Angine de Poitrine goes where rules and laws are meaningless. Which is exactly where we are.
Canadian microtonal noise rock is healing.
Historically, the worse the world gets, the better the music gets.
And if you’ve watched the news, things seem to have gone straight off the rails. I can hear this truth in the music I’m putting on repeat. It’s screaming back, “I KNOW.”
My algorithm must also know, because it’s feeding me art that is more affecting, edgy, and responsive to our moment than it has been in a very long time. And then it spat this at me:
Who are they: Angine de Poitrine est un duo de rock expérimental originaire de Saguenay, au Québec (Canada). Les frères de Poitrine se décrivent comme un « Orchestre Mantra-Rock Dada Pythago-Cubiste[2] ».
Why I left their description in French: Because Pete Hegseth’s “I only speak American” comment is exactly what I’m talking about. Because there is no “American” language, and that is exactly what he speaks, and the irony is that the irony is lost on him.
Microtonal, Pythago-Cubistic noise is what I want drowning out all the patronizing non-answers to questions like, “Did we just use AI to bomb an elementary school?” I want someone in Congress to reclaim their goddamn time and blast this from a boom box on the dais. “Is your boss a rapist in the Epstein Files? Answer yes or no—responses other than that will be smothered by Angine de Poitrine.”
I don’t want Max Martin.
I don’t want “Opalite.”
I don’t want art that makes “sense” in a world that makes none.
Listening to music that adheres to the kinds of rules that got us here feels like complicity. And I want this moment to be the death of that, and the birth of something else.
Not to be overlooked: These people can play. That, in itself, is a middle finger to people like Mikey Shulman, CEO of Suno, who paints his AI platform’s value as a shortcut to having to practice an instrument. It’s time-consuming to learn how to play. Why bother?
Why bother?! Fuck you is why bother.
Angine de Poitrine is, to me, the current pack leader of a wave of detuned, deconstructed, defenestrated astronauts exploring a new world while the old one burns before our eyes.
They’re reminding me I’m not insane. And they’re reminding me that I’m not alone in feeling alone. They’re a mirror in which I can see myself. Isn’t that the point of art?
Music, Lyrics, and Life, available in print and audiobook.
Or you could just buy me a coffee.
Al off a sudden, the ether brings a tight healing groove born out of the chaos of polka dots. The joy these weirdos bring makes me a bit teary. A very Canadian thing to do.
Thank you. I feel like I put so much thought, if not effort, in trying to find a way to make my inherently abstract art make sense. I would be so much happier, and without question more productive if I chased less coherence.