May 8th — A Night of Musical Detours at DepartureTo
Canadian Music Week looked a little different this year. Following the sale by the retiring owner, the new management rebranded and expanded the event, renaming it “DepartureFest.” As a first-timer? No nostalgia. Just curiosity. I jumped in to hear what some of the musicians were like for two of the festival’s evenings.
My night started late (day jobs, gotta love ’em). After grabbing my media badge, I popped into the Cameron House to hear acoustic soloist singing, but it didn’t feel unique or special to someone like me, who’s not all that into that sound. The artist, Maurice van Hoek is good at the bluegrass and folk that he’s doing, but it just wasn’t the vibe for me. I stayed for a song and ducked out to see what else was happening.
The walk to Kensington Market’s Supermarket stretched longer than expected. Inside, I caught the tail end of Mela Bee’s set. She played and spoke earnestly, and with some embarrassment, asked us all to follow her on IG (which you can do here).
I liked her range in tone and intensity, but as with van Hoek I need something to keep my interest. So when the next act got off to an acoustic yet ethereal start, I was intrigued. Knowing I needed to stay long enough to give some deeper reviews than just 1-2 sentence remarks, I bought a beer and sat down at the counter between the dancefloor and seating area near the bar to hear what Janiah Hines Brown had in store.
Normally more textured in alt-pop (which is more my vibe, actually), Brown did a laid-back acoustic set of originals. The crowd was sparse, maybe 15 people. I couldn’t help but side-eye the empty chairs. This artist deserves a room triple the size, I thought, mentally drafting texts to 20 friends who’d melt over her voice. But here’s the thing: She didn’t wilt. No sighing, no half-hearted choruses. Instead, she leaned into the silence, turning it into a power.
I stayed—she’d weaponized the emptiness. It doesn’t matter how many people are in your audience. Sometimes, all you need to do is sing from the heart.
Her set unfolded like a fever dream—layered reverb, whispered confessions, a voice that oscillated between childlike wonder and an almost-gothic resolve.
Between a couple of songs, she shared that she recently turned 22, and wasn’t happy about it. Then, in a moment of perspective, she remembered that “people are dying,” which helped her admit she was being dramatic. Brown was a great storyteller, as besides talking about her birthday, she shared the backstory of another song where she was thinking about her grandfather, who passed when she was very young. She was also self-aware, promising only a couple more (sad) songs before we were free of her, which elicited an audible “no” from the audience.
Up next, Michelle Treacy arrived like a gut-punch after Janiah’s ether.
Strapping on her guitar, she deadpanned: “…for those that don’t know me, my name is Michele Treacy”. She goes on to describe her musical journey, now moving beyond pop music for her upcoming album, titled “Love me till I’m Me Again.” After lots of performing (presumably other music) for people under 18, she was quite pleased to be speaking more freely, describing the album as [about] “real shit”.
Herself included, the three-person band opened with a slow, broody, acoustic-electric song full of dark imagery of knives and bullets. “This love is bulletproof” was the refrain. “Real shit” indeed.
Her set included songs about breakups, friendships, and more. She had a great sense of humour”. When introducing the track Josie, she roasted the ex that inspired the song (“Dating a MAN… from OHIO?”). Named after the woman he obsessed over, Treacy shares how she wanted to be like Josie, hoping it would win some of his affections for her “…till I realized I’m a BAD BITCH.” (Her friend in the audience cheered.)
Throughout her set, she revelled in her ability to say whatever she wanted to this crowd of adults, at least two of whom she knew by name. Her banter between songs is as enjoyable as her music, which is varied and dynamic.
She shared a story about how she forgot how a friend of hers died suddenly. she dedicated the song to “anyone who’d lost anyone”. I too have lost a friend, right before everything went to shit in the world in 2020. Today was the first day she played without lots of pain, too, as she additionally has a chronic illness that causes physical pain.
Then, a shift. With some trepidation, Treacy confessed how one day, she just, suddenly forgotten her friend died. The room stilled as she dedicated “Wish You Could Stay Awhile” to anyone carrying loss. One of those people in the audience was me. I don’t know her friend’s story, nor will I share mine (except to say they were lost right before the world cracked in 2020). But the longing? That landed deep. She noted that she’d never performed it without physical pain until tonight, her chronic illness briefly relenting. Performing for kids, she murmured, taught her that connection was her power—a truth so vital she wished we could all just sit in a circle under the weak venue lights.
The song’s energy hung in the air like dust motes.
I finished off my drink and headed out, wanting to save my energy and get to bed early enough to cover the conference and the start of the festival shows for Friday.
DepartureFest’s magic? It’s not in the packed headliners – it’s in these half-lit rooms where artists like Janiah turn emptiness into atmosphere, and Treacy transforms real shit into communion.
Want more DepartureFest? Check out these photos from other performances:
And stay tuned for part two from the following night!
