Into the Liminal: Bibi Club’s Most Ambitious Work Yet

Written by Molly Cameron

Photography by @annaarrobas

With Amaro, Canadian indie-pop duo Bibi Club set out to do something more expansive than they have before, and not just to build on the intimate, home-spun world of their earlier work, but to push beyond it. While their previous releases felt rooted in the warmth and closeness of the spaces they were made in, this third album deliberately steps outward into something more liminal, more communal, and more emotionally exposed.

At its core, Amaro is an album about survival - about confronting grief and choosing, actively and repeatedly, to keep living. In the wake of personal loss, Adèle Trottier-Rivard and Nicolas Basque shape the record around that central mantra: I want to love, I want to live. It becomes both a guiding principle and a kind of emotional through-line, informing not just the lyrics but the atmosphere of the album as a whole. This is where Amaro distinguishes itself most clearly from what came before: the intimacy is still there, but it’s no longer insular. Instead, it reaches outward, toward nature, toward community, toward something that feels almost spiritual in its scope.

That shift is reflected in how the band presents themselves here. Bibi Club are still, fundamentally, a duo - vocals and keys entwined with guitar - but on Amaro they feel less like a private project and more like a collective force. The “club” of their title takes on a broader meaning: not just a living room gathering, but a shared emotional and sonic space, shaped by collaborators, influences, and a wider artistic community.

Musically, too, they have reframed their identity. The lo-fi textures and bedroom-pop sensibilities of earlier work have given way to something more structured and intentional, drawing on avant-pop, electronic body music, and darker, more gothic tones. The drum machine becomes a central driving force, grounding the album in a steady pulse, while baroque flourishes and choral elements add a sense of ceremony. It’s a sound that feels both immediate and otherworldly.

All of this sets the stage for Amaro as a record that is less about retreat and more about confrontation - with grief, with fear, and with the fragile but persistent desire to keep going.

‘Infinite’ sets the tone immediately with a driving, relentless synth bassline that refuses to settle. It pulses forward with a kind of quiet insistence, as guitar interjections and a blend of acoustic and electronic drums build a hypnotic, almost disorienting atmosphere. When the electric guitar finally cuts through the mix, it pushes the track into something more urgent, lifting the vocals rather than overwhelming them. Sung in French, the song carries an added mystique - even if the words aren’t fully understood, the emotional intent cuts through regardless. There’s a sense of determination and restlessness here that feels foundational, setting the scene for everything that follows.

The title track, ‘Amaro’, arrives next, unfolding through a slow, suspenseful build before locking into an infectious groove. Guitar, synth, and drums come together with a kind of effortless cohesion, conjuring the image of a dimly lit club, smoke machines and strong drinks. It’s a rhythm that’s difficult to resist, grounded yet fluid, while the soft, lilting vocals drift above it, adding an ethereal counterpoint. The result is something quietly magnetic, pulling you further into the album’s world.

Track eight, ‘George Sand’, takes its title from the pen name of Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin, a 19th-century writer associated with the Romantic movement, known for her explorations of love, freedom, and social defiance. The track mirrors that spirit of nonconformity. It begins deceptively gentle, lulling the listener before an electric guitar hook cuts through and anchors the song. The ever-present drum machine drives a restless undercurrent, giving the track both movement and unease, while airy vocals create a sense of distance, as if hovering just out of reach. Then, a piercing saxophone enters, introducing a jagged tension that builds into dissonance. When the drums briefly fall away, the track hangs in suspension - vocals and synth alone - before collapsing back into its layered, unsettled intensity.

‘Washing Machine’ follows, and stands out as one of the few tracks performed in English. It begins almost modestly, tinged with frustration, before gradually expanding - guitar and a trembling synth building toward a fuller, more overwhelming sound as the drums come in. Lyrically, it’s one of the album’s most devastating moments, confronting the loss of a child with stark, unguarded honesty. Lines about continuing everyday gestures - waving at fire trucks, speaking to teachers and friends - carry a quiet, unbearable weight. The promise of remaining their “mother till the very end” lands with particular force. Musically, the layering mirrors that emotional overload: disorienting, claustrophobic, and unresolved. It’s a portrait of grief that feels directionless and consuming - a space where emotion has nowhere to go.

Taken together, Amaro feels like a clear departure for Bibi Club - not just sonically, but emotionally. It’s a record that leans fully into grief and transformation, using sound as a way to process what can’t easily be articulated. In doing so, it opens a new dimension of what the band can be, making whatever comes next feel genuinely unpredictable.