By the time you disembark in Rouyn-Noranda, it already feels as if you've journeyed in a dream. The plane dips and rattles over a snarled mosaic of lakes and rivers, so many that you stop trying to count. A heart-shaped lake twinkles in the distance, the sun glinting off its watery face as if to wink at you on Mother Nature's behalf. It's beautiful and strange, and isolated, and it serves as a proper prelude to what lies ahead. Welcome to Abitibi-Témiscamingue, and welcome to FME 2024.
In its 22nd year, the Festival de musique émergente (FME) has grown into its comfort zone, all in its confident, charming glory. It's the sort of festival that makes you wonder, "How the [expletive] isn't this on every must-see list?" And maybe that's part of the magic. FME does not claim to be everything; it merely aims to reflect the truth. What you do have is an innovative fusion of ascending Canadian talent, eccentric venues, real-deal community, and just enough natural beauty to question why you ever fantasized about big-city life.
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The festival vibe kicks in early, even from touchdown. Parked taxis gleam in the sunlight, and bald eagles wheel overhead as musicians and festivalgoers unpack their gear outside the small airport. Not, for the first time in their lives, they are not greeted with a booming audience, but instead a motorcade of fans and friends. Orchestra Gold is there, grinning and carrying their instruments effortlessly but informally, communally, and unselfconsciously.
This year, the roster ranges far and wide, from grimy death metal shows at Petit Théâtre to street performances outside Chez Poutine. FME is serving up funk, hip-hop, folk, experimental synth pop, and everything in between. And the Six Shooter Records showcase alone was an epiphany, Peter Dreams of July Talk writhing onstage and howling with pure abandon, NYSSA casting a spell over the room with pagan punk poetry, and Thus Owls' Erika Angell exorcising avant-garde emotions through synths and spoken word.
And there lies the soul of FME, but dedication to access, inclusivity, and cultural bridge-building. This year, unfortunately, lacked the presence of Inuk throat-singer Tanya Tagaq. Still, the festival's continued collaborations with First Nations artists and its commitment to reconciliation and reparations speak volumes. Such visual installations as Makwa, which overlooks Lake Osisko, pay homage to this heritage with grace and depth.
But FME is also about joy. And what's not to love about a free show?" I don't know where else you can get a set like Les Mooses, where a fake '20s country artist, the pleasantly created Hezekiah Procter, tears the house down with a sousaphone and top hats? It's art, it's performance, it's storytelling, and it's a riot.
By the time Joe Grass, Petite Amie, and The Brooks wrap things up at Le Paramount, this town is pulsing with more than just a festival. It's like home, even if only for the weekend. FME is not just a place to go but a stop worth the detour. A love letter to music, to place, to the stories that connect us, no matter how far off the map we travel.
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