When we met Vincent and crew at our apartment last month we were shy and cautious of the camera in speaking, but sure in the songs. So, it’s calming to see the beautiful images, and have the chance to tell our story in text alongside them.
In my people sleeping we’re all old, old friends or lovers. We have all loved and hated each other like siblings.
In the winter of 2007 we recorded our first EP. During that time we fell into that way of mythologizing everything—we were heavy on symbols. Things like blue dust, time machines, seahorses, and this yellow lamp that we carried around took on more meaning than usual. We’d sing facing each other, trying to match the other exactly. It took restraint, and ritual.
To release the EP we needed a name. The idea that our people were hard to reach—not present, not dead, but sleeping seemed to work for us. The name reinforced what we were doing. It slowed us down and spaced us out.
By the time it came around time to making our first full length album two years later the collaboration had all but broken down. Being down in the Pines (recording studio), in the crumbling neighbourhood of Griffintown, in winter again, in emotional turmoil, we made 'Feye', an album that sounds like a true and apt document of all those things. Its most eerie element may actually be it’s optimism.
The word feye means several things, but the meanings we like are "destined to die" and "possessing elfin like power". We like that idea—that there was something supernatural going on, but that it can’t be the same anymore. And it’s not. In a lot of ways the band that made it broke up. Now with it done and unreleased, we’re reinventing ourselves again.
We invited la blogotheque into our moldy basement apartment, into our comfort zone, where we wrote our album, where we had our fights, and our meetings and our practices, and froze all winter, because it only made sense. Most of us have lived here at some point (as well as half the Mile End music community). We love our neighbours and our cave-like rooms, and our courtyard that smells like sausage.
We played the song Cortes because it represents us well. It allows us to trance out. In it we’re filtering something big and messy through a minimal, repetitious music. It’s about the sea and guilt, explorers and shame—all sad things we can space out to.
What’s been the most formative element of our music is that we’ve always practiced in apartments. Having to be quiet makes a huge difference in composition and how you deliver songs. It’s given us control and calm, in place of abandon.
Vincent Moon sensed that, and wanted some abandon from us, so he led us out into the street. Immediately we ran into our neighbours who didn’t think twice and came along. We all wandered into the café across the street, and ran into several more friends. We sang a song, everybody stopped eating to watch, and there was nothing strange about it at all—everybody knew all the words already. That’s why making music in Montreal is so easy, and perfect.
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