As the audience files into the theatre, a sharp, persistent bell cuts through the room. Off to the side of the stage, Tiziano Cruz crouches in a colourful poncho, waiting. No grand entrance—just presence. A stillness settles. He begins to ring the bell, slowly, deliberately, calling in a flock of sheep across the Andean mountains of his youth. With Wayqeycuna, Cruz doesn’t seek applause—he demands witness. This solo work, part of his autobiographical trilogy, marks a return to his Indigenous community in northern Argentina, where personal memory becomes collective ritual.

“You probably came to see the guy in the colourful clothing. Consume me,” he states, confronting the audience with the gaze they brought with them. Then he speaks of his village, living beside a lithium mine, caught between beauty and exploitation. “I live in a world of white power,” he says, slipping deliberately into a white jumpsuit. Traditional melodies blend with haunting synths and a tender a cappella duet with a village boy, shaping a sonic world that’s both sorrowful and whimsical.

The stage, divided by sheer curtains and bathed in shifting projections of mountains and sea, transforms into both sanctuary and confessional. Cruz doesn’t move like an actor—he inhabits the space as a witness, channeling generational trauma, ancestral strength, and the lingering stain of colonial violence. “The customs officer still views me as a danger, and I wear colourful linens,” he says, voice steady. Through poetic language and striking visual cues, Cruz builds a heartbreaking, fiercely symbolic journey—one where nothing is ornamental, and everything has menaing. Every image in Wayqeycuna carries weight: the recurring wolves as a metaphor for capitalism, the bread and poncho as loaded symbols of both cultural pride and pain.

Cruz avoids spectacle entirely. He summons the Andes with vivid language, revives childhood games through precise gestures, and lays bare systemic oppression with a tense, deliberate stillness. One moment, he soothes with memories of village festivals; the next, he hurls the audience into harsh scenes of poverty, exclusion, missing teeth, and a village engulfed in flames—whether metaphor or memory, the wound is real.

Wayqeycuna—“my brothers” in Quechua—isn’t just a title; it’s a call. A quiet yet urgent invocation for collective memory and solidarity. Midway through, Cruz lifts his phone and snaps a photo of the crowd. It’s a small breach of theatre etiquette, but it hits hard, reversing the gaze, shattering the illusion of passive spectatorship, and implicating us in the frame of oppression. Simply by existing, Wayqeycuna becomes political art—less something to watch, more something to endure.

If you’ve ever wondered what a dream might look like when filtered through static, toy cars, and late-night radio frequencies, Heaven FM, performed by Hong Kong Exile, during the FTA has your answer. Presented in a black-box theatre cloaked in mystery and lit only by headlamps and projections, this performance offers a haunting and off-kilter meditation on communication, the cosmos, and the absurdity of trying to make sense of either.

The artists, dressed entirely in black, move like shadows across the stage, guiding remote-controlled toy cars with eerie precision. Strapped with headlights, the artists search for signals trying desperately to reach the other side. Their movements are choreographed but unpredictable, sometimes playful, sometimes menacing, like lost souls navigating a strange terrain.

Text projections flash across the walls—fragments of sentences, broken messages, and poetic non-sequiturs that feel pulled from half-remembered dreams or intercepted transmissions.

A key element of Heaven FM is its use of sound: radio static, distorted voices, and a low hum of interference that fills the space like fog. Performers tune into various frequencies using handheld radios, channel-surfing through snippets of speech, music, and digital noise. These sonic fragments don’t always add up, but they don’t need to—the performance seems more interested in the act of searching than in what’s actually found.

Headlamps serve both practical and symbolic purposes: they light the action in stark, sudden beams, often illuminating only what’s immediately necessary, while also evoking the feeling of searching in the dark—for truth, connection, or something ineffable.

There is no linear narrative to speak of in Heaven FM, but there is a story—one that’s felt more than told. It’s about broken signals, near-misses, and the strange beauty of trying to connect when the world feels utterly unknowable.

The 37th edition of the Folk Alliance International event took place at a major Montreal hotel from February 19 to 23. 2,500 participants, including several hundred artists. They discussed, attended conferences, negotiated shows and, above all, made and listened to music. Michel Labrecque was able to attend this private event as a journalist. He came away with his ears full.

Everywhere, we see guitar, violin and double bass cases, in a sort of organized disorder. You have a feeling that soon, all these instruments will be playing.

Like all participants, I have to queue to obtain the documents that allow me to move freely around the eight floors that the Folk Alliance will occupy in the hotel for the next five days. In front of me, a group of bright young women are chatting passionately. They work for the Quebec record label Bonsound. They immediately hand me a piece of cardboard, inviting me to attend mini-concerts by Shaina Hayes, Lisa Leblanc, and Matt Holubowski, among others—the following day, starting at 10:30 p.m. in a hotel room on the ninth floor.

This is one of the special features of this event. In addition to boutique concerts (showcases) in large venues, there are hundreds of private mini-concerts in small rooms, with beds and desks removed. Listening to Matt Holubowski from no more than six metres away … I can’t believe it!

Once I’ve obtained my pass, I approach a jovial fellow, who mocks in French—tinged with an English accent— Donald Trump’s claim to be making Canada the 51st American state. His name is Ciarán Mac Cowan, he comes from Belfast in Northern Ireland and speaks rather rich French. We hit it off, and he promises to tell me lots of stories about the Civil War period in his part of the world. The event hasn’t even started yet, and already the meetings are shaping up to be fertile.

The raison d’être of this event is to network folk artists with concert and festival organizers and also to enable musicians to better handle and cope in the jungle of showbiz, dominated by big companies that don’t give a damn about folk. 

At noon on February 20, the largest hall in the city is packed to the rafters for the major interview that “our” Allison Russell will give to Ann Powers, author and music critic for National Public Radio, the American public broadcaster.

To rapturous applause from the predominantly English-speaking American crowd, Allison exclaims in French: “Bienvenue dans la ville où j’ai grandi, cette ville formidable,” before reverting to English to tell us that nearby is the great Cathédrale Marie-Reine-du-monde—where she often took refuge during the day when she was homeless. As we all know, the immense Americana folk singer and musician had a very difficult childhood, about which her two albums speak at length.

“The first fifteen years of my life were a war zone”. She came to Folk Alliance to talk about resilience, and to share her experience with her colleagues. as evidenced by her latest album, The Returner.

This Grammy winner (in addition to seven nominations) has become a celebrity in this creative folk world. But Allison remains very humble, and recounts how, during the pandemic, she found herself penniless, and her survival depended on the solidarity of other artists. For the past eleven years, this Montrealer has lived in Nashville, USA. Allison Russell doesn’t mince her words about what’s going on politically in her adopted country.

“It smacks of fascism! Trump and his allies want to divide us, but it won’t work,” says the singer, generating thunderous applause. “A rally like this inoculates us against hate,” she adds.

Folk Alliance International is based in Kansas City, USA. Obviously, it’s a rather progressive organization, with sub-groups for the black and indigenous communities. Folk is known for its often progressive bias, but there are also Americana musicians of all stripes and sometimes apolitical.

“Folk music is the people’s music,” Alex Mallett, the organization’s deputy director, tells us. “Inclusivity and diversity are part of our DNA, and we’re going to continue that, whatever the political climate,” he adds. He adds that it’s only been a month since Donald Trump was elected and it’s still early to assess the impact.

A few workshops and discussions evoked this new political atmosphere, but at Folk Alliance, everyone is there first and foremost for the music. And there was something for everyone in the multiple performances, aimed at promoters and festival organizers.

This year’s featured country is Portugal. You can read my amazing account of this country’s alt-folk in another article. A strong Quebec contingent of all origins could be heard: from the trad punk of La Patente to the cello of Jorane, from the tropical mix of Wesli to the Brazilian fusion of drummer Lara Klaus.

On the Canadian side, I was delighted to discover Alysha Brilla, a Toronto-born singer of Indo-Tanzanian origin, who creates a fantastic blend of genres, and The Pairs, a trio of women who distinguish themselves by their very pleasant harmonies.

There are also large delegations from Australia, Catalonia and Scandinavia. And a room reserved for a host of international indigenous artists. Among these, I was captivated by Sara Curruchich, a Guatemalan of Mayan origin, whom I had the pleasure of interviewing for PAMN360 a year and a half ago. With an all-female band, including a marimba virtuoso, Sara brought the house down and got everyone up on their feet dancing, while delivering some very committed messages. You can be committed and smile at the same time. Let’s hope we’ll be seeing her again soon at festivals and concerts back home.

Another surprise was the native Taiwanese Sauljaljui, whom I initially mistook for an African. We never stop learning. This young woman bewitches us with a cocktail of tradition and folk-rock.

On the American side, my favourite was Gina Chavez. This Texan from Austin, whom I was lucky enough to interview in 2018 for Radio-Canada, is an LGBTQ singer-songwriter who embraces her identity and sings in both Spanish and English. She put together an innovative band for her performance: trombone, violin, percussion, and electric guitar. It all sounded eminently good.

Throughout the three days, there are spontaneous jams. Suddenly, I see fifteen violins improvising together. As journalists, we are constantly approached by artists who want our attention. Two young women approach me in the language of Shakespeare, before realizing that it’s all a big mess. We’re all French-speaking Quebecers.

Blanche Moisan-Méthé and Gabrielle Cloutier are two musical accomplices in the excellent world band Méduse. One has her own solo project, BLAMM, while Gabrielle works under her own name. They explain to me the difficulty and complexity of getting gigs in this huge musical flea market. When I meet them, Méduse has her sights set on a concert in Alberta. For the rest, nothing.

Blanche Moisan-Méthé was interviewed on our site in 2023 for her first—and highly original album, which features a lot of brass, which Blanche plays in addition to banjo and guitar. She works with a host of bands, including Gypsy Kumbia Orchestra. This is the life of an artist in 2025. She gave several mini-concerts – usually lasting 15 to 20 minutes—in these hotel rooms, between 10.30 pm and 2 am. I hope it has produced results. Artists have to pay several hundred dollars to perform here.

On Friday evening, on a staircase, I meet my Northern Irishman, Ciarán MacCowan, who invites me in French to one of his seven mini-concerts in a hotel room. I discover that he learned French as a result of his exile in France during the civil war in Northern Ireland. He has also lived in California. For this mini-concert, he is accompanied by a harmonica player and a solo guitarist. All crammed into the small room, we are lulled to sleep by their music, as well as by Chilean folksinger Nicolas Embar and American from Nebraska Hope Dunbar. This motley crew alternates between songs. The audience joins in. The artists congratulate each other. At the same time, around one hundred and twenty mini-concerts are taking place on four floors of the Centre Sheraton.

We’re all drunk on music. It’s going to take us a few days to recover.

On January 29 and 30, the world premieres of Voivod Symphonique take place, a rare public event that juxtaposes classical “high culture” with the underground world of metal. Yet there are many links between these two European traditions, both in terms of music and history. Nevertheless, even the most erudite of scholars, and orchestral musicians in particular, remain largely unaware of this connection. To demystify the context in which this extraordinary collaboration culminates, our collaborator and musicologist Laurent Bellemare presents a brilliant comparative overview of the similarities between these two worlds.

photo credit: Alain Brunet

“For the occasion, David Therrien Brongo and I were interviewed by Laurent Kolam Indah (Bellemare) of PAN M 360 to prepare a huge 4-part dossier to discuss the issue. There’s a lot to talk about. Many see the affinities between Vivaldi/Bach/Beethoven and Rhapsody Of Fire, Nightwish, Sonata Arctica, but few realize the affinities between Stravinsky/Ligeti/Ferneyhough and Martyr, Meshuggah and Necrophagist”, begins Pascal Germain-Berardi.

When we think,” he continues, ”that pop music was born in reaction to the complex classical and jazz music of the early 20th century, and that a few decades later, from this pop music, metal music was born in reaction to the simplicity of pop and invested with a mission to transgress all boundaries, we consequently discover, at the source of the creative impulse, very similar artistic wills between classical and metal. Long live classical, long live metal, and long live the progress of a mutual understanding of these two universes where creators are often imbued with the same ideals but simply have different tools and cultural baggage to express them.”

Affinités méconnues entre métal et classique / Revendication d’un héritage, cousins dans l’épique (1)

Affinités méconnues entre métal et classique / Retour vers la complexité, métal symphonique et amplification (2)

Affinités méconnues entre métal et classique / Musique savante souterraine ? (3)

Affinités méconnues entre métal et classique / Le diable est dans les détails (4)

Voivod + OSM = métal symphonique ! Michel Langevin explique

Voivod + OSM = métal symphonique ! La maestra explique

Voivod + OSM = métal symphonique ! L’arrangeur explique

On January 29 and 30, the world premieres of Voivod Symphonique take place, a rare public event that juxtaposes classical “high culture” with the underground world of metal. Yet there are many links between these two European traditions, both in terms of music and history. Nevertheless, even the most erudite of scholars, and orchestral musicians in particular, remain largely unaware of this connection. To demystify the context in which this extraordinary collaboration culminates, our collaborator and musicologist Laurent Bellemare presents a brilliant comparative overview of the similarities between these two worlds.

Claiming an inheritance

With barely 60 years of existence, metal has made giant leaps in its stylistic and technical evolution, a trend exacerbated by the technological society of the 21st century. Repudiated by official institutions and marginalized in mass culture, this raw, inaccessible music had been drinking in classical European references from the outset, both compositional and extra-musical.

While the first hard rock/metal bands tended to have blues-rock roots (Cream, Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin), Judas Priest and Iron Maiden showed a clear technical shift. This rigorous execution and increasingly detailed compositional work went hand in hand with a less systematic use of blues pentatonism – 5-note scales typical of the blues.

There was also increased lyricism and harmonization in the guitar arrangements, enriched by increasingly complex, faster drumming.

Under the influence of progressive rock on metal, waves of bands such as Queensrÿche and Dream Theater catalyzed this new interest in complex, longitudinal forms. Rather than repeating simple patterns, metal developed material.

Cousins in the epic

Beyond the music, let’s now identify the thematic similarities between the metal and classical worlds. Since the birth of the rock sub-genre, metal bands have freely drawn inspiration from Judeo-Christian mythology, whether through overt blasphemy or subversive misappropriation of its symbols, as Black Sabbath, Venom and Slayer have done.

The fantastical worlds of J.R.R. Tolkien and H.P. Lovecraft also figure prominently in metal texts.

Symphonic metaphors abound, from Megadeth’s classic thrash metal Symphony of Destruction to goregrind icons Carcass’ Symphonies of Sickness.

The association with the symphony orchestra, another symbol of sonic power and triumphant grandeur, is also corroborated in the cult documentary Metal: A Headbanger’s Journey (2008), in which the orchestral romanticism of Richard Wagner is seen as the spiritual ancestor of metal.