Every once in a while, you find an artist who sounds like they’re trying to soundtrack the end credits of your emotional breakdown. Belgian artist Florent C. is one of those people. He’s been floating around the alt-pop/electronic scene for a while now, quietly producing tracks that sound like they belong in the trailer for a prestige sci-fi series about grief. And now, with his new album Underwater City, he’s gone fully aquatic: sonically, thematically, and possibly spiritually. It’s an 11-track dive into dark pop, electronica, and cinematic melancholy. You don’t just listen to it; you sort of dissolve into it. It’s like he took the concept of “vibes” and said, “Okay, but what if they were drowning?”
The premise is simple but ambitious: make an album that feels like being underwater, not in a cute lo-fi way, but in the slow, crushing, oddly beautiful way that being underwater actually feels. And somehow, he pulls it off. Florent’s sound has always been about connection; human emotion running through synthetic veins. He’s the kind of artist who can make an 808 kick sound like it’s crying. On Underwater City, he refines that ability to a near-surgical precision. It’s the musical equivalent of holding your breath and seeing how long you can last before your chest starts to burn.
We start with “Perfect Disaster,” and the name’s honestly a warning. It’s a glittering drop into chaos; a mix of Cheat Codes’ pop bombast and Billie Eilish’s late-night existential dread. It’s the sound of someone realizing the club is closing but their problems aren’t. The track manages to feel simultaneously loud and fragile, like a mirror ball hanging by dental floss.
“Phonetic Dreams” follows, and it’s basically what happens when you let Armin van Buuren score your nap paralysis demon. Trance energy, liquid synths, a tempo that insists you should be dancing but an atmosphere that whispers, maybe think about your ex instead. It’s got this human heartbeat under all the electronic shimmer, which keeps it from floating away completely.
At this point in the album, you start realizing Florent’s not just making songs; he’s constructing an ecosystem. You’re in his aquarium now, and he’s the guy tapping the glass to see if you’ll react. “He Never Talked” slows everything down. It’s one of those songs that feels like someone left Illenium alone in a dark room with a guitar and a single flickering LED light. The vocals are delicate and wounded, and the production knows exactly when to step back and let the silence hit. It’s understated, and that’s exactly why it hurts.
Every album has that one track that says, “Yes, this is the theme.” For Florent, that’s “Underwater City.” It’s lush, cinematic, and structured like a three-act film. There’s tension, build-up, release; all that good narrative arc stuff. It feels big, but not in an ego way. More like existential scale big. The synths crash like waves; the percussion pulses like sonar. You can practically see the submerged skyline, the neon flickering through the fog. It’s one of those rare title tracks that actually earns its title.
After that emotional high tide, “Where Do We Go” brings a moment of clarity. It’s gentle, floaty, and full of that “hopeful sadness” energy you’d find on a SuicideSheep playlist. You could either cry to it or study to it, maybe both. It’s unsure whether it wants to surface or stay submerged, which is kind of the point.
Then we get “Now I Rise.” Suddenly, there’s sunlight again. It’s one of the more organic tracks here, leaning into acoustic warmth instead of synth-heavy waves. Think Jessie Reyez but underwater, writing about perseverance while dodging jellyfish of emotion. It’s the moment in the movie where the protagonist swims toward the light and the audience collectively forgets to breathe.
“Bee’s Knees” shows up and says, “Hey, remember fun?” It’s a sleek, modern update of those early-2000s Bonnie Bailey club vibes, except now it’s self-aware enough to know how ridiculous that sounds. It’s danceable, nostalgic, and oddly touching. It’s as if the album took a break from emotional depth to twirl around the dancefloor in flippers.
And then comes “There’s Nobody Left.” If Underwater City were a film, this would be the part where the camera pans over the empty ocean floor while the protagonist’s oxygen gauge runs low. It’s long, ambient, and heavy. Imagine early ODESZA but stripped of festival euphoria; just the loneliness, just the echo. It’s haunting in the best way.
Finally, the album ends with “Shut Up,” which feels like waking up from a beautiful dream and immediately stubbing your toe. It’s trap-R&B, sharp, chaotic, and defiantly alive. You can hear the frustration, the catharsis, the “I’m not dead yet” energy. It’s Jessie Reyez-adjacent but more resigned, like she’s given up on being polite about her pain.
Underwater City is not just an album; it’s a mood experiment. It’s the sonic equivalent of staring into the deep end and realizing the deep end is staring back. Florent C. has built a world that asks you to submerge yourself, and he trusts you’ll come back up changed.
It’s cohesive, emotional, and occasionally pretentious in the best possible way. The production is clean but not sterile, emotional but never melodramatic. Florent’s greatest trick is making digital sound human, like he’s teaching machines to feel bad about breakups.
On Underwater City, Florent dares to deliver a body of work that demands immersion. And when you do, you might catch yourself thinking: “Wait… was I underwater this whole time, or did I just need to breathe?”
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About the Author
A tenured media critic known working as a ghost writer, freelance critic for various publications around the world, the former lead writer of review blogspace Atop The Treehouse and content creator for Manila Bulletin.
