Signing the song: an interview with Camille Roy

Some live sets arrive with a familiar invitation: wait for the singer, watch the lyrics become visible, then let the final chord settle. Camille Roy reversed that expectation during a packed show in Montréal’s Mile End. The Montreal-based experimental pop artist performed her entire set in Langue des signes québécoise, signing every line while her band played behind her. Roy calls the experience “a different kind of vocal performance,” treating her hands, face and posture as the primary voice. More conversations like this appear in Lady Indie’s independent artist interviews.

Roy’s performance was never presented as a stunt for an audience unfamiliar with signing. It was a deliberate artistic statement about language, authorship and who gets to shape a song. For Australian listeners, the work also offers an opening into Auslan, the signed language used by Deaf Australians, and the accessibility practices that should accompany live music. Roy discusses the discipline behind the performance, her relationship with Deaf collaborators and her decision to invite fans into the creative process.

A silent stage with a loud intention

Roy’s set had no conventional vocals. The band supplied drums, bass and spare melodic lines, while Roy moved across the small stage, delivering the lyrics with precise hand shapes, shifts in facial expression and changes in bodily rhythm. The result felt more like watching a composition being assembled than watching a song being illustrated. “I wanted the language to carry the song, not decorate it,” she says.

That distinction matters. Signing a lyric requires understanding how the language constructs meaning through grammar, spatial relationships and non-manual signals. Roy did not simply convert melodies into gestures for a dramatic effect. “I had to stop thinking of sign as choreography,” she explains. “The rhythm had to live in the language, with space between ideas and enough room for the audience to see the structure.” The performance’s stillness came from concentration, not emptiness.

Learning the language rather than copying gestures

Roy studied LSQ with a Deaf teacher over two years, working through conversation before attempting songs. She also brought in Deaf artists, performers and language advisers, crediting them as collaborators rather than advisers. “A performance belongs to everyone who helped make it,” she says. “I could not claim the language, and I did not want to take the language out of the hands of the people who use it.”

Auslan is distinct from LSQ and American Sign Language, so Roy avoids presenting a one-size-fits-all approach. In Melbourne’s intimate band rooms and Sydney’s larger festival stages, she says, sightlines, lighting and translation will affect how a signed set is received. Her advice is grounded: artists working across borders should learn the language and culture of the room they enter, while venues should fund appropriate Auslan interpretation rather than expecting an audience to bridge the gap unaided.

The Montreal performance and its afterlife

The response in Montréal was bigger than the original venue. Roy’s recording circulated through independent music channels in Mile End and Hochelaga, where fans traded interpretations of the songs and proposed versions for different instruments. Some listeners focused on the rhythm of the signing; others noticed how the physical performance changed the band’s dynamics. Roy was encouraged by the curiosity because it moved discussion beyond whether the idea worked.

That communal response recalls the community-driven spirit of Lady Indie’s Montréal project, active from 2013 to 2015, when discovery often depended on listeners sharing records and recommending artists. Roy values that model. “Independent music has always been about unfinished conversations,” she says. “Once the performance left the room, the audience could add to it. That felt closer to a community than a campaign.” The shared authorship continues through remixes, local showcases and informal workshops built around the songs.

Translation without flattening the music

Roy resists the idea that a signed performance is simply a visual translation of an audible original. Each language version is a composition with its own timing, imagery and emotional weight. Her live sets adapt to the language being used, changing camera angles, lighting cues and instrumental passages. “A translation should keep the pressure of the original,” she says, “but it should not pretend the languages are interchangeable.”

Visual music is receiving wider attention through collections of global music videos, although Roy prefers audiences to begin with the live work. On Australian festival stages, including large events such as Woodfordia near Brisbane and smaller gatherings near Byron Bay, she has seen audiences struggle with flash photography and raised phones. Her rule is direct: when signing carries the lyrics, the visible performance is the song, and recording it casually can damage the experience for everyone in the room.

Shared authorship for an independent release

Roy now invites listeners to rework material associated with the performances. The philosophy aligns with the practice described in public-domain lyrics, where creators release words as common material rather than locking every interpretation behind a catalogue. Roy’s versions carry rhythmic notation, performance notes and credits for the people who shaped each arrangement.

Those invitations extend beyond musical remixing. A bassist can reinterpret the pauses around a sign, while an artist working in Auslan can create a version that reflects a different linguistic rhythm. Roy considers this part of the release rather than an afterthought. Australian audiences often find independent music through Bandcamp, Triple J’s Unearthed, community radio and direct venue sales, so artists can extend that pathway by sharing the means of interpretation as openly as they share the recordings.

Supporting signed performances without barriers

A signed set still needs ordinary audience care. Excitement can become obstruction when people step into sightlines, treat the performance as unusual entertainment or flood the stage with camera phones. Organisers should establish access needs before doors open, while artists should be clear about recording, lighting and the role of interpreters.

A useful access plan can cover practical details before it deals with marketing language.

• Ask which signed language the artist uses and whether interpretation forms part of the performance.
• Provide clear, unobstructed views from accessible seating and avoid placing late arrivals in reserved areas.
• Book qualified Auslan interpretation when the artist’s signed language is not the audience’s.
• Check access riders for low-strobe lighting, accessible routes, toilets and a quiet space.
• Support the artist and credited collaborators directly through records, tickets, merchandise and local radio.
• Follow the stated filming policy, avoid recording with phones and share official footage with its links intact.

These measures recognise that accessibility is built into the show rather than added beside it. Roy’s strongest argument is cultural: a performance built around signed language should be presented with the same care expected around any other unusual artistic decision. That care signals respect for the artist, the language and the people who made the work possible.

What audiences carry forward

Roy’s set expands the idea of what an independent pop performance can contain. It also demonstrates how a major creative decision can be prepared with discipline rather than borrowed as novelty. The band, the signed language and the room all become parts of the song, creating an experience that rewards close attention and repeated listening.

The thing to remember is simple: when Camille Roy raised her hands, she did not leave the music behind. She gave the song another body, another language and another way for an audience to meet it.