Vol. II is already doing that thing where it feels like it’s everywhere at once, even if you’re only now hearing the name. Angine de Poitrine—an anonymous Québécois duo—went from quiet gigging to viral superstars after a single KEXP session last December at France’s Rennes Festival.
They show up in bobbing paper-mâché masks and monochromatic wardrobes, calling themselves “space-time voyagers.” The band’s stage identities are Klek de Poitrine and Khn de Poitrine, and the sound is weirdly danceable math-rock: muffled drums, comically fretted microtonal guitar, and enough rhythmic mischief that your body kind of obliges before your brain fully catches up. Somewhere in that mix, you can almost smell damp wood from rehearsal-room floors—like someone just opened a door to let the instruments breathe.
Misryoum newsroom reported the current momentum is not just online noise. A copy of their debut, 2024’s Vol. I, has already sold for more than $1,500 on Discogs. Dates on their first U.S. and Europe tour are selling out in minutes, and somehow they’ve already become the kind of band people talk about like a shared dare. Better view counts than the Tiny Desk Concerts from Clipse and Weezer doesn’t sound real on its face, but that’s the comparison Misryoum editorial desk noted as part of the buzz. Even a YouTube commentator Rick Beato addressed the sensation in a video called “Please STOP Sending Me This.”
What’s harder to explain—at least at first—is how none of their obvious touchpoints feel particularly fashionable. There’s definitely a little King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard in the hypnotic churn and microtonal melodies, but after that it gets into serious dorkery. Think ill-angled prog jabberwocky of ’70s French zeuhl bands like Magma or Art Zoyd. Then the demented herky-jerk of ’80s outsiders like Renaldo and the Loaf or Zoogz Rift. And if you’re chasing heady grooves, Misryoum analysis indicates there are also echoes of Primus, Discipline-era King Crimson, or early Battles.
On the album itself, the first three tracks on Vol. II are proper studio versions of their four-song KEXP set (the honking, space-choogle “Sherpa” opened Vol. I). That matters because the studio versions don’t just translate the vibe—they sharpen it. Angine are not Dillinger Escape Plan or Naked City leaping wildly between time signatures. A loop pedal serves as the third member of the band, so every song is generally locked into a pulse. Instead of flailing, they establish a meter and then create rhythmic illusions using creative bursts of syncopation—more like Meshuggah or Dawn of Midi in spirit.
Opener “Fabienk” is a simple 7/8, which sounds almost polite until you notice how they wiggle and writhe within that structure. The grid gets filled with weird rhythmic curlicues, ill-timed accents, and unlikely hooklets. Khn’s riffs span large gulfs of time so they lose their familiar shape, punctuating the air in strange polygons. “Sarniezz” sits on a basic 6/8—it only sounds weird because it takes Khn four bars until he repeats his Frith-ian melody, and Klek alternates between swung time and traditional 4/4 caveman pound. When they lean back and sledgehammer that random second sixteenth note subdivision, it’s like synchronized swimming.
The duo claim they have been playing together for 20 years, and honestly, their telekinetic bond shows. The two arrangements feel twisted but never random—like the same conversation, just in a different room. Still, you can’t help thinking how quickly the whole thing turned into a phenomenon. Or maybe you can. Either way, “space-time voyagers” keeps sounding less like branding and more like the only phrase that fits what Vol. II is doing to the timeline.