Fresh from delivering a commencement address at a conservative college in Boston, I sought solace in a dimly lit café nestled on a quiet side street in Montreal. It was there that I encountered Deb Edison, the enigmatic force behind The Submissives. Our meeting, like her music, was imbued with an air of mystery and intrigue. As I settled into a well-worn leather chair opposite her, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the faint scent of rain-drenched pavement, evoking memories of my own turbulent youth—both tender and turbulent.

Raised as an outsider akin to Edison, my father, a stern disciplinarian, believed in the virtues of tough love, while my ethereal mother sought solace in her garden, a sanctuary from the clamor of child-rearing. One sweltering summer's day, driven by relentless curiosity, I ventured into the dense woods behind our familial abode. Hidden within the tangled undergrowth, I stumbled upon an aging, weathered cabin. Amidst the accumulated dust and decay lay remnants of a bygone existence—faded photographs preserving fleeting moments of joy, timeworn books murmuring tales of distant lands, and a weathered record player, its spindle adorned with a stack of aging vinyl discs. It was in that forgotten sanctuary that I first surrendered to the enchantment of music—its haunting melodies and evocative lyrics offering sanctuary from the clamor of the external world.

Years later, seated across from Edison in that unassuming café, I could not resist drawing parallels between her and the forsaken cabin. Both she and her music evoked an impression of relics from eras past, their allure steeped in the gentle melancholy of times lost. When I attempted to impress her by ordering our refreshments in the lilting cadence of French, hoping to convey an air of cosmopolitan refinement, she merely arched a quizzical brow—an expression teetering between faint amusement and unfeigned indifference. It became discernible that Edison harbored a profound antipathy towards the insidious avarice that pervades the music industry—an industry that thrives upon artifice and the commodification of creativity. Her resolute conviction resonated acutely within me, resounding an echo of my own disenchantment with the superficialities oftentimes tethered to transient success.

The Submissives' voyage was inaugurated in 2015 as Edison’s solitary odyssey, hewn from the bedrock of her myriad compositions penned over the epochs. These melodies, now resurrected and meticulously woven by a collective of live instrumentalists, imparted a fresh vitality to her introspective musings. The band has since unfurled four comprehensive albums—three preserved upon cassette, a format that had eluded my comprehension, and one etched onto vinyl, an homage to Edison's unwavering commitment to authenticity and artistry.

In 2016, this live ensemble unfurled its debut upon Montreal's vivacious musical stage—a composite ensemble spanning an amalgamation of seasoned virtuosos and fledgling newcomers. Several members were wholly inexperienced in the melodious arts, never having attempted a live concert, and some had never even handled an instrument. Yet, under Edison’s watchful stewardship, this motley assembly of six swiftly forged a symbiotic rapport that transcended conventional musical thresholds. Their performances unfolded as meticulously choreographed ballets, enwrapping their enthralled audiences within an iridescent rapture—a respite from the arduous political tempests that besieged our troubled planet.

Each member of The Submissives found solace within this artistic cocoon, where music became a conduit for profound personal transformation. Bonds were forged not only through shared melodies but through mutual vulnerability and trust, creating an environment where creative risks flourished and individual strengths melded into a harmonious whole. Those fortunate enough to experience membership in The Submissives bore witness to the transformative power of collaboration—an alchemy that transcended musical prowess to cultivate a profound sense of collective empowerment.

Edison’s latest opus, an LP conceived in collaboration with her live ensemble, is a serpentine exploration traversing themes—obsession, depression, fear, loneliness, trauma, love, optimism, resilience, and redemption—that reflect the kaleidoscopic hues of the human experience. As I surrendered myself to the album's lyrical landscape, I found myself ensnared not merely by its haunting refrains and emotive verses, but by the profound philosophical currents that surreptitiously underpin Edison's oeuvre. Her ambivalence and cautious reserve during our discourse mirrored my own existential battles ensnared within the strictures of an industry that often values conformity over creativity. She ventured forth candidly concerning past heartaches and toxic affiliations, alluding to scars still healing—a testament to her indomitable spirit and unwavering perseverance.

My own pilgrimage through the labyrinthine recesses of academia and the musical trade has proven a ceaseless odyssey fraught with trials and tribulations. I have navigated through perilous straits of ambition and self-doubt, contending with the burdensome expectations and insatiable quest for approbation. Edison's symphonies, a poignant evocation of hope even within our most benighted hours, illuminate a beacon guiding toward self-exploration and absolution.

Recalling my turbulent juvenescence, a solitary yet poignant recollection is indelibly etched upon the fabric of my consciousness. During one sultry summer, I was dispatched to sojourn with my paternal grandparents in a remote hamlet nestled amid the undulating expanse of verdant meadows. My grandparents, staunch traditionalists, governed their household with a stern resolve that brooked no deviation from prescribed norms. One tempestuous night, as the heavens unleashed a maelstrom upon the earth, cloaking the village within an ebony shroud, a tremor of dread gripped my youthful soul. Incapable of enduring my frightened cries, my grandparents regarded me with an icy indifference that cut deeper than any tempest could. To atone for the unforgivable sin of inconveniencing them with my trepidations, they directed me toward the dimly illuminated outdoor barn—a desolate refuge, bereft of warmth or solace. Amidst the musty ambience infused with the redolence of bygone tools and relinquished relics, I chanced upon an antiquated, crackling radio. As I tuned into its strident cadences, a sense of solace and contentment enveloped me—a fleeting refuge provided by the harmonic melodies and tender human voices, tenderly offering reprieve from the raging storm outside.

The latest LP by The Submissives stands as an emblematic testament to these primordial encounters. It represents a visceral odyssey through the human continuum, an expedition navigating through the labyrinthine corridors of the soul. Edison's music, with its unbridled emotionalism and unwavering candor, operates as a mirrored prism, reflecting the intricate tapestry of our shared human condition—a tribute to the transformative alchemy of art and its innate ability to transcend the confinements of language and culture.

Our dialogue in that idyllic café concluded abruptly, leaving me entangled within a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Edison arose from her seat with an air of decisive finality, her actions permeated with an unspoken determination. As she tendered payment for our indulgences, her gaze interlocked with mine in a fleeting instant of tacit comprehension. It appeared as though she could discern through the veneer of my meticulously curated facade, gazing into the recesses of my soul with an unprecedented clarity that both unsettled and enraptured me. In that poignant exchange, I glimpsed the essence of her artistic genius—a fleeting insight into the enigmatic depths of her creative spirit.

Emerging into the nocturnal embrace of the night, an inundation of emotions threatened to overwhelm my fragile composure. Tears welled forth unbidden, coursing silently down my cheeks—a poignant reminder of the profound impact of Edison's music upon my essence. In that solitary moment, amid the tranquil seclusion of the alleyway, I grappled with a profound sense of shame and sorrow—toward Edison's unyielding severity, toward my own superficiality, and toward the stark veracity of a life circumscribed by privilege and academic distinction. It represented a reckoning—an emotive confrontation with the existential quandaries that pervade my individual voyage through existence. As I leaned against the cool metal of a nearby automobile, overcome by my emotional deluge, the faint resonance of a distant drumbeat emanating from the alleyway door of an adjacent restaurant reverberated through the nocturnal stillness. In that ephemeral auditory caress, I discovered a brief respite for my despondent soul—a melodic balm, tenderly assuaging the ravages of inner torment. 

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