In my eyes, Laura Krieg can do no wrong. Her brand of darkwave and post-punk—something she likes to call “brutalist pop,”—always puts me into a deep imaginary euphoria, one where I’m in a gloomy, lightless club, surrounded by mirrors in Kreuzberg, Berlin, sipping the same beer. Though her sound is certainly more widely accepted in a place like Europe (where her label, Detriti Records is absed), she, in fact, based in Montreal and plays here every now and then. Since I discovered her in 2021, around the release of her EP, Vie magique, I’ve craved more of this brutalist pop, and now I have it with this latest batch of songs Crépuscule. It’s a shadowy and synth-laden album that wears its influences like a leather trench coat.
From the first pulses of analog drum machines to the last whisper of detuned pads, the record feels like a deliberate ode to late-night walks under jittering sodium lights—brooding, cinematic, and occasionally hypnotic. At its best, Crépuscule taps into a rich lineage of darkwave and minimal synth: think early Cure, mid-era Depeche Mode, and traces of coldwave à la French cold wave artist, Trisomie 21.
The opener and title track layers a throbbing bassline, brittle snares and distant, disaffected vocals—a soundscape that’s both claustrophobic and darkly expansive. “Corps brilliants,” a standout, introduces some welcome melodic lift with synths and a robotic guitar (courtesy of Johny Couteau) with a chorus that dares to shimmer, recalling the poppier edge of the genre without selling out its gloom. We get this vibe a little later on during “Criminal video.”
Crépuscule builds a dimly lit world and invites you to sit with it, quietly. Whether it haunts or makes you want to dance may depend on your own mood.
