Festival Review: FME 2025

A surreal trip through Canada’s most imaginative emerging music festival.

It felt almost too good to be true for Still Listening Magazine to have been given the chance to fly so far west across the Atlantic, to cover a humble yet spirited emerging talent festival deep in French Canada (or “Cana-dia” as we’ve been calling it - not everyone appreciated our slurry British charm). Are we getting recruited? Scouted to join some Battle Royale-inspired game? How do you scare off a moose? Is that a big yellow school bus we’re about to board? These were the questions rattling around our pretty little heads, but not ones we were desperate to answer, as we stood, backpacks sagging, outside the tiny airport. The moment the fresh, green air of Rouyn-Noranda fills our lungs and pushes out the grey London smoke, “go-with-le-flow” mode is instantly activated.

The school bus chugs along and the scenery unfolds, we follow a winding road up to the media house on the hill. Bleary-eyed from the cross country travel and overly generous pours at the pre-party in Montréal’s L’Esco Bar the night before. We disembark. Our feet have officially landed at FME festival.

FME (short for: Festival de musique émergente en Abitibi-Témiscamingue) now in its 23rd year, sprawls across various venues all over this quaint mining city. From the conventional petit théâtre to 24hr poutine parking lots, every corner is a stage. Over the next 4 days, the town buzzes with energy keeping our blood warm in the brisk, black night.

The festival prides its self on combining emerging artists and renowned acts from across the musical spectrum, catering for all genres without greying the water. Admittedly, we only recognised only a handful of names listed on the ’25 bill, but we quickly learned that it didn’t really matter, this is very much a “discover-as-you-go” kind of festival.

This years theme “Debunking the Myth,” comes alive in dystopian set dressing: yellow and black caution tape streams over the entryway to 7e Rue that leads up to the SiriusXM main stage; smashed TVs sit in a heap flickering with interlaced CCTV imagery; dinosaur projections crawl across the back alley walls; a unicorn nests an egg in the hotel lift; Elvis and Aliens wave out of the back windows in the shuttle cars. The result: a surreal playground that blurs the line between festival and fever dream.

Our first show is on the main avenue, the street fills as the sun starts to dip behind the mining scaffolding a couple of blocks away. Billie Du Page, fresh faced, yet oozing confidence, bursts onto the stage. A French-Canadian pop girlie with a setlist packed full of inoffensive, sugary sounds: the kind you’d hear on Love Island, turning your nose up in the moment but bingeing the whole bag privately in one sitting. Tracks like ‘Fake Friends’ or ‘Pris dans le temps’ slip under your skin, their infectious melodies we later found ourselves humming in the various airport queues on the expedition back home, unable to fight off the sweetness. The set gently eases us into the night ahead.

Eager to explore the rest of what FME has to offer, we meander through the back streets to get to our next spot, Cabaret De La Dernière Chance. Festoon lights decorate a wooden deck that leads us to a less obnoxious stage. It reminds us of venues from home: walls packed full, ceiling dripping. We catch the end of Crasher’s set. Repped by Mothland, Crasher is a three piece that fuse luminous vocals, electronic darkness and grizzly punk, crafting songs that shift from the haunting to the explosive.   

The night deepens and the room is now in full swamp mode for UTO. The Parisian duo flicker between flashes of neon and veils of white, strobes pulsing as the band scorch through their underrated discography inclusive of tracks from their latest release, More heat to the fire part of fire. UTO is a sonic tornado, sucking everything in its path: hypnotic, otherworldly and relentless. Squelchy synths and a bass that shatters every lightbulb, while ghostly vocals swirl over the chaos. Crystal Castles 2.0 (there, I said it). UTO is Magdalena Bay’s freak older sibling, the one whose car you’re terrified to get in, but somehow can’t resist when the passenger door swings open.

Fucked up from UTO’s set, jet lagged and otherwise, reality smacks its fat hand across my bloated face. Regrettably, forcing night one short. We missed Bibi Club </3, an ultimate faux pas, as everyone and their mum pegged the indie pop duo as one of the long weekend’s must-see acts, their romantic energy radiating through the entirety of their show. As the final drops of adrenaline fuel our stumbling steps to our temporary hotel home, the sounds of Jay Scøtt’s show on the main stage spill out onto the street. We liken it to a BTEC Mac Miller, our initial impression leads us to believe we aren’t missing much, we remain unconverted. Feedback from the more *ahem* youthful attendees was positive, the loyal crowd echoing every word, phones alight and in full sway for the Québec native’s performance.

Day two, and baby we are alive. Determined to not let more delicious acts slip through our fingers, we are ready for our next fill. First on the agenda is a lunchtime BBQ show at a generous host’s place the opposite side of Lake Osisko. Windswept (and interesting) we rock up to an open door that leads us to a buzzing garden. Joints fill a school-dinner tray, organised by strength, a casual queue files behind the grill. Hot dogs in hand, we secure a spot by the kidney bean shaped pool. It feels like we’re in some sort of stoner Monet painting, effortlessly cool band members and journos alike drape themselves around the blue water. We make jokes about Sum 41 as we wait eagerly for the band.

Population II soon fill the empty instruments, which feel desperate to join the party. The Montréal trio are an explosion of psych, floating between the dreamy and the heavy, their technicality painting in new colours to the scene. Add them to your playlist if you’re a fan of Thee Oh Sees, though singer/drummer Pierre-Luc Gratton delivers softer vocals than John Dwyer. All remnants of the previous day have been blasted off as the band ploughs through tracks from their 2025 release, Maintenant Jamais. Bellies and ears full, the set ends. Gear heads squiggle out of the woodwork, flocking to drool over the pedal boards and immaculate music machines.

Like the lake, smooth and constantly flowing, the afternoon carries us to the QC Salle de Spectacles venue for some soul drenched hip-hop. First on the bill is Mosez Jones, a Philadelphia born, Montréal raised artist whose innovative approach to writing and collaboration feels fresh and vibrant. Jones has an effervescent brightness that beams right to the edges of the two-tiered venue.

Following Jones is Super Duty Tough Work, an art-rap/hip-hop group out of Winnipeg, Manitoba, fronted by Brendan Grey and backed by a full band. The live instrumentals create a rich, full sound, though the audience feels a little less sparky compared to Jones. After a couple of tracks, Grey vibe-checks the room, coaxing call-and-response to Biggie and Wu-Tang lines that we collectively just about manage to echo. Unfazed, SDTW charge on with enthusiasm, their storytelling threaded with piano lines that weave in and out of Grey’s delivery. It’s a slower burn, but one that rewards those paying attention.

Changing the pace after a poutine refuel, we head to Agora Des Arts, an upstairs auditorium tucked just opposite the main party street. The converted church is a welcome haven from the outside chill. Bells Larsen and his band; brushy drums, relaxed bass and hauntingly beautiful pedal steel, wrap the room in warmth. Though Toronto-born, Larsen makes a concerted effort to speak French between songs, bridging the distance with a genuine sense of care. A particular highlight comes with ‘Might’ from his sophomore album Blurring Time (via Royal Mountain Records), a direct and deeply personal reflection on his transition, a theme that resonates throughout the record. The set is intimate, disarming and quietly powerful, the kind that stays with you long after you’ve stepped back into the night.

It’s time to shake things up after getting all in our feels. We head back to our favourite sweatbox, Cabaret, for experimental rock trio Yoo Doo Right. The Montréal outfit channel post-rock, krautrock and shoegaze into a storm of noise and melody, where monolithic riffs collide with propulsive rhythms.

Solids, a punk rock outfit also hailing from Montréal, follow. Inheriting the torch from Yoo Doo Right, the duo keep it blazing and jam the fuck out. The room swells with garage fuzz and raw energy. The sticky floor shaking with every untamed chord. Big regrets for not nabbing a shirt from the snooker table serving a merch stand at the back.

Words ripple through the crowd of a Baby Berserk secret set at the poutine car park around the corner. Giddy from Cabaret’s performances, we accept this enticing side quest. Our senses follow the bouncy synths to reach our street party destination. The Amsterdam born trio are in full flow. Chicly decorated, each member looks lifted straight from the pages of an ‘80s high fashion spread, their sound darting between the hypnotic and frenetic. Frontwoman, Lieselot Elzinga, a vision in a pink silk puffball and fishnets, struts in spiked stilettos through the pooling crowd. Thirstily spitting out the lines of Piggy Piggy (from Slightly Hysterical Girls With Pearls, via Bongo Joe Records), she climbs a lamppost to devour the night one pulse at a time. Like a demonic siren on the rocks, she hurls the lyrics at us, poor, unfortunate souls locked in a collective trance, possessed by the music.

Somehow the Baby Beserk show ended and we wash up at our final shore of the night: Petit Théâtre back on the 7e rue. Although, there is nothing small about it: the space is cavernous and its walls’ unreachable. Our next calling is Marseille’s own La Flemme. After falling hard for the quartet at the FME warm up gig in L’Esco Bar, we were desperate to confirm our crush in a second sitting. We were curious if the energy would remain unmatched in a larger venue. They did not disappoint. Their surfy-garage-rock fused with psychedelia sounds rippled up the perimeter, the visuals (that were fucking sick), toppling the load. The walls melt with saturated colour from the screens that frame the band. They gallop through Still Listening favourite, ‘La Fête,’ attempt a wall of death (everyone is it too mushy to comply) and bring up an attendee on stage to play guitar, who we later meet and learn, had leant said instrument to the band. The set ends, our full hearts still thudding and our ears pricked for more noise, we decide to stay at this spot for another.

Like sweaty teenage boys we giggle at the act next on the bill: Les Breastfeeders, a francophone rock ’n’ roll band from Montréal, well seasoned since the late ‘90s. The six piece show no signs of slowing, unleashing a set that feels like live action Adult Swim animation: a suited bowl-cut frontman, a sassy Daphne-from-Scooby-Doo lookalike backing vocalist, a moustached guitarist and scrappy drummer. The whole set was like an acid trip and these characters were our spirit guides. But the true star was the tambourine-flinging, crooked, mascara-smeared madman. Fraggle rock incarnate. Like a fentanyl Bez, he stomps and rattles his shimmering drum with unhinged abandon. It’s both captivating and terrifying, like a car crash, except nobody dies and the wreckage turns out to be an ice cream van blaring a surprisingly good tune. We couldn’t look away.

Day trois, the days and nights have fused into one. We hear that’s what happens when FME is in town. Time is a construct whose shackles we have unlocked. We hunch over our iced-lattes in a charmingly decorated café in town, a morning staple for us throughout the long weekend. The barista grins, “you like these?” we nod in unison, fully aware of millennial elegance.

We shuffle around town, exploring the little shops we’d overlooked during our initial festival flurry. Locals’ faces are becoming familiar from the nights before. The town, though subtle to the untrained eye, hums with life in its daylight state. Art galleries bustle with visitors, and metal (likely copper) sculptures punctuate the streets. The lake glistens, its reeds waving as ducks bob alongside. Families roll past on assorted wheels along the boardwalk. Posters for free FME jams litter the notice boards. Crystal shops neighbour hunting stores, their doors swinging open and close in rhythm. Though sleepy, Rouyn-Noranda is steeped in community. A local we shared a joint with the night before tells us everyone knows everyone and helps each other out, but it doesn’t feel snooty like the Home Counties back on our land. The bigger the truck, the bigger the heart, it seems here.

After our petit-déjeuner of caffeine and affordable cigs, we discover a free block party open to all is happening at the crossroads in the lot of an automibile repair shop. The sun is warm, its rays gleaming on a breakdancers battling on a checker board floor to a vinyl DJ. An audience of all ages gathers, soaking up the vibe. Another secret show with La Flemme is made apparent. But we are too dizzy from last night to attend.

After a refresh, we trail up to the media house, the ice now fully broken as we compare notes on our collective highlights to new friends. We sit eating delicious food alongside bands we’ve seen on stages in the recent hours before. The orange sky now fading into gradient of night. We head back into town for our penultimate musical fix.

Back at our second home, Cabaret, we catch Boutique Feelings mid-set (though not to worry - they soon shuffle over to the neighbouring alley for another show to cover any missed moments). Their ethereal sounds break down genre walls, blending vivid, offbeat storytelling with lush flute and ear-bleeding bass. We come up for air, pleased to have survived a beautiful storm. Outside, we join gooey friends that have spilled into the backstreets, all full from an all-you-can-eat buffet of revelry. It feels like a mini carnival as groups collect and disperse, people sat playing music on walls, others excitedly declaring who to see next: “Les Trois Accors for ‘stoopid sounds,’” “The OBGMs for explosive energy,” “Poolgirl for riot grrrl influences,” and “Baby Volcano for avant-garde.”

We linger around Cabaret for another highly recommended act, Magi Merlin. Her unapologetic, neo-soul soaked sounds wash over the rickety, sweat box, wrapping the blissed out state of euphoria as we ride each  tracks from the Québécois artist’s ‘A Weird Little Dog’ EP. Each song peels back another layer of Merlin’s multi dimensional identity, drawing us deeper into her world and to the rest of the night.

The soft morning light signals the transition to our final day and we’re eager to make the most of it. We explore a new path through to the botanical gardens where dragonflies and butterflies dance to the thrum of the audience gathered at this sacred spot on the serene lakeside. Everyone and everything is in full bloom.

Empanada Illegales take over an outdoor stage, spilling their salsa rhythms into the afternoon air. The drummer seems to sprout extra limbs, the amount of beats falling out of him. The trumpeter wakes up the day, while shakers and guitarists groove alongside. Children wiggle to the music and dogs lollop in the shade. Its perfect.

Our next stop is another free event at Café-Bar L’Abstracto, where. Montréal-based Ada Lea takes a homemade stage. Canadian folk wraps around the café’s wooden interior. The delicate, poetic nature of Lea’s music is so immersive that twirl of the ceiling fans and clinks of ice cubes in glasses melt into the soundscape. Lea’s vocals are pure magic as she strums her guitar under arm and lets a harmonica perch on her shoulders. The audience is encapsulated.

As much as we were told to pop our heads into the death-core metal shows happening in The Petit Théâtre on the main street. Our current fragile state did not permit. Apparently this scene is vibrant here.

We make our way to our second to last venue of the night, Le Paramount, another expansive, tiered venue, that looks much smaller from the outside. We dip in out of the scene, opening with Elle Barbara, another avant-garde genre bending artist on FME’s ’25 roster. Holding a video camera, the underground singer-songwriter swirls through her set. The audience entranced, swaying in the sonic breeze.

The room swells for the second act, Les Freaks de Montréal (Un bummage à Aut'Chose). Aut’Chose, the legendary fuzzy prog group from Montréal that emerged in the mid ‘70s, ripping through the scene with gritty, back-alley storytelling woven with razor-sharp, intricate rock. An attendee fills us in on the mid-2000s reform, a wild collective pulling in members of Voïvod, GrimSkunk, Groovy Aardvark, Tricky Woo and Entre Aut,’ reuniting around original guitarist Jacques Racine and singer/poet Lucien Francoeur. Tonight, Le Paramount is thick with anticipation as the venue hosts Les Freaks as they pay tribute to its leaders who passed away a just days apart in 2024. It’s no wonder the room is full. The set is a blur, but the memory of a scene that refused to play by the rules is realised. Population II also join the already densely packed stage of artists. Everybody is moving.

A brief moment of recovery before our final act at this venue. TEKE::TEKE, a Japanese-Canadian psychedelic rock group. Front woman Maya Kuroki steers the ship with thick, wide glasses. Having no idea what the front woman is singing, her conviction is so captivating, it doesn’t matter. It’s so theatrical but it’s genuine. Party balloons trickle into the audience and bounce back into the air full of life. If Les Breastfeeders were a real life cartoon the TEKE::TEKKE are a video game. Talking of which, mid set, the band of seven stream through a track from soundtrack for Assassin’s Creed: Shadows, that they were commissioned make in ‘24. The band play way over their allotted time (like an hour and a half over), but it’s welcomed, no one wants this set to end.

But it does, calls to our final act over on the Fizz Stage on the main street become louder and our feet skip back to 7e Rue. Automelodi (soloist producer Xavier Paradis), looks like Morrissey in a wide necked black top, draping a mic over his shoulder. Dark synths lure in an audience unwilling to accept Monday’s reality. Final body throws are let loose from the crowd.

In one final seize of the night we make a final pitstop to back Cabaret for Karaoke. As French Canadians cover Robbie Williams’ ‘Angels,’ we realise that maybe the division between the French and the English speaking here doesn’t seem so divided as described in a history lesson from a passionate uber driver on our first night back in Montréal. Every fibre of my being called to not fear the unknown or the foreign, just cover a song. Believe me I was so close to picking up that mic, the spirit of the festival had me fuelled. My insufferable British shyness betrays me. Next time FME. Next time.

As the propellor plane carries us rag tag journalist back over the lush green and Montréal’s lego buildings start to slot in the blanks, reality creeps back in slow motion. It’s hard to tell if the past few days have been real. FME’s careful curation and deep-rooted community spirit feels rare in today’s festival landscape. It’s hard to come by these days. The festival’s big-hearted atmosphere plus devotion emerging talent is generously balanced.

FME has an energy that’s hard to capture, even when you scroll through your camera roll in a horizontal episode, it’s not the same as being there. The kind of energy that left to the wrong hands would be bottled, chemically enhanced and sold and streamed to the masses. Compare it to the likes of Brighton’s Great Escape, an industry circle jerk or influencer pit Primavera, FME is anything but a pretentious schmooze fest. An alphabet soup of sponsors, aren’t rammed down your throat, although thank you Air Canada for the comfy and punctual flights ;). Even the competitive nature of emerging artist festivals back home don’t feel like a race for the prize to be the first one who heard the likes of The Last Dinner Party or Man/Woman/Chainsaw or whatever elaborately longhand name of the next hype band is next. It bypasses all the grossness. FME radiates community and celebrates the arts without the icky. It’s just a bonus that it hosts more bands than you can shake a stick at, half of which are without a wiki page, Les Breastfeeders still have a myspace, but none of that matters.  FME it’s attendees, bands and industry folk alike are all here for the same thing, a good time.

Photography By: Christian leduc, Louis Jalbert, Dominic MC GRAW & WILLIAM B.DIAGLE