Time is a funny thing at a Faye Webster show. Not just in the way her dreamy, jazz-tinged indie folk makes minutes slip by like they’re melting into a puddle of pedal steel, but also because of the sheer efficiency of the evening. Doors opened early, the opener started at 6:00 PM, and by 8:20 PM, we were all politely nudged out onto the chilly streets of Montreal, wondering if we’d actually just attended a live show or a beautifully staged daydream.
The evening began with Japanese artist Mei Ehara, whose 6:00 PM set time might have seemed brutal on paper but worked surprisingly well in practice. The room was already surprisingly full as Ehara’s crystalline vocals and meticulously crafted arrangements provided the perfect gentle introduction to the night.
Her band remained practically motionless throughout—less a rock show, more a living installation piece—yet the crowd responded with genuine enthusiasm. It may not have been that exciting to watch, but there was something oddly revolutionary about Ehara’s stillness, inviting us to focus entirely on the sonic textures rather than visual distractions.
By 7:10 PM, when Webster appeared with her band, the venue had transformed into a sardine tin of humanity. Near the stage, bodies pressed together in a respectful crush, everyone collectively wondering if they should have arrived earlier to secure a better vantage point. The stage setup immediately announced its thematic intentions: clothing racks flanked the musicians, while an absurdly oversized white t-shirt hung as the backdrop—a perfect visual complement to her album “Underdressed at the Symphony.” It’s not often that laundry becomes high concept, but Webster has always excelled at finding profundity in the mundane.
She opened with “But Not Kiss,” her voice a soft-edged weapon cutting through the mix with deceptive ease. Webster has perfected a vocal technique that somehow sounds both noncommittal and intensely vulnerable—like someone telling you their deepest secrets while pretending they’re just making small talk. Her longtime band members—Matt “Pistol” Stoessel (pedal steel), Noor Khan (bass), Annie Leeth (keys, strings, saxophone) and Charles Lamont (drums)—performed with the telepathic connection of musicians who understand that restraint can be more powerful than virtuosity.
Stoessel’s pedal steel deserves special mention, adding cosmic country flourishes that somehow never feel out of place against Webster’s indie-jazz foundations. It’s as if Gram Parsons wandered into a Sade recording session and everyone just decided to roll with it. This peculiar alchemy is uniquely Webster’s; she’s created a sonic universe where disparate elements coexist not just peacefully but symbiotically.
The setlist leaned heavily on material from “Underdressed at the Symphony,” with “Thinking About You” receiving an expanded intro that showcased Webster’s understated guitar skills. “Tttttime” floated through the venue like a strange dream, its stuttering title belying the fluid grace of its execution.
The giant t-shirt backdrop revealed itself as a video screen midway through the set, displaying visuals that ranged from abstract colour fields to—in what might be the evening’s most beautifully incongruous moment—Minions. Yes, those yellow pill-shaped creatures from children’s cinema made an appearance during Webster’s melancholic explorations of adult heartache. The juxtaposition created a weird emotional shorthand: life’s profound sorrows existing alongside its most ridiculous trivialities.
“Jonny” provided the main set’s emotional apex, its devastating refrain—”Jonny, did you ever love me?”—hanging in the air with the weight of every unanswered text message you’ve ever sent. Webster delivered the line not with melodrama but with the quiet resignation of someone who already knows the answer but needs to ask anyway.
After brief but enthusiastic applause, Webster returned for a two-song encore. The penultimate number built anticipation for what everyone knew was coming: “Kingston,” her breakout hit and the evening’s perfect conclusion. As the song’s distinctive guitar pattern emerged, a collective sigh rippled through the audience—that peculiar mix of satisfaction and wistfulness that comes from hearing exactly what you wanted, knowing it signals the end.
Throughout the 70-minute performance, Webster never once pandered or overplayed. She exists in a curious middle ground between showmanship and shyness—too confident to be called awkward, too reserved to be called extroverted. It’s this very quality that makes her performances so compelling.
Review & photos – Steve Gerrard
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