The Ophelias: The Universality in the Specific

Here I am, in the BAnQ Library, typing on a public computer after what felt like an unforgettable night. Last night, I wandered through the Plateau, from Parc La Fontaine to La Banquise, then down Duluth Street at 1 am, beneath a heavy cumulonimbus sky, blasting The Ophelias on my busted JBL speaker, trying to gather my thoughts together about their music. 

Throughout, I kept asking myself, Who are these people? What makes them special to me and to you, the reader?

The truth is… I don’t know what would make them special to you. I only know what makes them special to me.

The Ophelias evoke a deep, guttural melancholy in me. When I listen to them, I feel sad. I feel the ache of loss. This isn’t cherry pop music. No, If you want to write an Ophelia’s song, here’s how you do it:

Step one: Break up with your girlfriend (also works if your girlfriend breaks up with you)

Step two: Grab a notebook and write down every thought that crosses your mind at 2 am

Step there: Set those words to a slow, melancholic melody.

And there, you have an Ophelia’s song.

Their music doesn't follow the polished structure of verse-chorus-verse. It feels more like a stream of consciousness. Like pages torn from a diary written after a heartbreak. Like a letter you’ll never send. Their lyrics touch on different emotions and memories from line to line, without warning.

Take "cumulonimbus", my favourite song. It’s a track that feels like a quiet storm, a reflection on a past relationship that, while destined to end, still hurts deeply:

“The memories you locked into the trunk of the car”

“The things that I didn’t say are always going to hang above you like a cumulonimbus”

“Expecting everything to work out on the other end”

These lyrics capture a particular flavour of young adult grief, which is the fear of having wasted time, the ache of unspoken words, the strange anticipation that everything will resolve itself, even when it won’t. The song floats between regret and resignation, confusion and clarity. It is both a goodbye and a what-could-have-been.

The beauty of The Ophelias lies in the way they give voice to the quiet chaos of becoming. Their songs feel like wishes, things we all wish we had done, wish we had said, people we wish we were. There’s a nostalgia embedded in their music, a longing not just for the past, but for the very present you're still in. A feeling of missing the moment before it’s even done.

Another standout for me is "Cicada", a song soaked in eerie self-reflection:

“You successfully receded / From the surface recognition / But even though I don't know what you look like in the present tense / The feeling of you haunts me…”

“Ten thousand cicadas descend on Cincinnati”

It reads like someone trying to erase a ghost from their memory, only to find the ghost is themself.

And then there’s Open sky, a quiet post-breakup conversation with someone you used to love. The track feels like standing under an empty sky, trying to say all the things you never said when it mattered. Bitterness, resignation, and a weird calmness intertwine in the lyrics. Like many of The Ophelia's songs, it lingers.

I’m a 23-year-old Nigerian Montrealer. I don’t imagine The Ophelias wrote these songs for me. And maybe that’s exactly the point.

That’s what makes them special to me, the Universality in the specific.

The feeling of being lost. The ache of dreams that no longer fit. The sweetness of being young and “on our way,” even when we don’t know where we’re going. These are themes that transcend background, geography, or experience.

Listening to The Ophelias is like listening to your own inner monologue, but better written. They put words to thoughts we’ve only half-formed. They make emotions audible. They turn confusion into poetry, reminding us that others have felt like this before and survived it.

Spencer Peppet’s, the lead singer, has a voice that's soft and calm, like someone soothing you as you cry. Her voice echoes that empty, drifting feeling when nothing makes sense. Together, their sound is not just music; it’s a mirror that reflects us in all our grainy, post-breakup self-loathing.

Maybe I’m projecting. Maybe I’m not, who knows, who cares. But in a world that often feels too big, too fast, too unknowable, The Ophelias remind me that I’m not alone in my uncertainty.

So here I am, under another cumulonimbus sky, listening and writing.

Support your local libraries. Support your small artists. And if you’re feeling lost, like me, maybe listen to The Ophelias.

You probably won't find yourself, but you'll have a new favourite artist.