And if we compare it to their previous releases, the difference is felt not in the degree of darkness and not in the biographical background. What changes is the architecture of the sound itself — how the rhythm is constructed, how tension unfolds, how the form holds together.

Adèle Trottier-Rivard and Nicolas Basque began with a chamber-like aesthetic — literally a “living room discotheque,” where their close ones, their “bibis,” would come to dance. Le soleil et la mer (2022) sounded light and transparent: hypnotic indie pop, minimalist arrangements, a feeling of almost domestic space. On Feu de garde (2024), the sound became denser: more synths, more shadow, more internal pressure. Polaris shortlist, European festivals, SXSW, The Great Escape — all of it looked like a logical expansion of scale.

The album’s title — Amaro — translates as “bitter,” and this is not a stylistic gesture. After the death of two loved ones, the duo found themselves in a situation where music stopped being a form of self-expression and became a way of maintaining structure — internally and sonically. In interviews, the musicians admit that writing became an unavoidable necessity. This is an important formulation: not inspiration, not catharsis — necessity. And this difference is clearly audible in the sound of the new release.

Musically, Amaro is built on physicality. This is noticeable from the first tracks: rhythm here is not background, but framework. Repetition is not a decorative device, but a way to sustain tension. Elements of electronic body music and dark wave can be heard in the sound, but they are not stylized as retro. This is not a quotation of the 1980s scene, but work with density and pressure. The synths sit lower and deeper; the guitars do not dissolve in reverb, but fix the space.

At the same time, a nearly baroque line appears in the album — harpsichord touches, brass, choral fragments. This is not theatricality for effect. Rather, it creates a sense of scaling up: a private story stops being only private.

At the same time, the duo does not retreat into acoustic confession, which might have been expected after personal loss. On the contrary, they intensify rhythm and density — and there is a logic to this. Repetitive structures stabilize perception and create a sense of control. This has long been confirmed by research from British music therapists: rhythm synchronizes breathing and reduces physiological tension. In Amaro, this is audible — the music holds onto repetition as a point of support.

Amaro also noticeably expands the project’s space through collaborations — Helena Deland and saxophonist Dimitri Milbrun add a layer of collectivity to the sound. If earlier works by Bibi Club felt like a closed, almost intimate dialogue, the new album sounds like a space one can enter. This movement from the personal to the collective is another important shift.

In the context of the contemporary indie scene, where the aestheticization of vulnerability has long become the norm, Bibi Club take a step aside — they do not romanticize pain. They structure it, and that is an important distinction.

At THE OTO, we often speak about the connection between music and mental health, and we have noticed how frequently the cliché of “healing power” appears. But according to the UK Music Mental Health Report (2023), more than 70% of musicians face anxiety and emotional exhaustion, especially during touring. Music in itself does not guarantee resilience. Context matters — community, support, boundaries.

And here the experience of Bibi Club becomes particularly illustrative. They learned about the death of loved ones while on tour — twice — and their album is not a romanticization of suffering, but a form of communication. For them, the stage is not therapy in a literal sense, but ritual and an act of collective presence. They consciously separate their stage persona from their personal identity — a subtle distance that allows them to remain authentic without being destroyed.

Amaro is not an album about loss as an ending, but about the continuation of movement. It does not offer comfort in the usual sense, it offers form.
And this is precisely what Adèle and Nicolas speak about in our conversation — music as necessity, the stage as safe risk, the separation between identity and performance. Their words do not explain the album; they expand its context, showing how private experience turns into sonic architecture.

Below — our conversation with Bibi Club about how grief reshapes the structure of music, whether the stage can function as ritual, and where the line lies between authenticity and self-preservation.

— On Amaro, the mantra “I want to love, I want to live” emerged after losing loved ones. How did grief transform your music — was it an escape into sound, or a way to face reality without falling apart?

Bibi Club: Grief inspired our music. It became essential for us to write music, like an urgency to express our emotions and feelings through music. In that way it was more a way to face reality but also to honor the lost ones, to honor life, to push our own boundaries and express our desire to live. We often felt the presence of the people we lost, in the lyrics, while playing shows, while recording, like a new strength telling us to live.

— You describe the album as a journey between “here” and “beyond,” and the music as a space where you can dance even with anxiety and fear. For you, is the stage closer to catharsis, therapy, or ritual? And are there moments when music stops healing and starts becoming overwhelming?

Bibi Club: For us the live shows are a way to connect with other humans, to build a community. In that way it is a cathartic experience, like jumping off a cliff but feeling safe, like walking on a tightrope with no net under it, expressing your vulnerability but feeling safe with the others around you. We also approach it as a ritual. We talk a lot with our lighting/video designer Flavie Lemée about the colours, the projections, the movements, the evolution of the set. For us, music always feels right. The only time when it becomes overwhelming is when business takes over, when the setting is wrong, when you do things for the wrong reasons.

— On Amaro, you blend dark electronics, ritual elements, and almost baroque grandeur. Do you want the listener to feel safe inside this music — or to confront their fears through it?

Bibi Club: We tend to follow our instinct when we work and to trust your instinct you need to feel somehow safe. So maybe that is what we want our listener to feel, a safespace where they can live their emotions to the extreme, where it feels liberating.  We confront our fears by taking chances or not listening to inner boundaries, our monsters in our head, it's easier cause we're two and we're surrounded by an amazing community, there is a lot of love and encouragement to follow our instincts.

— After experiencing loss and creating such personal material, how do you protect your mental health while touring? Do you have specific practices or boundaries that help you avoid burnout and not get consumed by the emotions you relive on stage every night?

Bibi Club: It can be really exalting to tour and at the same time really difficult. We learned of the accidental death of two people we loved, both times when we were on tour. It helped to talk to the people around us. To talk to the crew of the space where we were playing, telling them that it was a difficult day. Both times people were extremely sensible and careful. Music allows us to live our emotions on stage, we're allowed to feel sad and vulnerable.
As for practices, we talk a lot with our team, we try to eat well, not drink, but still be festive sometimes, enjoy the moments. We keep touch with home. And we have two managers that take news on a daily basis, they check in quite often, it helps to feel surrounded by people who care.

— When personal experience becomes part of a public performance, does it ever feel like you’re reliving the same emotions over and over again? How do you stay authentic without emotionally exhausting yourself on stage?

Bibi Club: A few years ago we played a show in Dijon and the sister of one of our managers who was a tightrope walker performer took each of us aside and told us her perception of us on stage and encouraged us to push that character further. Somehow, this helped us create a distinction between the Adèle and Nico in real life and on stage. It allowed us to become like characters on stage, not so far from us, but enough that we feel protected and still authentic.

So, what becomes clear from this conversation is that Amaro is an album about the daily decision to continue.
In a cultural moment that often confuses exposure with honesty, their approach feels measured and deliberate. They do not deny pain, but they refuse to let it define the frame. Instead, they build one.

Amaro ultimately reads as a study in containment — how sound can carry intensity without spilling into self-destruction, how rhythm can ground emotion without erasing it, how art can remain intimate while still being collective.
This is music that insists on continuity, and perhaps that is the more radical gesture.
_________
Bibi Club Tour Dates:
March 13, 2026 – Val-david, QC – Le Mouton Noir
March 14, 2026 – Quebec City, QC – Le Pantoum
March 19-21, 2026 – Toronto, ON – Wavelength Music & Arts Festival
March 21, 2026 – Ottawa, ON – The 27 Club
April 7, 2026 – Brighton, UK – Prince Albert
April 8, 2026 – Bristol, UK – The Lanes
April 9, 2026 – London, UK – Sebright Arms
April 10, 2026 – Manchester, UK – The Castle Hotel
April 11, 2026 – Edinburgh, UK – Sneaky Pete’s
April 12, 2026 – Leeds, UK – Headrow House
April 14, 2026 – Le Havre, FR – Le Tetris
April 15, 2026 – Tourcoing, FR – Le Grand Mix
April 16 – Paris, FR – Point Éphémère
April 21 – Berlin, DE – Zukunft Am Ostkreuz