THE BEST RECORD OF THE YEAR : Number 10

Mayday, Myriam Gendron’s third album, exists in a space where grief and beauty intertwine. Known for her nuanced artistry, Gendron crafts folk music that is unadorned yet profoundly moving—free of gimmicks, but filled with emotional weight. With roots in American folk and French tradition, Mayday doesn’t shout its brilliance; it beckons listeners into a world where subtlety, collaboration, and reflection shape every note.

The opening instrumental, There Is No East or West, sets the tone for this quietly evocative record. It is a slow, meditative piece with soulful guitar work that prioritizes grace over virtuosity. This simplicity carries throughout the album but is enriched by complex layers: bilingual lyricism, free-spirited improvisation, and stunning contributions from collaborators like Marisa Anderson (electric guitar), Jim White (drums), and Zoh Amba (saxophone).

Long Way Home introduces a gentle interplay between acoustic and electric guitars, guided by White’s intuitive drumming. While its folk roots recall artists like Sandy Denny, there’s an experimental edge that leads the song into avant-folk-rock territory. Anderson’s electric guitar seems to float outside the melody, adding a layer of dreamlike dissonance. On Terres Brûlées, a brooding and apocalyptic hymn, Bill Nace’s loop manipulations and Anderson’s textured playing conjure a landscape of emotional ruin and rebirth.

The album navigates the aftermath of loss with a kind of quiet strength. Gendron’s mother passed away before Mayday’s recording, and this grief seeps into tracks like Dorothy’s Blues and Look Down That Lonesome Road. Inspired by the poetry of Dorothy Parker, the former unfolds as a gentle lullaby, full of wistful longing. Meanwhile, Gendron’s voice on Look Down That Lonesome Road is at its most vulnerable—soft yet resolute, tinged with melancholy.

There is light amid the sadness. The instrumental La Luz shimmers with delicacy, a brief respite of brightness. Gendron’s pacing is masterful, as seen in the nearly seven-minute traditional ballad La Belle Françoise. Every note falls naturally into place, making the track feel timeless and fleeting all at once. Dedicated to her late mother, it balances heartbreak with poetic beauty.

The closing Berceuse feels like a revelation. What begins as an aching lullaby transforms with Zoh Amba’s unexpected saxophone solo, jarring the listener awake and off-kilter. The refrain, “tout va bien” (all will be well), is sung somewhere between hope and sadness, embodying the album’s core tension.

Gendron’s greatest strength lies in her ability to let songs breathe. Her arrangements—meticulous yet seemingly effortless—evoke comparisons to John Fahey’s meditative guitar work or Joan Baez’s emotive simplicity. Yet Gendron’s voice, imperfect but piercing, remains uniquely her own.

Mayday is an album of dualities: sadness and light, traditional and experimental, solitude and collaboration. It demands time and rewards patience, revealing its emotional depths with every listen. For all its minimalism, it is a profound exploration of what we lose, what we keep, and how we rebuild ourselves in the wake of grief.

With Mayday, Myriam Gendron has delivered her most personal and affecting work yet—a modern folk masterpiece that cements her place among the finest songwriters of our time.