latter half of the song takes on a bleaker tone, and the second chorus seems to reprimand the listener ("Good riddance / Be silent / There's nothing inside you but violence"), but concludes with an offer of forgiveness ("Everything that you're fighting is a part of you and a part of me / But I love you babe / So stop crying for a second"). Coupled with the neutral expressions of Vallentin, Trails, and drummer Pascal Delaquis throughout, the resulting tone is thoroughly unique. At once eminently familiar and just a touch alien in its delivery, "Loudest in the Universe" is a song that will haunt you long after its two-minute runtime.