When I learned I’d be covering the Loveless Festival at The Monarch Tavern, I thought the venue sounded familiar. After a brisk, boiling hot walk from the streetcar, I realized that I’d been there just the month before for a concert; this time, though, I came with the nervous pomp of someone covering the show. I eyed the people chatting in outside seats and then the doors on the left and right of the building, wondering where to go—but when I chose the former and went upstairs, I was pretty promptly sent back down. So I then crept into the other entrance and sat at the back with staff, watching Montreal’s Shallow set themselves up. Though I couldn’t hear a word their singer was speaking, that’s often the case with shoegaze. As the sound tech made requested tweaks, I thought idly to myself that shoegaze bands, soaked in reverb, could probably plagiarize lyrics from “Wonderwall,” or repeat a limerick about one’s acne ad nauseum while I would be none the wiser.

After the band finished their practice I parked myself in one of the booths lining the edge of the room, trying to secure a clear view of the proceedings. When I’d been at the Tavern in June watching My New Band Believe, I’d been firmly behind a swarm of tall men, which left me straining to see the whole time. This time I had the early bird’s advantage. When Shallow re-entered, lit by dark pink strobe lights and shrouded in smoke, I had them right in my line of sight.

Through Shallow’s set, it felt as if every layer of the music was tunnelling into a different part of my ears: the steady crush of the drums, how each melody rose from and dove into distortion. A sound like a mournful howl opened one of the songs, reminding me very much of certain songs by the Michigan shoegaze band lovesliescrushing. Another song took me by surprise—it was brimming with energy and backed by fast drumming. Shallow has two singles out currently, and both of them are quite dreamy tracks (this dreaminess is what demarcates a lot of shoegaze for me, whether it leans into a warm shimmer or harsh noise), so this more charged up, aggressive track was unexpected but welcome.

There’s something very fun on a purely aesthetic level about these types of guitar-heavy bands, where the group of guitar players stand like a barrier in front of their drummer. One band member took a hasty gulp of beer and then shook his head vigorously in between songs, which charmed me. “We’re lucky to have him,” one of the singers said warmly of their bass player, who packed their songs with a considerable edge, all while maintaining a cool impassivity through the whole performance. I watched the other singer direct a smile at an older man in the front who was enthusiastically recording. The band’s vocals were split between her cautious focus and his earnestness; he caressed the microphone and closed his eyes as he leaned into it, like his own words pained him. I like when artists are honest about the emotion in their music. His croon was unselfconscious in its heartbreak, and her longing tone gave the songs a more serious melancholy. At one point, the two of them met each other’s eyes from across the stage and grinned. Shallow were mostly met with a standard crowd of attentive head nods, but I caught one woman singing along.

Following the opener was London, Ontario band Closeout, who had the most physical show of the four bands. I know that “chewing the scenery” is specific to acting and derogatory to boot, but the frantic jumps and thrashing from guitarists Andrew Dailey and Beck Jessop felt purposefully dramatic, in a way that amped up the music’s intensity. They enclosed lead singer Daryan Dunn and her high drawl, coordinating their motion, jumping simultaneously or in alternation. One of them sprang into the air with vigor as Dunn hunched in on herself and belted. “We’ve got a little bit of room up here,” she said, inviting the audience to close in as well. At times she clutched her stomach, pressed a hand to her heart, gestured with emphatic emotion. 

Her singing bore a contrast to the murmuring that dominates shoegaze; occasionally it had a wry twang not unlike Alanis Morissette, while other times it held a deep, harsher press. This time around I got a better view of the drummer, who looked as alive as I’ve ever seen someone. After the first couple of songs, the three of them would all turn back to him at once, at which point he would launch them confidently into the next track. 

Before starting one song (“soothe,” I believe, which they’ve just released as a single), Dunn gave a brief intro. “It was the first song I ever wrote,” she told us. “I’ve gotten a lot better, but I’ll always have a soft spot for that one.” “soothe” actually ended up being my favorite that they played. You could tell that these were people who really loved what they were doing—it made a pretty enjoyable picture, watching the two guitarists convulse and flank her cries, the three of them steeped in periwinkle as smoke slowly permeated the stage. Dailey especially thrashed like his own body owed him money, though he and Jessop didn’t get as far as having to dodge each other. “This one is for dancing! Please dance,” they begged the audience near the end of the set. The crowd obliged Closeout as much as you can expect zoomers watching a shoegaze band to—that is, a little bit. 

White Rabbit, a Milton, Ontario band that leans a little closer to indie rock than the other acts, took the stage third. Lead singer Sabrina Perez was crouched down a while over the guitar pedals, adjusting them to her liking. Then came the band’s unrelenting set. The music descended less so into a wall of sound, allowing for Perez’s voice to pierce through. Here was the wailing I had been waiting for, backed by layered instrumentals. Between songs an interlude of sorts would play, which sounded exactly to me like a remixed version of the Fireboy and Watergirl theme. It was sick.

Ben Miles and Justin Gebel, rocking back and forth in tandem, looked straightforwardly happy: happy to be there, happy to be playing. At certain points, Perez’s singing verged on cheeky—she filled one pause in a song with a cheerful “la-la-laaa.” This warmth contrasted against a kind of hateful edge to other songs, where you’d get a crescendoing intensity from the drums and the guitars climbing to match. The overdriven guitar came out warped and crackling. They closed out their performance with “Now That The Dust Has Settled,” the closer of their debut album from 2024, Big Plunge. Its opening was darker than any of the other songs—there was an edge to it that was genuinely abrasive. Here, Perez’s singing folded into the noise rather than rising above it; it felt uniquely rough and pent-up compared to the set as a whole, and I loved it. “I can’t,” Perez cried over and over again, keening into the microphone, before the song broke down into a powerful, dragged out mess. 

The final band to play were Toronto’s the neverminds, founders of the Loveless festival. People had been moving in and out of the Tavern all night, but now a whole crowd swarmed inside the venue. This time, I couldn’t really see all that much unless I went and stood on the footstools in the booth, which would block the people sitting behind me. Back to the short person concert experience, I thought to myself sullenly. 

The band started off with a bang. There was a sharp, polished quality to the instrumentals, you could pay attention to Vincent Hau’s bass, humming under the dreamlike press of the music. There was a steadiness to lead singer Ginny Kim’s singing, and to how their songs built and unfurled. You could sense their ease in performing, and a certain neatness even as songs stretched out into noise. Fans in the centre of the crowd raised their aims in glee. I could feel the band’s interest in beauty—what makes a song beautiful, how to wow you with those qualities. “You guys have been such a good crowd, I think you deserve another new song,” said Hau, heading into a track that had him and Kim wistfully repeating, “it’s not your fault.” Just as we began to clap, the song devolved into another round of sugary noise. He was by far the most talkative of any of the band players that night. “He looks like a young Ethan Hawke, and he’s the best drummer ever,” he said of their drummer, which got a real laugh from me (I did not notice a resemblance, but I think any good drummer can be allowed some comparisons to heartthrob actors). 

One song they played, which I’m fairly certain was “aphrodite,” made me feel like dancing the way shoegaze sometimes can—like I’m possessed and flailing about in a playground at night. It descended into a halting, sultry build of vocals from Kim, who would stare into the crowd as she played. A great deal of their set sounded to me like a fireworks show that kept going and going, continually building upon itself while never straying out of the control of the people lighting it and setting it all off. Before their last song, Hau spoke at length. “Live music has always been such an important part of my life,” he said. “It’s one of the reasons I get up in the morning. Unique, fleeting, singular. Something AI can never recreate.” He went on about his and Kim’s work in creating Loveless Collective, then directed a pile of thanks towards staff, those managing the venues, merchandise artists, to their manager, and to the sound tech. Their last song didn’t get volcanic, but it wouldn’t let up; Kim’s voice felt at one with the sound, never straining to be heard over it but never collapsing under it. 

The crowd erupted into applause when they finished. I looked around the crowded bar with real appreciation; no matter how much my vision ends up obstructed, you can’t deny the effortless intimacy of small venues like the Monarch Tavern. I had to dash out early to catch the subway, work the next morning snapping at my heels already, but the music stuck with me the same way the sway of seawater will, hours after you’ve already left the beach. I played songs all the way home on my headphones, carefully nursing my low battery, but it couldn’t match the energy of the bar’s crowd, the glee of watching people sing songs I don’t know and throw their hands in the air in tandem with mine. Hau’s words about live music resonated with me—what I really love about it is getting to hear a one-of-a-kind version of a song. You watch an artist perform, and you know with complete certainty that no previous or subsequent performance will ever sound exactly the same. Even a recording of the live show can’t replicate how the music sounded 3 feet (or 300 feet) from the stage. The Loveless Festival left me feeling more grateful for that than ever.