There are albums born out of the need to scream. There are albums born out of the need to escape. And then there are albums born out of the need to return — not triumphantly, not sentimentally, but in the most difficult way: a return to oneself. “Nostalgia” by John Alarcon and The Arc Light Sessions is precisely such a return. It is not a record that wants to impress or compete. It is a record that wants to remember — quietly, attentively, with humility toward the time that has passed and the light that still finds its way back into places we believed long abandoned.
Alarcon — a Spaniard from Madrid who has lived in Canada for years, a composer with the soul of a romantic and the mind of an architect — launched The Arc Light Sessions in 2015 with the album “Perchance To Dream”. On this debut he was joined by Michael Dionne (lead & backing vocals, lead guitar), Luc Tremblay (flute), Joel Thomas (12‑string guitar), Peter Warren (bass) and Pierre Arsenault (drums). Dionne served as the project’s first vocalist, giving the music a warm, classic neo‑prog tone. On the next two albums the role was taken over by Chris Atwill, whose more dramatic, theatrical delivery shaped the band’s early identity. From the fourth album onward, Alarcon began singing himself, and his voice — growing in confidence and character — became, from 2020 onward, one of the defining elements of The Arc Light Sessions’ sound. “Nostalgia” is the culmination of this stage: a moment in which the author not only composes the music but also narrates it.
Since the debut, twenty‑two albums have been released, and from 2020 onward Alarcon’s creativity accelerated to an extraordinary pace of two to four releases per year. This is not a slow, decades‑long evolution. This is a continuous stream of musical consciousness, the work of an artist who composes the way others breathe.
A decade of intense creation
From the album “Kaleidoscope” (2016) onward, the current lineup began to crystallize — a group of musicians who gave The Arc Light Sessions their characteristic colour and cohesion. Among them, Luc Tremblay occupies a special place; his flute and oboe have become some of the most recognizable elements of the band’s musical language.
Personnel (2026)
John Alarcon — piano, synthesizers, organ, Mellotron, vocals
Patrick Simpson — guitars
Luc Tremblay — flute, oboe
Hugo Emard — bass
Steve Valmont — drums
The album unfolds like nine images of memory — nine places we return to not because we want to, but because we must. Each track feels like opening another drawer filled with things long forgotten yet still alive.
“Travellers” (4:46) opens the album like a breath after a long silence. Alarcon’s piano sounds like a key turning in the lock of an old house, and Patrick Simpson’s guitar enters slowly, like a figure emerging from fog. It is a song about travellers who do not cross the world but their own memories. The melancholy is pure and unadorned, reminiscent of Marillion during the “Holidays in Eden” era, and the narrative unfolds cautiously, as if afraid to awaken something that has been sleeping for years.
“Crazy Times” (6:40) accelerates — the Emard–Valmont rhythm section pulses like a heart in alarm, while guitars and synths paint a world running faster than thought. It is a song about memory trying to impose order on chaos, about years that passed too quickly to be understood. It feels cinematic and unsettling, like the darker landscapes of Gazpacho.
“Land of Shadows” (7:03) is the geography of places that exist only within us. Tremblay’s flute and oboe give the track a pastoral, chamber‑like character, reminiscent of Genesis in their “Wind & Wuthering” era — a walk through a childhood city that no longer exists, even though the buildings still stand.
“Higher Ground” (3:34) is a brief, melodic breath — a moment of distance, of stepping onto a hill to see one’s life from above.
“Old Photograph” (4:56) is the heart of the album. The Mellotron paints sepia, the guitar is like light slipping through blinds, and the piano is a scratch on an old photograph. It is a conversation with someone who is no longer here. Not lament, not grief — rather a quiet acceptance that memory is the only form of presence left to us.
“It Seems” (5:53) is a record of doubt — a melody that hesitates, questions itself, shifts direction unexpectedly, like the introspective moments of IQ. It is a song about memory as a narrator who cannot be trusted.
“Freedom’s Call” (5:26) is an echo of inner liberation — guitar rising like a bird finding an open window, keyboards forming a cleansing, intimate hymn.
“Rabbit Hole” (6:48) is the album’s most progressive moment — shifting meters, evolving motifs, a dialogue between guitar and keys reminiscent of Porcupine_Tree. It is a song about how easily one can get lost in the past.
“Think Me Not Mad” (7:27) closes the album with necessity — quiet passages with flute and piano grow into symphonic climaxes with Mellotron, and the guitar floats above everything like a final thought before sleep.
Final Analysis
Nostalgia is an album that does not try to be a masterpiece — and that is precisely why it comes so close to becoming one. It avoids fireworks because it understands that the deepest emotions live in silence. It is a meditation on memory — not as an enemy or a friend, but as an inseparable part of who we are. Alarcon has created a work that breathes, remembers and illuminates — a mature, intimate album full of light and shadow, one that lingers long after the final note fades.
