M for Montreal

The Old Blue Last

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

QUÉBEC SPRING BLOWS THE ROOF (AND THE PLUMBING) OFF THE OLD BLUE LAST

Ballsy and Alix Fernz ignite M for Montreal’s 20th with soaked ceilings, soaked riffs and soaked shoes
 

It’s bucketing down in Shoreditch and the roof at the Old Blue Last is leaking like it’s on strike, but that’s hardly enough to drown out the buzz as M for Montreal hits town. Celebrating 20 years of building transatlantic bridges between Québec’s artful misfits and the UK’s music heads, the Canadian crew are throwing a party worthy of their rep, and yeah, the bar’s open and the pizza’s free. Good luck topping that, Camden.

First up, it’s Ballsy, and she’s not easing anyone in. Launching her set like a confetti cannon at a kindergarten rave, she’s all heart, hooks and heavy pop glow, the kind that makes you feel like you’re twelve again at your rich mate’s birthday bash. Except this time, the sugar’s swapped for wine and the cake’s a fridge full of free booze.

Her blend of dream-pop and indie grit, fresh off debut EP Bisou, has all the fizz of someone who’s not here to “warm up” the room; she is the room. “We just wanna have a fun time and party with you tonight,” she says, all swagger and sincerity. At one point, there’s talk of death by electrocution, “If I die tonight, someone clear my search history,” she quips, eyeing the water leaking from every crevice. It’s Montreal-in-May levels of damp, but Ballsy’s defiance is electric enough to dry socks.

There’s no drummer, but who cares? The beats are tight, the vibes are looser, and by the time she hollers, “Let’s get fucking weird on this one,” we’re already there. Closing with a shout-out that lands like a manifesto — “Fuck transphobia, fuck genocide, and fuck Donald Trump”, it’s clear: Ballsy isn’t just a party starter, she’s throwing Molotovs at the status quo and handing out glitter for the fallout.

Next up, Alix Fernz, in his UK debut, steps up like he’s been playing these shores forever. No filler, no chat, just a relentless, propulsive stream of fuzzed-out post-punk and lo-fi synthwave nightmares. If Ballsy lit the match, Alix is the firestorm after. It’s all in French, a bold choice that feels like a flex, and it works, tapping into that Molchat Doma-style otherness that makes lyrics feel secondary to vibe.

Imagine early-2000s French indie dragged through a dystopian wormhole and spat out in a leather jacket. There’s a gritty, magnetic stage presence that feels part Iggy Pop, part space crash survivor. At times, the band sounds like they’re playing inside a collapsing satellite, all chaotic drum assaults, upstroked bass lines like twitchy nerves, and synths that glue the madness together.

And yeah, that sound? It is like love songs interpreted by wild animals. There’s something rabid and romantic in the way the disjointed rhythms and maniacal vocals spiral together – and it turns out, they may owe part of the process to mushrooms. Alix is the rare kind of performer you can’t look away from, not because he’s begging for your attention but because you’re afraid you’ll miss something important if you blink.

It’s keenly, violently interesting. A showcase that proves “performance art” and “punk” don’t have to sit at opposite ends of the room, they can pull the pin, then calmly finish the verse.

As the night ends, the crowd spills out into the soaking London streets with cheap pizza slices and a buzz you can’t fake. M for Montreal’s London takeover is more than a showcase, it’s a reminder that the next wave of musical greatness doesn’t always come from LA lofts or East London basements. Sometimes it’s born in snowy provinces and explodes outwards, loud, weird and proud.

If this is your intro to the Québec Spring scene, consider it your call to action. Fernz plays The Lexington on Friday. Ballsy’s still gigging across the UK. The rest of the M for Montreal crew, from Geneviève Racette’s haunting folk to the post-genre chaos of Patche and Truck Violence, are dotted around the country like sonic landmines. Step on one. Trust me.

Better Joy

The Old Blue Last

Words & Pics by Captain Stavros

Exploding into the audience to greet friends with exaggerated and gesticulating gestures Better Joy, Manchester’s Bria Keely, negotiates her way between instruments, cables and mic stands. Bria, overwhelmed by their joy of being in London, tells the audience so. Tonight, there would a fine line between pandering and a banal performance. Better Joy’s headline gig at the Old Blue Last teetered on the edge of both. The buzz around her has been building thanks to a glowing debut EP (Heading Into Blue), comparisons to The Cure and The Smiths, and co-signs from BBC Radio 6 . So, when she took the stage at one of Shoreditch’s most beloved (former) sweatboxes, the expectation was for something quietly transcendent. What we got was...well, just quiet.

Keely opened with ‘Waiting On Time’, and for a brief moment, it seemed like we were in for something. The guitars chimed, the band found a groove, and her vocals were as breathy and animated as they are on record. But then things started to blur, and not in the dreamy, shoegaze-y way she might’ve hoped for, but more like our eyes before bedtime. Songs melted into one another with little contrast, like a Spotify playlist that forgot to shuffle.

There’s something to be said for restraint in performance; intimacy, nuance, etc., but there’s also a reason why even Phoebe Bridgers occasionally smashes a guitar. Keely remained composed to the point of being nearly invisible. A few murmured “Thank you”s here and there, but little to break up the mood-board of mid-tempo melancholy. The set lacked spark, urgency, or anything that might be mistaken for joy.

To be fair, the band sounded tight. The arrangements were well rehearsed and had potential. You can see the architecture of something taking shape underneath the potato sack facade of a performance. Great songwriting doesn’t always equal a great show, especially when the performance feels like it’s happening behind a velvet rope of middle-aged men without their children present. There were moments, like ‘Couldn’t Run Forever’, where her voice cracked with genuine feeling, but they were fleeting. By the end of the set, the audience had started checking their phones with the kind of glazed reverence usually reserved for midweek tube rides.

Keely clearly has the tools: a distinctive vocal tone, a knack for melancholic melody, and a sound that fits neatly into the indie-pop revival of the moment. But live, she’s still learning how to wield them. If Better Joy wants to make the leap from playlist darling to fully formed performer, she’ll need to bring a bit more chaos, or at least caffeine, to the stage.