Last night, a monolithic event happened, one that will be reported for generations to come in the fair town of Rouyn-Noranda—the PyPy set at Cabaret de la Dernière Chance—a wall of psychedelic post-no-wave jazz, everything and nothing, a black hole of constant sonic bliss. Led by Annie-Claude Deschenes (Duchess Says), a pure sorceress of beauty and sheer terror, PyPy was recruiting followers for their cult of hypnotic stardom. Roy Vucino—easily one of the most skilled players in North America (CPC Gangbangs, Les Sexareenos, Red Mass)—absolutely beating the hell out of his body and guitar, and a puddle of sweat is left on the cutting room stage. Annie-Claude Deschenes could instill a riot if she wanted, when she’s on the mic there is nothing else you can think or wish; your brain is literarily twisted into a pile in sinew and you love it.
One moment, a deluge of the Cabaret de la Dernière Chance staff picked up a village of White Claw umbrellas—all under the PyPy spell—and marched through the venue. Not to mention when Deschenes ordered a gin and tonic and got one fan to shoulder ride her to the back and front of the stage. Words can’t describe the whole picture, much like a Matisse painting in the pouring, dark, rain. A new album to follow up 2014’s PAGAN DAY is coming—like an eclipse in time as if an unruly god has decided the world neeeeeds more PyPy, and we do, we do. Anyone lucky enough to be at that packed show is now a full-fledged member of the PyPy cult.
