The Winter 2024 Music Room
Nemahsis - Verbathim
“I throw an idea to the world, not sure how they’ll take it,” Nemahsis, aka Nemah Hasan, sings on her debut full-length record, Verbathim. The lyric underscores the hostility that the Palestinian-Canadian alt-pop musician has faced within the music industry. Hasan has spoken openly about the discrimination she’s encountered, including how she was allegedly dropped by a label in the fall of 2023 for her pro-Palestinian stance. Luckily for us, she’s sharing her ideas despite this suppression.
Verbathim is an impressive statement, theatrical yet vulnerable. Hasan is self-assured as she explores her insecurities. On the stirring “coloured concrete,” she chronicles her anxieties about her teeth falling out, and about needing to make sure a neighbour’s pool doesn’t dry up. Later, on “i borrow happiness from tomorrow,” she instructs herself to “be more reliable / be more relatable,” her voice accompanied by fragile strumming. Hasan sings with exquisite vocal control, whether she’s putting on a country twang or reaching upward with a tender warble. “stick of gum” turns the uncertainty outward, as Hasan considers a feeling of devotion that has thorns. “Are you capable to reciprocate?” she asks, sounding energized and untouchable, even as she acknowledges there’s no guarantee of what she’ll get in return.
Lubalin - haha, no worries
“It’s very cool, but I also like things that are right on the edge of being cheesy,” says Montreal’s Lubalin in a statement about his song “bullet time,” the lead single of his album haha, no worries. A lot of the best pop music rests on that edge: the feelings have to be big enough to hit hard, but not so big that they become meaningless. On his solo debut LP, Lubalin—who co-wrote much of Canadian singer Charlotte Cardin’s aloof pop juggernaut 99 Nights—pairs earnest emotion with whining vocal samples and skittering drum and bass beats, finding a sweet spot between over-the-top cheese and cool remove.
Lubalin’s songwriting brings together mature existentialism and a sense of childlike wonder. “bullet time” is clearly the album’s standout track, powered by a casually propulsive breakbeat, Lubalin’s mournful vocals and a thrilling chorus about achieving The Matrix-level clarity. Some songs lean too much on repetitive chord progressions, but for the most part Lubalin maintains momentum. On the emo-pop entry “pale blue dot,” he sings about feeling insignificant; on the swaggering “you know me,” he tells his haters to blow him. haha, no worries contains more than a few worries—but Lubalin gets in some laughs along the way, too.
N NAO - Nouveau Langage
On her third album as N NAO, Montreal’s Naomie de Lorimier renders desire as a cosmic force. Evolving from her folk roots, Nouveau Langage finds de Lorimier sculpting sonic worlds out of harp, electroacoustics and her gossamer voice. De Lorimier says in a statement that during the album’s creation she was anchored by the idea of combustion, especially as seen in the life cycles of stars. However, Nouveau Langage is less explosive than contemplative, a kinetic meditation on the push and pull of love.
The compositions on Nouveau Langage sound like intricate machines pulsing along, each part contributing to the motion of the whole. On “Corps,” metallic chords repeat, joined by clipped percussion and bright beeps as de Lorimier delivers direct, imagistic lyrics in French: “I am the fire / the light / I burn / I feel you.” De Lorimier’s arrangements are deftly balanced, juxtaposing harsh and smooth tones as the songs develop toward conclusions both natural and unexpected. On the final track, “Déjà,” the elements slowly converge into one gorgeous mass, everything ringing out at the same time until overtaken by white noise—an enchanting supernova.
Sunnsetter - Heaven Hang Over Me
Heaven Hang Over Me, the latest full-length album from Sunnsetter—the solo project of Norfolk County, Ontario’s Andrew McLeod—begins with noise. Opener “Fear it comes in waves” is an aggressive track about wading through terror; but in its final minute the distortion pulls back, leaving a gently strummed, clean guitar tone. This intro establishes McLeod’s thesis for the album: screeching eruptions and quiet strums form a duality of expression, both essential to the work of communicating feelings.
McLeod’s writing blends catchy alt-rock with the immersive ethos of shoegaze, veering between pretty melodies and walls of sound. Their voice is sometimes above the fray, issuing lyrics like mantras, and sometimes within it, part of the squall. McLeod sings about pain as a cyclical process. “Every day is a new day to feel the same way,” they intone over a slowcore guitar lick on “I ACTUALLY DON’T WANNA DIE.” But McLeod isn’t apathetic. On the eight-minute emo opus “I want to live (the body is a place of rest),” a sluggish beat sounds like it’s yanking itself forward.
For all its contemplations of fear and death, Heaven Hang Over Me sounds colicky and alive.
In my four years writing the Music Room column, I’ve tried to champion music that avoids the straight-ahead—artists that dig into the muck of life and grasp at possibility. Heaven Hang Over Me feels like the right album to close my tenure: a thrashing commitment to trying, however loud or quiet.