All the facesAll the voices blurChange to one faceChange to one voicePrepare yourself for bed
Penelope Farmer’s quietly strange 1969 children’s classic, Charlotte Sometimes, finds shy newcomer Charlotte Makepeace shuffling uneasily between eras, slipping seamlessly into the life of Clare, a girl residing decades before. Their whispered diary exchanges bridge the uncanny divide, tossing each other a lifeline between identities, blurring gently into oblivion.
Naturally, Robert Smith couldn’t resist the tale’s phantasmagoric charm, borrowing entire haunting phrases for The Cure’s 1981 single Charlotte Sometimes; its B-side, Splintered in Her Head, equally plundered from Farmer’s dreamlike prose.
Enter Modele, Toronto’s latest custodians of glacial glamour, gracefully resurrecting Smith’s midnight reverie. This fresh retelling is no dusty tribute; instead, it sparkles with crisp, contemporary menace, honouring the shadowplay of both the novel and its musical antecedent. Chris Huggett and Nathan Wiltshire carve out a stylish path through post-punk’s familiar gloom, their synths winking slyly over basslines thicker than winter smoke.
The duo wisely avoid an outright mimicry, opting instead for subtle homage, evoking the stately chill of The Church, the rhythmic panache of Simple Minds, and the electronic elegance of Depeche Mode, but with a quieter, more understated flair. It’s mood music with a sardonic grin, darkness made danceable, decadence delivered without indulgence.
Modele’s treatment of the beloved Charlotte Sometimes offers a shimmer of nostalgia without succumbing to mere sentimentality. This spectral slow-dance proves definitively that even the frostiest of nights can have a beat worth moving to…provided you’re dressed in your finest existential ennui!
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