Like many people, Rahim Redcar, formerly known as Christine and the Queens, spent hours tweeting about the Olympics opening ceremony in Paris. As fans decried his lack of involvement in the endless water-based procession, the French art-pop practitioner hinted at having been in talks to partake but said he was “weakened and bored by their system” (he would later perform during the closing ceremony of the Paralympics). Seemingly emboldened by this realisation, he added: “I might act drastically in the upcoming few days.”
In the end, fans didn’t need to wait that long. A few hours later, Redcar – a name he has been using since 2021 – posted a WeTransfer link to his social media platforms containing the seven tracks of his fifth album, Hopecore. Its rushed delivery spoke to Redcar’s recent personal and professional turbulence: the free-to-download record was listed as containing eight songs, but track five was missing; when asked where it was by fans on X, Redcar replied: “Track 5 is God.” That the album now arrives officially, more than six weeks later, under a new artist name – one he says he was “gifted while on a spiritual journey” – and with just seven songs, doesn’t help in terms of clarity.
After releasing the French-language Redcar les Adorables Étoiles in 2022, a hastily-recorded suite of undercooked break-up songs, the idea was to immediately follow it with the three-part “operatic gesture” Paranoia, Angels, True Love. A grief-stricken mausoleum of heavy emotions inspired by the death of Redcar’s mother in 2019 and Tony Kushner’s play, Angels in America, its 90 minutes also reflected on his identity as a trans man. Various worlds away from the commercial breakthrough of 2016’s debut Chaleur Humaine, this denser, less digestible work and overloaded release schedule caused tension with his label.
Leaking a brand new album ahead of schedule was probably not going to help things. And Hopecore certainly isn’t a return to the supple pop immediacy of Chaleur Humaine, or the Prince-esque strut of 2018’s followup, Chris. There are, however, flashes of brilliance in its roughly-hewn dance anthems and expansive meanderings – entirely written, performed, produced, mixed and mastered by the artist himself. Opener Forgive 8888888 ricochets around a flighty synth line and pulsating beat, with Redcar utilising the various shades of his voice to communicate a sense of spiritual healing. When a thicker, laser-guided synth punctures the song’s dry ice atmosphere in the final third, it feels genuinely euphoric. The muscular Inside of M8, meanwhile, stays on the 1980s dancefloor, this time with classic gated drum fills, ever-expanding atmospherics and glorious chopped-up vocal samples.
While Elevate, which touches on Erotica-era Madonna, and the hi-NRG stomp of Deep Holes, both offer quick-ish thrills, things get dense on the 20-minute Opéra (I Understand). Recalling the indulgence of Paranoia, Angels, True Love, but lacking its emotional heft, it represents Hopecore’s central flaw – a belief that lyrical repetition and so-so melodies can be pasted over with production flourishes. So while Opéra (I Understand) sounds magnificent – like a spaceship hovering over a crowd of pianists playing in a thunderstorm – it utilises a simple repeated line (“I understand / I’m sorry”) as its foundation. That it forgets to build much on top lyrically is a real shame.
Ragged and rough around the edges, Hopecore is another intriguing rather than wholly enjoyable sonic evolution. Having accidentally landed in the mainstream consciousness a decade ago, it’s been a long fight for Redcar to excavate himself from its strict parameters. Whether his label likes it or not, a more immediate connection between him and his hardcore fanbase, AKA the “resilient ones”, seems to be his main focus now. “I need your hearts close to mine,” he said on X, during Hopecore’s initial unexpected rollout. For the first half of the album, on Redcar’s own nightclub dancefloor, it’s the beat you can hear loudest.
