Micah Rose-Trespeuch’s new album, “Coughing Up Blood,” feels less like a listening experience and more like witnessing an urgent, almost involuntary act of transmutation. Rose-Trespeuch (piano, vocals), with Julien Baraness masterfully texturing the soundscapes and Gaetan Allard providing the often-fractured, sometimes thunderous pulse on drums, has crafted something akin to a diary written in volatile ink. One moment, you’re amidst Chopin-esque piano runs that unexpectedly veer into a raw, rock-inflected plea; the next, it’s as if a brooding jazz poet decided to storm the stage of a metal concert. They call it “Radiohead meets Musical Theatre” or “Metal Singersongwriter,” but it’s more like listening to the sound of emotional tectonic plates shifting.
The album is a stark confrontation with deep wounds, the terror of trust, and that desperate, exhausting seesaw between pulling someone close and violently shoving them away. It’s about that specific kind of ache, you know? Like phantom limb pain, but for past betrayals or the hollows left by loss, especially palpable with Rose-Trespeuch’s own journey through grief and heartbreak. There’s this relentless, raw plea for honesty, a weary cry against superficial comforts. It doesn’t shy away from the ugliness, the messy bits of trying to expel inner toxicity. For a moment, it reminded me of those medieval illustrations of bodily humours, trying to rebalance something fundamentally out of kilter.
This isn’t background music; it demands your presence. It’s the sonic equivalent of finally saying the thing that’s been caught in your throat for years, tasting blood and relief all at once. There’s a flickering, almost defiant hope here, a resilience born from staring into the abyss and deciding, against all odds, to climb. It’s the sound of scars, not hidden, but perhaps beginning to gleam faintly in a new light.
Does it achieve catharsis? Perhaps. But more importantly, it makes you wonder what precious, painful truths you might be keeping lodged within yourself.
