Ovale, the second full-length album from Montreal-based composer, singer, and writer Frédérique Roy, defies reduction: Its tendrils are too vast, its heart so pure, its moments never completely passing. Across eleven tracks, Roy and company unfurl a series of dulcet compositions that, to varying degrees, assume the shape of songs. If names like Town and Country, Martin Arnold, or Emmanuelle Parrenin touch your tender buttons, then please: The rug is right beneath you, go ahead and stretch out.
What’s immediately apparent upon listening to Ovale is a profound sense of devotion. I’m reminded of philosopher Simone Weil’s secular positing of prayer as “absolutely unmixed attention.” These shimmering, nebulous compositions have been tended to with intense adoration by the group that brought them into being. Roy is joined by Toronto’s Robin Dann and Phil Melanson (both from outré pop combo Bernice) and Montreal’s Simon Labbé and Samuel Gougoux, who are stalwarts of overlapping avant scenes. The level of musicianship and togetherness is gorgeous. Opener “La mite” may be the most straightforward piece on the album in its firm commitment to a paper-thin, swaying rhythm. The wonderfully ambling guitar and piano melodies, along with Roy’s patient vocals and imagistic lyrics, give the song a hypnotic quality, hinting at the more abstract evocations to come. The following compositions move effortlessly between modes of outright majesty and quietly zonked playfulness, without ever betraying the album’s thoroughly charmed palette. Nary a note out of place, nor ever where exactly you’d expect it to be.
