How political is jazz? As Eric Fillion shows in this compelling portrait of leftist musicians who were active at the height of Quebec’s nationalist movement, politics is often at its very core. 

Fillion tells the story of Jazz Libre, a four-piece ensemble that skronked a challenging, cacophonous brand of free jazz throughout the province in the heady days of the late ’60s and ’70s. Montreal at the time was rife with all kinds of socialist revolutionary groups and separatist utopian movements, and for descriptions of this period alone – supported with a wealth of research from contemporary journals and magazines – the book is worth the read. 

“I am a revolutionary first, and a musician second,” claimed Jazz Libre co-founder and trumpet player Yves Charbonneau. Avant-garde saxophonist Walter Boudreau, who caught the band early on in their career at The Barrel, a now-shuttered club on De la Montagne, went a step further, describing them as “terrorists with instruments.” Charbonneau, sax player Jean Préfontaine, bassist Maurice C. Richard, and drummer Guy Thouin cut their teeth in jazz clubs downtown, and rose to prominence as the backing band for Robert Charlebois and Louise Forestier during their controversial shows at L’Olympia in Paris in 1969.  These were chaotic, improvised affairs that were panned by French critics. 

Free jazz, in its desire to do away with the conventions of tempo, tone, and melody, and its emphasis on improvisation and dissonance, was seen by French writer Jean-Louis Comolli as “the sound of the world revolution against capitalism and imperialism.” Jazz’s underground and African-American roots were always anti-bourgeois and threatening to the white, middle-class mainstream. But free jazz took the menace a step further with its explorations of the “sonic symbolism of dissonance,” its studied dismantling of all boundaries (both musical and social), and its push for a “liberating disorder,” which found parallels in the group’s political ideas and actions.

Seeking to marry practice with ideology, Jazz Libre founded a socialist commune in the Eastern Townships (complete with a printing press for pamphlets and political materials), a summer camp in Val-David, and an experimental cultural centre in Old Montreal called L’Amorce. They rubbed shoulders with FLQ militants and hosted meetings aimed at “revolutionary militants around the world,”  which attracted  members of the Black Panther party and the Weather Underground. Their activities got them noticed by the RCMP, who eventually burned down Jazz Libre’s commune in a botched operation. Following the political violence of 1970, they were seen as a threat to be neutralized. 

By combining two niche but eminently juicy subjects, Fillion’s book makes for a memorable read. While it’s not a tome with much widespread appeal, it is one that local history buffs and music nerds will greatly appreciate. Beyond the main narrative, Soundtrack shows how much Quebec society has changed in such a short period of time – though it’s interesting to note how much of that era’s ethos has carried over to Montreal’s current identity as a bastion of fringe weirdness, musical experimentation, and leftist politics. 

Soundtrack to the Revolution is a book that makes you wonder why we aren’t more aware of the depth and intensity of our history. Why are these captivating episodes, full of rogue dreamers, eccentric idealists, and political intrigue, not better known? I have no answer, other than generalities about Quebec’s cultural divisions having relegated some people and events to obscurity in certain circles. That’s a shame, but it’s a disconnect that Fillion goes some way to repairing with this well-researched book. How easily we’ve forgotten – or how little we know, in some cases – just how turbulent, hopeful, conflictual, and riveting Quebec’s recent history is.mRb