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.

Eastern Promises’ host Donald Roberge spoke with Fredericton, New Brunswick-based singer-songwriter Marc McLaughlin, ahead of his September 11th performance at Mai/Son, in Montreal. McLaughlin discusses his 2025 release, ‘All I Can Say’, how humor informs his songwriting, and what we can expect at his upcoming show.

Over 70 Palestinian students waiting to attend university in Canada are stuck in the Gaza strip, waiting for the final approval of their study permits. Six of these students hope to attend Concordia this academic year.

Many students in Gaza have been waiting for six to eight months to hear back from Immigration refugees and citizenship Canada IRCC regarding their study permits. Some have started to lose offers as a result of not getting these permits, two students, slated to come to the University of Waterloo this fall, were killed.

The Palestinian Students & Scholars at Risk Network, PSSAR, is a group that works to help palestinian academics safely continue or begin their studies. CJLO spoke with the chair of the board for the PSSAR, Dr. Ayman Owieda.

Despite limited internet and electricity access in Gaza due to the Israeli blockade and bombardment of infrastructure, two accepted Concordia students currently living in Gaza were able to connect with CJLO news for interviews. Fatoom and Ahmad have had their last names protected for personal security purposes. They both told CJLO about their lives as they wait for the visa process to proceed.

Representatives from the IRCC would not provide an interview but pointed to a statement explaining that each individual case is being processed but is complex.

Third time’s the charm. At the end of the winter semester, my friend had convinced me to come see her friend’s band play at Casa del Popolo—not knowing at all what their sound was, except for the fact that this friend had said the band was “glam-rock esque.” I had immediate visions of Kiss, with their loud makeup and frequent tongue protrusions. I remember not knowing what to expect; the unknown lay before my ears, and I was vaguely uncomfortable. We were preparing for a certain amount of wincing and had hung close to the wall. The band, all except the lead singer, began to play a rousing cacophony, and I wondered if this was some sort of instrumental group or something. But then, Lulu emerged from the crowd. I hadn’t caught a glimpse of them before the show, but once I saw the laced-up corset, the hoop earrings grazing the tops of their shoulders, and that platinum-blonde, dishevelled hair, I had a feeling my ears were about to be rocked off. 

Since first seeing Lulu perform, I was caught.  

And here I stand, at Foufounes (my very first time at the venue) to watch the band play their final show on The Tolling Belle tour, severely tipsy.  

Before even arriving at the venue, I was anxious about being on time: okay, the show is from eight to eleven forty-five, gotta be there by seven thirty when the doors open. I had somehow accepted that the band was going to play for three hours and have no openers. A rookie move. I took a ride to my friend’s place, and kept my shoes on, thinking we were dashing immediately out. To my surprise, she wasn’t pressed for time. Odd. I decided to let go of my worries and let her and her roommate decide when we would leave, mostly because I couldn’t handle the pressure. This suspension of control is foreign to me. When I first heard Lulu perform, I suspended control over my body. I let the drums pound in my sternum, let my feet tap-tap to their own volition. I let my arms sway about me—careful not to spill any beer. The riffs felt like static in the darkness, cropping up every so often. I thought I had to soak up all of my observations of the set deep inside my mind’s eye and somehow view it all from afar. Instead, I’m left with snippets of images and melodies.  

My friends and I stop for a smoke on Saint-Catherine. I see large, yellow letters: O U F O U. I can’t make out the entire thing. Strange. I wonder why we’ve stopped here. I can make out a drill beat and an accompanying guitar. Right: the venue. We puff along, yawning here and there because we all seem to be on the same page of exhaustion—for the moment. I turn to my other friend when I see a tall, blond person approaching us. I recognize their face but don’t recall their name. They offer a smile at our little  group: “If you’re here right now, you must be coming to see our set, hey?” That’s when I realize that this is Lulu—outside of business hours, when they aren’t belting into a mic. I hadn’t recognized them without the dark makeup and half-bare chest. They chomp away at a shawarma, dish out their nice-to-meet-you’s and stroll away. 

I recall a purple spotlight lighting Lulu’s face as they sang their ballad tune during the set. I can still see it: the single droplet of sweat that dislodged itself from their nose, swallowing the light like a crystal.  Kind of a rocker moment. Lulu’s corset was sliding down, and they, uninterested in hoisting it back up.  

The show ranged from smooth tempos gliding over the crowd to high energy beats—from swaying gently, linking arms with my friends, to a mosh that was led by Lulu hopping off stage and shoving those closest to them. The balance of it all (having already heard this set twice before) still steered my attention to the striking sounds of guitars and bass. I was still mesmerized by the complex percussion and still found myself, a smile plastered onto my face, bopping my head in the way I only really do for rock.  

Lulu Lamontagne’s sound feels like dark velvet embedded with spikes. Brassy melodies pierced with vibrant crescendos. There’s an essence of DIY tied to the band. Minimal bells and whistles, but lots of drama, in the purest of senses. The drama of having your lead singer emerge from an anticipatory audience once the instruments begin playing and having them leave before they’ve finished performing is theatrical. I’m sure many musicians before Lulu have done exactly this, but as I have not seen it for myself, it leaves me imagining the band as these phantoms that come to rock your house and then sultrily vanish into the dark.  

I recall bursts of expressions that Lulu conjured during the set. It was pulled straight from the opera.  Fluttering fingers encasing their face—flashes of Edvard Munch’s paintings—and I found myself likening Lulu to art I’ve studied.  

One of their slower songs plays, and my friend wraps her arms around my shoulders. Lulu croons. Before the song began, they prefaced by saying the song was going to speak to a deeply personal problem, the curse of being terribly beautiful. A problem we all have, they added with a wink. The chorus comes along: it must be you, it must be you, it must be you, and the crowd all points at each other, the recipients of pointed fingers alternating throughout the repetitions. It must be all for us: the beneficiaries of sound, bound for an hour.