Melody’s Echo Chamber – Webster Hall – May 15, 2026
AllMusic calls French space-rock singer-songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Melody Prochet’s fourth Melody’s Echo Chamber album, Unclouded, a “record that is just as impressively crafted as anything Prochet has done. That is high praise indeed, considering she's made some of the most inventive and pleasing neo-psychedelic-adjacent albums of the previous decade or so.” And on Friday night, Prochet and Co. dazzled Webster Hall.
Photos courtesy of Ellen Qbertplaya | instagram.com/qbertplaya
Melody’s Echo Chamber’s Melody Prochet resurrects the swinging 1960s in this fourth psych pop album. Her airy, denatured vocals float effortlessly over swaggering syncopations of drum and bass like Vashti Bunyan under the tutelage of Andrew Loog Oldham. Her pop anthems vibrate with the buzzing glow of Stereolab, a full orchestra with strings and xylophone massing in the crevices of these driving, kinetic songs.
Take “Eyes Closed,” for instance, a buoyant soap bubble of psychedelia floating above racket-y, break-beat drums and a hammering pulse of soul bass. It’s delicate and meaty all at once, flaring with noise at the intervals but effortless and cool. Or consider, the string-swooning “In the Stars,” as soft and yielding as a Beach House track but braced by thunderous percussion.
You can’t help but flash on the Yé-yé years as you hear Unclouded, imbued as it is with that peculiarly French combination of seduction and purity. Yet there’s more rock in the mix than in France Gall’s synth-funky “Ella,” a propulsive scratch and friction that never touched Sylvie Vartan’s songs. Prochet fits better among latter-day interpreters of 1960s, Euro-swing, especially Jessica Pratt, who also mixes rock with lounge-y sophistication and also instills a very modern air of empowerment into this female-centric (but not historically female-autonomous) form. The vocals on cuts like “The House That Doesn’t Exist” may be soft and high, but the melody slashes forward with determination and force. Even the Nico-esque whisper psyche of “Flowers Turn Into Gold” exudes intention. Daydream soft sonics swirl in clouds around Prochet’s mic, but she, herself, is wide awake and in control.
Once upon a perfect night, unclouded and still, there came the face of a pale and beautiful lady. The tresses of her hair reached out to make the constellations, and the dewy vapours of her gown fell soft upon the land.
As i lay here on my bed, in my dark foggy room, in my small apartment, with my headphones on, listening to feng suave and thinking about life. i realize this is what ive got, this is life. This is exceedingly human in way i cannot explain. I dont feel depressed, i dont feel happy or empty or angry. I just feel this. The feeling of being real for a moment. That feeling is composed of alot of things i cant pick apart, but it feels big, like nothing else. Like the haze clearing up for a moment in time. Everythings hazy all the time, im just a robot who thinks it thinks. But right now im human. How do i feel this feeling more often. I want to be a human, not clouded by narrow emotions and plans. Just human
