THE ROARING REVOLUTION OF POCKET ROCHELLE
by Joanna Sky Lunaar | ARTS & CULTURE | BLANK SPACES MAGAZINE
In a dimly lit Montreal Metro station, a voice cuts through the rush-hour chaos, singing about the end of the world. This is where I first encountered Rochelle de Lioncourt, frontwoman of indie-rock powerhouse Pocket Rochelle, though I didn’t know it then. Two years later, as she pours oat milk into mismatched vintage teacups in her Plateau apartment, that same haunting voice speaks of revolution, survival, and the power of collective rage.
“I think the acoustics of that Metro station are better than any studio we've recorded in since,” she jokes, topping our cups with steaming ginger-turmeric tea. Her cat, an orange rescue named Bowie, jumps onto the piano keys, creating what she calls “his latest composition.”
“I still know all the buskers by name,” she admits. “Sometimes after a big show, I’ll go down there just to remember what it feels like to sing without a spotlight.”
Outside her third-floor apartment, Mount Royal stands snow-capped against a winter sky. A massive philodendron sprawls across her balcony window, its leaves nearly touching the upright piano that serves as both instrument and altar in a corner she’s designated as a home studio. This is where Pocket Rochelle’s newest album, “The Path That Takes Us Home,” first took shape.
Born to a French father and Vietnamese mother in Old Quebec, de Lioncourt’s early years were steeped in a blend of cultures that would later define the band’s unique sound. While she leads with piano and vocals, bandmates Leah Martinez (guitar), Marie Nguyen (drums), Sophia Durand (violin), and Julia O’Neill (bass) create the thunderous backdrop for her razor-sharp lyrics and revolutionary fervour.
“I started playing before I could reach the pedals,” she says, settling cross-legged on a worn leather armchair, her dark hair falling around her face. She’s wearing what she calls her “writing uniform” — oversized men's blazer, loose jeans, thick wool socks. “My father would sit beside me and press them when I nodded. It became our secret language.”
The piano, a 1940s Heintzman with exposed hammers, followed her through multiple moves before landing in this sun-drenched space where plants compete with vinyl records for windowsill supremacy. A framed Leonard Cohen poster hangs above the old instrument — "Because every Montreal musician needs at least one," she laughs, the sound warm and infectious. "His darkness helped me find my light," she adds, referencing her viral cover of “You Want It Darker” that launched the band’s career. “He wrote about the sacred in the apocalyptic. That's what I’m trying to do too. That final record was so instrumental in me finding my own voice,” she says of Cohen’s last album recorded before his death. “Knowing much of it was sung from his bed because he was too weak to stand makes it more precious to me.”
In an industry that often asks female artists to soften their edges, Pocket Rochelle responds with a defiant roar. Their latest album showcases the full evolution of their artistry. The title track, written during de Lioncourt’s self-imposed exile in her uncle’s cabin near Sept-Îles, builds from
“…when I see women standing up, refusing to be silent, refusing to accept threats to their autonomy — that’s not just activism. That’s evolution.”
intimate grief to a rallying cry of resilience. Her piano work, supported by Durand’s haunting violin, Martinez’s ethereal guitar lines, and the thunderous rhythm section of Nguyen and O’Neill, takes on an almost orchestral quality.
At 28, de Lioncourt has carved out a unique space in Canadian music that bridges protest songs with deeply personal storytelling. Her sound is often compared to early Joni Mitchell but with the edge of Alanis Morissette—particularly evident in “We Meant to Say Amen,” where she grapples with faith and modern spirituality.
Their anthem “Hold the Line” embodies this unflinching approach to activism through art. Written in response to the 2024 Women’s March in Ottawa, the track is a masterclass in channelling collective rage into revolutionary power. “Have you watched me crawl across your fundamental broken values, your torn up system?” she demands, before leading crowds in the now-familiar chant: “We will not fold to ignorance, we’ll hold the line.” The song has become a staple at protests across the country, its chorus echoing through streets and government buildings alike.
When asked about the role of artists in social movements, de Lioncourt’s casual demeanour shifts, her mug pausing halfway to her lips. “Women have been told to make themselves smaller for too long,” she says, her voice taking on the same intensity that electrifies her performances. “We’ve been conditioned to doubt ourselves, to question whether we’re overreacting when we sense something isn’t right. But here’s the thing — that instinct to protect ourselves, to protect each other? That’s not hysteria. It’s wisdom. It’s survival. And when I see women standing up, refusing to be silent, refusing to accept threats to their autonomy — that’s not just activism. That’s evolution. That’s humanity moving forward.” She sets down her mug
with gentle deliberation. “And if my music can be part of that movement? Then I’m doing exactly what I’m meant to do.”
As afternoon light slants through her windows, casting long shadows across her collected treasures — handmade pottery, dog-eared books of poetry, a collection of protest buttons pinned to a cork board — Rochelle moves to her piano. Her fingers find the opening notes of “Hold the Line” without hesitation. Even here, in this intimate setting, the power of her voice fills the space with revolutionary fervour.
Despite growing commercial success, she remains committed to her roots, often performing impromptu solo shows in the same Montreal Metro station where she was discovered. “Every artist needs a place that reminds them why they started,” she says later, washing our teacups in a sink beneath a window box of fresh herbs. “For me, it’s right there, underground, where the echo makes everything sound like a prayer. But this,” she gestures to her apartment, to the city beyond, to the community she’s built, “this is where the songs find their way home.”
Rochelle de Lioncourt in her Montreal home studio
Next September, the band headlines Thunder Bay’s controversial Apocastock Festival, where they’ll perform on a floating stage against the backdrop of the Sleeping Giant. “It feels prophetic somehow,” de Lioncourt muses, her fingers finding the opening notes of their title track. “Playing songs about the end of the world while standing on water.”
This fictional article features characters from Alanna Rusnak's series 'The Path That Takes Us Home' (Chicken House Press, 2025), a speculative fiction about survival, human connection, and hope in the face of impending apocalypse. Pre-order HERE