Montreal’s Cassandra Angheluta releases music as Apacalda since 2019. In the lead up to her debut record There’s A Shadow In My Room And It Isn’t Mine, she shared some of the influences and inspirations behind the record. Iconic artists, great films, personal trauma and quiet introspection make the new record a richer and more nuanced listen.
More about There’s A Shadow In My Room And It Isn’t Mine here.
Apacalda’s Backstory
People-watching
One of my favorite pastimes. I love observing the small details, trying to imagine how someone might be feeling, where they’re headed, where they’ve come from. Are they carrying something heavy, silently moving through a difficult moment? Or is today the best day of their life, and I just happen to be standing in the right place, at the right time, to witness it? There’s something beautiful in that quiet act of noticing — in imagining the invisible stories unfolding all around us.
Body language
It has always fascinated me — I’m a little obsessed with it, honestly. The micro-expressions, the shifts in posture, the way we communicate without words, without even realizing it. Tone, inflection, the flicker of a glance — they often reveal so much more than words ever could. And yet, this sensitivity can be a double-edged sword. I’ll admit, sometimes I read too deeply into situations, trying to untangle what’s intuition and what’s just overthinking. It’s a fine line, one I’m constantly navigating. But it’s in that space — between sensing and wondering — that a lot of my art takes shape.
Slow-burn movies and series
The Sopranos, Better Call Saul, Reservoir Dogs, The Shining. (And honestly, the soundtracks and scores in all of these are incredible.) I’ve realized I’m drawn to films and shows that let me sit inside a controlled state of fear and anxiety. I’m still unpacking exactly why that is, but off the top of my head, I can guess it’s because they give me a way to channel my own fears, my own anxiety, into something external.
There’s a strange comfort in matching what I’m observing with what I’m feeling — it makes the internal weight feel a little more understandable, a little less chaotic. I suspect that, in many ways, my childhood experiences deeply ingrained this kind of cortisol addiction — this pull toward tension, toward the slow simmer of something just about to break.
Pink Floyd’s The Wall, the visual album
I remember watching it as a young child. It scared me, but it was so captivating I couldn’t look away. It’s funny because I haven’t watched it since, so I don’t remember the details clearly. But what’s stayed with me all these years is how it made me feel.
Dreams
Dreams have always played a vivid role in my life. I’m a heavy dreamer — I often wake up and write them down or record voice notes so I don’t lose the details. I like to look up their symbolic meanings, trying to decode the language of my subconscious, searching for any messages that might be trying to come through. It’s a quiet ritual of self-exploration, a way to better understand the hidden parts of myself that shape the way I move through the world.
Influential artists
David Bowie, Prince, Erykah Badu, and Madonna come to mind immediately. They are unapologetically themselves — fearless in their originality, bold in their expression. Their art feels genuine, raw, and unapologetic, and that authenticity is deeply inspiring to me. They remind me that true creativity is about embracing who you are, fully and without compromise.
Time Alone
Spending a lot of time alone has become a quiet ritual, one that gently fuels my creativity. Ironically, what moves and inspires me are the moments I live — the events, the connections, the raw, fleeting interactions. But to truly understand them, to transmute them into something meaningful, I need solitude. It’s in that stillness, when the noise fades, that experiences reveal their deeper shape.
A moment that stuck with me
In the year 2000, when I was just ten years old, my father passed away unexpectedly while on vacation in Romania. His brother — my uncle — went to his funeral and returned home with two heavy suitcases filled with my father’s belongings. As we unpacked his things, I found small gifts he had chosen for us along his trip. Among them was a jewelry box I had once asked him for during our last visit together — a request he had declined at the time, but one he still remembered.
That moment stands out as one of the earliest and most profound experiences of grief in my life. As we unwrapped his belongings, a videotape of his funeral played in the background — an eerie and surreal collision of memory, loss, and presence. It was the first time I truly came face-to-face with pain so raw it would shape me forever.
This experience, and others like it, have molded me into the artist I am today. My music doesn’t shy away from darkness; it leans into it. I explore the themes that have gutted me, choosing to face pain head-on rather than bury it. This album is an extension of that journey — an honest, vulnerable confrontation with the emotional weight we carry, the shadows we live alongside, and the healing we seek through acknowledgment.
About Apacalda
Apacalda, meaning “warm water” in her mother tongue, Romanian, is a reflection of her means of movement through her art and life. She showcases a unique complexity between the realms of feeling and sound.
Melancholic, dreamy, enigmatic and hauntingly beautiful, Apacalda is creating her own immersive world with a refreshed approach to indie, electronic pop meets dream / dark wave sounds.
Review: There’s A Shadow In My Room And It Isn’t Mine
Listen/buy: There’s A Shadow In My Room And It Isn’t Mine
What’s Your Backstory?
“The Backstory” is a feature where artists share the things that shaped them. I’d love to hear what’s influenced you and your work. If you’d like to share your own story, reach out.
