From Abitibi-Témiscamingue (or Quebec, for non-Canadian provincials)…
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Anthony Easton: I am writing this from Gaspe, which is pretty far east on the mainland of Canada, as far east as you can get from Québec. There is a big music festival here, and so I heard some excellent fiddle and mandolin, a confluence of Irish, Scottish and rural French folk music done by people my age and younger. A couple of days after the festival ended, friends of the person I was staying with gave us a ride through the landscape of steeply rolling hills and sea cliffs. We picked up this 18-year-old hitchhiker, who was going to the Magdalene Islands to play in some kind of folk band. It made me kind of realize how popular folk music was in Québec still, and how much stuff I thought was Indie country was really a kind of revival of an update of a revival. Chantal Archambault, with her cleverly tempered voice, brilliant guitar playing, simple melodies, and excellent hand-claps, personifies it better than most here.
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Jessica Doyle: She sounds as if she’s having to keep herself from busting out laughing while singing. Which wooden-floor dive is hosting the hand-clapping, foot-stomping singalong? I want to be there. What beer do they drink in Québec anyway? I’ll buy her next round.
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Alfred Soto: The echo-rich mix reminds me of the drearier parts of a Neko Case record, and her voice goes flat on a few verses. I have a weakness for guitar strums this loud, and hand claps on a record like this are generally a weakness.
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Daniel Montesinos-Donaghy: Archambault delivers three minutes of folkish strumming and syllables bouncing around cavernous mouths, a concoction that’s frothy and completely weightless and desperately in need of some sugar, some zest, something.
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Patrick St. Michel: The sort of song that would perk me up at a festival during the late afternoon, but would be quickly forgotten by the time dinner rolls around.
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Katherine St Asaph: Lively, earnest and utterly unthreatening: music for student hostel ads.
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Brad Shoup: I really like this! It’s the longest shot to dent country radio, but one of her guitars has that prairie sting, and Archambault nails that late-period Nashville lilt. Splendidly arranged, with that gradated step into the refrain and a handclap break that just might prick the ears of erstwhile TSJ contributor Katie Lewis, connoisseur of breaks and handclaps both. Plus it’s out before the three-minute mark.
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Jonathan Bogart: Mumfordins sans frontières.
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