Willow Avalon Rides High in Montréal

Walking into Studio TD on that warm August night felt like stepping back into Leopold’s Tavern back home in Regina. It’s cozy without being cramped, and the kind of room where a whisper can carry just as far as a scream - which is exactly what Willow Avalon’s music calls for. 

I’ve been listening to her for a while, mostly when I’m reminiscing on my teenage escapades in Saskatchewan. There’s something about her songs that taps into the feeling of long, empty roads and old stories that still live in your body. 

The crowd came ready. There were cowboy hats, pearl snaps, vintage fringe jackets, snakeskin boots. People dressed straight out of a Louisiana girls’ style Pinterest board. My friends and I had gone the more boho route: long maxi skirts, heeled boots. We looked more ready to read your zodiac chart in Parc Jeanne Mance than for a country concert, but the great thing about Willow’s show was that everyone was too enamoured by the music to notice. 

Before the lights dimmed, we fell in with a group of Southern international students— a little chaotic, but deeply committed to good vibes. They were the kind of people who make you feel like you’ve known them forever after five minutes. A few songs into Willow’s set, one of them darted off to the Studio TD bar and came back holding a neat little shot of tequila. She brought it right up to the front of the stage, held it up, and waited. Willow spotted her, smiled, and paused what she was doing just long enough to take the shot—calmly, like this was all part of the night’s sacred rhythm. The crowd cheered like we were watching something vaguely legendary. 

She’d opened with “Something We Regret,” and from the first line, it was clear: this wasn’t just going to be a live version of her album. Her voice was deeper, more raw around the edges, with a kind of quiet control that made you lean in rather than back. Her phrasing felt deliberate but unpolished in the best way, like she was still discovering the songs as she sang them. 

There’s a vulnerability to her music, and she doesn’t dress it up. “The Actor,” “Tequila or Whiskey,” “Smoke & Embers”—each one landed with this slow, steady weight. Her band stayed subtle, never overpowering her voice. It felt more like a conversation than a performance. 

Before playing her song “Homewrecker,” she told a story about how she’d been crushing on this guy who seemed perfect. “Everything was going great,” she said. “Until I found out, on Facebook, that he had…. a wife.” The whole room groaned in solidarity. “Yeah,” she said, shrugging, “so this one’s for him.” The song hit differently after that. You could feel people lock in emotionally.

At another point in the set, she spotted the Southern girl from earlier and said, “Your hair is gorgeous.” A small thing, but it made the room feel closer. Like we weren’t just watching—we were all part of something happening together. 

She closed the night with “Gettin’ Rich, Goin’ Broke.” There was no dramatic exit, no choreographed final moment. Just a last chord, a thank you, a wave. It was honest, low-key and exactly right. 

We spilled out onto Sainte-Catherine afterwards, a little sweat-soaked, a little emotionally disoriented, still caught up in the quiet spell she’d cast. The show didn’t blow the roof off—and thank God for that. It did something rarer. It let us sit with ourselves, together, without having to pretend or pose. 

Willow Avalon doesn’t perform like she wants to be worshipped. She sings like she wants to be understood. And somehow, that made all of us feel like we could be, too. 

If you get the chance to see her live, make sure you go. Bring your heartbreak, your weird skirt, your whole soft self. She’ll make room for all of it.