Zoon (a shortened moniker for: ‘Zoongide’ewin’ – an Ojibway name that means bravery, courage, and ‘the Bear Spirit’)  is an Indigenous artist who made waves in 2020 with the release of his debut album: Bleached Waves. A record aimed at expanding his understanding of his own cultural heritage, the album was shortlisted for the Polaris prize after receiving critical acclaim for the expansive soundscape, well-written lyrics, and themes touching on a sensitive topic many Indigenous people face today: a widening sense of cultural diaspora.

  It’s no wonder then that the acclaimed artist left a memorable mark on the weekend’s festivities. The first thing you notice when you step into McDougal Church is its space. As you enter through the wide doors that lead into the rows of pews and bibles, your eyes will linger on the organ pipes centered down from the entrance. You’ll take in the metallic shine; the evenly spaced columns; the intimidating middle row that greets you as soon as you walk in. Eventually, your gaze will drift upwards and marvel at the expansive emptiness that’s the ceiling.

  As I’m sure you could probably tell, this was my first venture into McDougal church. Actually, come to think of it, this was my first venture into a church in the last fifteen years. My family and its (growing) extension grew up either catholic or Christian. Baptized or with the solemn intention to, forgotten within the excitement and hubbub of everyday living. Somewhere along the line, I drifted into breezy agnostics; then, after some internal debate, an undefined spiritualism. I had left the church-going adventures behind in my quest for a new faith-substitute.

  A funny thing happened when I stepped into McDougal. No, I didn’t suddenly unearth some buried belief in a god above with a capitol ‘G’. That would have made for an easy paragraph to write in the ‘Spiritual Quest’ chapter (and possibly have made life easier – who knows?). As I sat down in a pew the festival volunteer announced the artist, I was struck with a peculiar feeling. This feeling took root and grew when Zoon entered from stage right; soon, the wood from the pew shook from the lovely sounds emanating from the stage. A peculiar verisimilitude percolated the air: here I was, amongst a scattered crowd in this church, taking in an artist I was very quickly learning to love. There was no denying it – it may not have been faith that brought me back into the church environment; it was music. Music and faith: are the two any different?

  In my quest for enlightenment over the last few years, the only thing I’ve really been certain of is a crowd’s love for their music. Take any festival. Any local show – whether it’s a crowd of thousands or a single person waiting in the wings, these folks attend their shows because of their love for what they’re seeing on stage. I don’t know if it’s faith or trust that brings in a crowd. Could be a mix of both. Could be folks just wanting a fun night out. Either way, you can’t deny that when you’re at a show, there’s a sense of familiarity within the crowd. A sort of haphazard comradery that, like any good magic trick, vanishes with the night’s end. For one brief moment, a unity forms. Two hours into a set and your background melts away. There’s just you, the crowd, and the music.

  A similar phenomenon occurs in church. There’s usually a priest or pastor above – your headliner. There’s the faithful attendees in their pews – your anonymous audience. For about two hours as the sermon carries on, the crowd listens. There’s a defined relationship here – the observer and the observed. What stands out about this breed of symbiosis is the active nature of both participants. The observed isn’t hidden behind a glass wall: instead, they stare straight at their observer ensuring that this secondary participant is seen. It’s a weird participatory relationship that somehow works.

​

   Looking around, there was a scattered crowd captivated by the artist’s sounds. Zoon, when you do the research, is a talented, award-winning artist. However, it’s when you hear the music live, you soon discover a sound design that makes you feel groundless. You can be sitting anywhere in the world – a crowded chair in a coffee shop for example – or balancing yourself semi-precariously on a fence, mid-hike. It doesn’t matter. You’ll forget about the crowded bustle of coffee-goers getting their fix. You’ll forget about the happy couple that races past in their morning jog. Like in a dream, you’re aware of what you’re perceiving; but the details around become a little blurred.

  Inside McDougal church, the sound from the set was alive. I’m sure that has a lot to do with the overall architecture of the space: wide concave ceilings; strategically placed pillars on the left and right walls; speakers placed just below the centre stage. The venue added a vulnerability to the set that only enhanced the dream-like experience.  Sitting in the pew, the emotional slow-tide that makes up the self-dubbed ‘moccasin-gaze’ style soundscape (a term that describes elements of folk/shoe-gaze with traditional Indigenous elements creating a uniquely personal genre) starts off slow. You can hear the opening chords of a guitar; a hesitant press of a back-pedal; a lingering echo of a synthesizer. It’s a sound that immediately grabs your attention. How could it not? The reverb in tandem with sheer loudness is a perfectly weathered storm that sweeps up a listener and doesn’t let go.

  It was halfway through the set that I realized why this particular performance was so damn captivating. It was a visual and tangible representation of music; specifically, the set was a symbol for music itself as a kind of religious experience. I’m sure the church environment helped to nail down this metaphor. But in my quest for self-assurance and spiritual enlightenment, I realized that I’d traded one religion for another kind altogether: music.

  Ask anyone about their favourite artist or album. Ask them about the first record they bought and that trip the record shop. Ask them about the first time they played that album and the feeling it gave. Chances are you’ll be met with some kind of passionate response. Favourite records or favourite songs – hell, even your favourite artists (perhaps unknowingly) perform a simple favor: they define for us the unknown. Whether it’s feelings or experiences – memories or a description of the senses – music acts as a makeshift religion for the everyday person.  It binds us together (whether we know it or not) in ways tangible yet unseen. 

​

-Josalynn