Lulu Leloup writes songs that feel as though they have drifted out of another era and landed squarely in the present. Her music carries the smoky atmosphere of a late night jazz room, where the piano is slightly out of tune, the lights are low, and every lyric lands with the weight of lived experience. At the same time, there is a wit running through her writing that keeps the mood from slipping into nostalgia. Heartbreak may be the subject, but it is rarely delivered without a knowing smile.
Often described as “jazz’s darkly comic romantic,” Leloup has built a sound that draws from the elegance of early twentieth century songwriting while allowing space for modern emotional honesty. The influence of composers like Cole Porter and George Gershwin can be heard in the structure and charm of her melodies, but her voice and perspective remain unmistakably her own. There is a quiet confidence in the way she balances vulnerability and humor, turning stories of love, disappointment, and self realization into songs that feel both timeless and immediate.
Originally from Beirut and raised in Montreal, Leloup’s life between cities has shaped the sensibility behind her music. Her writing is less concerned with geography than with the emotional landscapes people carry with them. Lovers come and go, moments linger longer than expected, and the smallest exchanges often leave the deepest impressions. It is this attention to emotional detail that gives her songs their intimacy. They feel less like performances and more like confessions overheard across a candlelit table.
Her latest single, “I Guess You Loved Me Until You Didn’t,” continues that tradition. The track is a smoky, blues leaning reflection on the quiet moment when a relationship ends without explanation. Rather than dramatizing heartbreak, Leloup approaches the subject with a sense of acceptance that feels almost disarming. The title line carries both resignation and dry humor, capturing the strange clarity that sometimes follows disappointment. Musically, the arrangement allows her voice to sit front and center, drifting across the melody with the relaxed confidence of a singer who understands the power of restraint.
The single arrives as the fourth release from her upcoming EP March, set to be released on March 27. Across the project, Leloup explores different stages of love, from longing and confusion to a more reflective kind of closure. If earlier songs dwell in uncertainty, “I Guess You Loved Me Until You Didn’t” feels like the point where the emotional fog finally begins to lift.
Alongside the release, Leloup unveiled a simple music video that reflects the understated elegance of the song itself. Performing against projected art deco inspired visuals, she keeps the focus firmly on the music and the narrative behind it. The result is a visual that feels intimate and quietly theatrical, echoing the vintage sensibility that runs throughout her work.
A recipient of the 2025 OGIMA Music Award for Songwriter of the Year, Leloup continues to carve out a space for contemporary jazz songwriting that honors tradition without feeling bound to it. Her work reminds listeners that even the oldest musical forms can still hold new stories. We sat down with Lulu Leloup to talk about heartbreak, humor, jazz traditions, and the quiet realization behind “I Guess You Loved Me Until You Didn’t.”
AVOLA: “I Guess You Loved Me Until You Didn’t” feels like a quiet realization rather than a dramatic collapse. When did you know the relationship was over, and when did you know it was a song?
Lulu Leloup: I’d say it was a quiet realization that came out of what felt like a dramatic collapse. The ending was sudden—he stopped communicating and I was left to fill in many blanks. Funny how the absence of something, in this case a conversation, can feel so dramatic. For some time, I wondered if he’d ever spare a moment to confirm it was over, just so I could close the chapter. Eventually, I understood that he already had—just not with words. That realization gave me a sense of control again, and that’s when songs like this one started flowing.
AVOLA: The title reads almost like a punchline delivered after the damage is done. Do you write toward that kind of line, or does it reveal itself late in the process?
Lulu Leloup: For this one, I had the line first, “I guess you loved me until you didn’t.” That doesn’t always happen, but in this case, the whole story lived inside that phrase. It became the song’s anchor, and everything else was written around it.
AVOLA: You’ve been described as “jazz’s darkly comic romantic.” Is humor a defense mechanism in your writing, or is it the most honest way you know how to tell the truth?
Lulu Leloup: It’s funny ‘cause many of my songs—including this one—I wrote out of genuine heartbreak. Some of them I wrote in tears. I had no intention to be humorous. But humour did eventually surface, so I must have baked it in subconsciously. I tend to gravitate towards dark humour—there’s something about the duality in it that feels very real to me, the way it holds space for opposite things at once. I suppose that means it must be the most honest way I know to tell the truth.
AVOLA: Your music nods to composers like Cole Porter and George Gershwin. What feels timeless about that era to you, and what feels outdated?
Lulu Leloup: There’s a freedom to jazz that no other genre quite invites. I suppose much of that comes from its improvisational foundation—it calls on musicians and singers to reinterpret a song every time they play it. I think that’s why standards have lived on the way they have, and why they’ll continue to.
At the same time, there can be some resistance to making room for new jazz originals. I encounter that occasionally with gigs–“you have to play the popular songs.” And I understand that. I want the standards to live on. But there’s room for new stories too. There are incredible contemporary jazz writers. It would be nice to see modern-day songbooks given a little more space to grow alongside the classics.
AVOLA: There’s a fine line between vintage homage and pastiche. How conscious are you of that tension when you’re arranging and producing?
Lulu Leloup: When I wrote most of the songs I’ve released, I’d only been playing piano for a couple years and didn’t have much formal training. I was writing purely on instinct—just what sounded good and felt honest. So, I couldn’t imitate even if I wanted to. Now my context is a little different, I’ve been studying music more intentionally. But I think that when you’re telling a story that’s genuinely yours, you minimize—if not eliminate—the risk of crossing into pastiche. When I write that way, it’s almost like there’s a composition waiting for me, I just need to follow the music’s lead, and it feels very natural. The moment I try to force a song into a mold, the writing doesn’t work. Those songs usually get shelved.
AVOLA: The song sits comfortably in heartbreak, but it never begs for sympathy. Do you see restraint as a form of power?
Lulu Leloup: I’m not sure I’d call it restraint—maybe acceptance. I say that because this song came out of a conversation with a close friend about how sometimes not-so-great things happen for no reason other than that they just do. And there was something oddly comforting in that. It gave me permission to let the situation be what it was and shift my focus toward things I could actually control.
AVOLA: The accompanying video is stripped back, just you and art deco-inspired projections. What does simplicity allow you to say that spectacle would not?
Lulu Leloup: Simplicity can be a beautiful way to allow a story to breathe. I love narrative-driven videos too—I have a couple—but I’m generally drawn to stripped-back creative work. Even with songs, when it’s just the melody, the piano, and the lyrics, there is something so intimate about the listening experience. It leaves extra space for listeners to feel and interpret, which I find beautiful.
AVOLA: You’ve lived between Beirut, Montreal, and Dubai. Do you feel like you’re writing from a specific place, or from a kind of emotional in-between?
Lulu Leloup: I’ve never really thought about this that way. I draw from memories in all those places, so perhaps it is an emotional in-between. My writing tends to anchor more around people and emotions than geography, but the places I’ve lived have definitely shaped the lens through which I see the world. I suppose by default, the music will reflect that, even if not on the surface.
AVOLA: As the fourth track from March, how does this single deepen or complicate the emotional arc of the EP?
Lulu Leloup: To me, this is the first song on the EP where you hear a shift from pure heartbreak to acceptance. It’s where I step out of a cycle of questioning—what did I miss, what did I do wrong?—and into a mindset of “this is just something that happened, as things sometimes do.” With that also came the realization that I hadn’t done anything wrong. That’s where you get lines like “Could’ve never seen it coming, judging by your kiss.” Those lines are me letting go of unwarranted self-blame—a weight I was relieved to set down.
AVOLA: If love keeps disappointing us in small, predictable ways, why does it remain your favorite subject?
Lulu Leloup: I never consciously thought of it as my favourite subject, but I suppose it must be. After all, who doesn’t love love? It’s universal, and endlessly versatile in the emotions and stories it holds. You also can’t really write about love without writing from the heart. At least for me, the songs I write only work when that’s the place I’m writing from.
Featured Images: Artist Supplied
