Northern Transmissions is a music website started for music lovers, by music lovers. We feature interviews, album and live reviews from today’s most influential independent bands and artists. Northern Transmissions also features music news from around the world everyday.
Quebec festival La Noce, taking place the first weekend of July in the municipality of Chicoutimi in the stunning Saguenay fjord, might not be the biggest, most hotly anticipated or most widely talked about event in the province’s summer calendar, but those in the know — artists and
festivalgoers alike — tend to speak of it in the most glowing, quietly superlative terms. Not yet a decade old, La Noce is a fairly young member of the ever-expanding festival circuit and I first heard tell of it a couple of years ago. But over the course of the 3-day festivities, I met so many people who were on their fifth or sixth visit I began to wonder where the hell I’d been, under what rock or in what cultural tundra I’d been living all this time. Beloved by a few, unbeknownst to many, La Noce it appears has been bubbling away in the background, casually evolving, transforming subtly but inexorably into something of much more substance and significance.
As of this edition, however, that growth might suddenly become a lot less subtle. And if the festival’s development does indeed undergo a sharp upward curve, you can bet your house and all your possessions Angine de Poitrine will have had something to do with it. A lot has been written and said about the Saguenay instrumental duo in a very short space of time — so much so, in fact, that in certain snobbish circles mention of them seems to have already become passé — and it is testament to just how meteoric their rise has been that they weren’t even booked here as a headline act, instead warming up the main stage on the opening night for Polaris nominee and Juno Award winner Lou-Adriane Cassidy. I didn’t stick around for her set because I had an article to write, but walked away from the delirious roaring masses of Poitrinomaniacs feeling somewhat sorry for her. Because let’s face it, how on earth do you follow that?
The crowd were already febrile with excitement from the moment they set foot on the festival grounds. If it can be said there was electricity in the air — and believe me, there very definitely, palpably was — then when these two polka-dotted, pyramidal-headed, phallic-appendaged proponents of microtonal scales, looped basslines and complex polyrhythms took to the stage, it was like a bolt of lightning hitting a hydroelectric dam and the whole place burst,erupting ecstatically in a torrential, thunderous deluge of noise. It was quite a thing to behold. After the requisite salute to the crowd, hands raised aloft in an inverted triangle to form the ritual symbol of this weird and wonderful cult, AdP powered non-stop through forty-five minutes worth of the frenetic riffage, funk-adjacent basslines and angular grooves full of strange pirouettes and unpredictable oscillations that make this duo as mesmerising and hair raising as they are, Khn and Klek stopping only briefly here and there to address the legions of devoted acolytes before them in their esoteric alien gibberish. At which points, of course, cue 5000 pairs of hands raised in the triangle signal by way of response.
I had wondered prior to this if having the most viral band on the planet play at 7.30 on the opening night might cause the festival to peak a little early, but this thought couldn’t have been farther from the truth, and there was not the slightest hint that anyone, anywhere, was experiencing a sense of anticlimax. Thursday was even a little hectic: you arrive late afternoon, check into your lodgings or pitch your tent and by the time you’ve had a bite to eat the spectacle is already well underway. It was on the subsequent days that you got a chance to embrace the atmosphere, osmose some of that ubiquitous joy into you and enjoy a leisurely stroll around the festival grounds — and what grounds they were.
I mentioned earlier how people spoke of this festival in laudatory, superlative language and I’m afraid I’m going to have to do the same here: the La Noce festival site is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever been on. The friend who invited me here had told me it was in the grounds of an old paper mill and I suppose I was expecting something stark and concrete, the decrepit husk of a defunct industrial complex in which the festival had sprouted up, perhaps, as a hopeful expression of renaissance in desolation. Our driver on the way up was more poetic in her description of the place, talking of waterfalls and flowing rivers, wooded-groves and castle-like ruins that made it sound like we were about to be given a guided tour of Rivendell by the elves. A few wryly skeptical glances passed between us in the back of the van, not least when we hit the outskirts of the city where after miles and miles of majestic boreal forest and beautiful blue lakes in their pristine summer shimmer, we were met with your typical, ugly North American anywheresville that might be Michigan or Manitoba, deepest Kansas or the northern Yukon —all strip malls, gas stations, used car outlets and fast food chains.
But soon we were wending our way down quiet suburban streets and steep leafy inclines towards the water’s edge, where the quaint little town of Chicout’ – as the locals call it – takes shape at the confluence of the Saguenay and Chicoutimi rivers. At the foot of the hill that ascends to the festival site there is indeed a waterfall, a quietly purling cascade atop which sits a tiny white house that has become a museum to itself, a monument to resistance and endurance, being one of the few structures in the surrounding area to have survived intact the devastating Saguenay flood of thirty years ago that caused over a billion dollars in damages and wiped out a huge swath of the urban area. Across the road a magnificent neogothic church dominates the view, attached to which is an old timberframe manse that boasts one of the most picturesque hotels in the region.
Etran DeLAir at La Noce 2026 photo by Samuel Snow
As the road rose on, so did expectations. It started to feel like we were in for something really special and on entering the grounds of La Pulperie – the name of the park and historical site where the majority of the festival would take place – any lingering skepticism on my part was well and truly silenced.
I have been to a fair few festivals in impressive locations but none have struck me quite as dumb as this: neat dirt and gravel paths climbing the wooded hillside through cute clusters of balsam fir and birch; shaded glades where the trunks of felled trees offer respite from the blazing afternoon sun; gentle grassy slopes and boulderous outcroppings of rock where people lounge and laze away the downtime between sets or soak up some rays. The remains of the old paper mill I’d imagined as a bland and blocky concrete shell are magnificent old stone buildings from the turn of the last century that are almost cathedralesque in their bygone grandeur, connected by snaking wooden walkways and flights of steps that give you the sense, almost, that you have arrived at some ancient site of pilgrimage. Our driver’s earlier words of praise no longer felt at all far-fetched.
Entering the site on Friday, the crowds were still thin and the dulcet dreamily melodic sounds of Montreal duo Milk and Bone, followed by the mellow and mellifluous folk-pop of Gaspésie native Velours Velours, carried through the trees, the warbly quavering of a lapsteel, plucked Telecaster arpeggios and mellow vocals a perfect fit for this early afternoon Eden. My own tastes being of a heavier bent, however, it was a welcome tone change when things shifted gear with the arrival of Cure-Pipe to the Télé Québec stage, a local Saguenay garage rock act with a penchant for the psychedelic, who applied a bit of distortion to the proceedings, cranked up the volume and sent whatever species of fauna that might have been curiously lingering in the surrounding hills shooting off in search of fairer, more tranquil pastures.
Scène Télé Québec, set up inside one of the abandoned mill buildings, was undoubtedly the pick of the three main stages and played host to some of the best acts of the weekend. Right at the top of the sprawling festival site, a dusty path winds up towards it past an old weatherstained water tower; a narrow wooden gangway leads into this huge roofless structure before a flight of steep creaking steps takes you down into the venue proper. In the diminishing light of the clear dusk sky Tuareg rock quartet Etran de l’Aïr took to the boards in front of a raucous crowd that was every bit as feverish with excitement as they’d been the night before at Angine de Poitrine. Perhaps it’s partly the Angine effect that these kinds of atypical tonal registers — at least to the unschooled Western ear — induce such an impassioned welcome in a mostly Quebecois audience. If such is the case, so much the better, for the Saguenay sunset suddenly came alive with the sounds of the Sahara and the rhythms of the desert. Intricate guitar melodies jangly and angular bounce along at rock ‘n’ roll tempos and although their music possesses the underlying melancholy you hear in delta blues, the lyrics soulful and often plaintive, Etran de l’Aïr made their name on the Niger wedding circuit and their sound is propulsed, essentially, by joy and the very necessary desire to celebrate something important. It’s music that is made for dancing, and that is exactly what the La Noce crowd did.
The final day, Saturday, was the most eclectic of the festival. New Brunswick trio Les Hay Babies, playing with an expanded backing band for a fuller, more festival-ready sound, opened things at the Sirius XM main stage with their flawless harmonies and catchy Acadian honky-tonk country folk that at times tapped into more evocative veins of American music, bringing to mind spaghetti western scores and southern Cali surf rock. As they finished their set I worked my way to the smaller Scène Hydro-Quebec for Beat Sexü, a Quebec City electro-pop outfit I hadn’t heard of until I saw the festival line-up but whom I was keen to see. And they didn’t disappoint. It was electro-pop alright, but with an undercurrent of something edgier: mean basslines grooving darkly beneath buoyant melodies and snappy pop hooks that brushed against more psychedelic textures, driven by rhythms that got tantalisingly close to motorik. You felt they could have jammed these tunes out indefinitely, but repetitive krautrock is not what this band is about, their influences veering closer to tropicalia and italo, seventies disco and old-school funk. It’s hard to argue with any band that brings the party at 3 o’clock in the afternoon.
Back on the main stage VioleTT Pi continued in the same vein, though suddenly the day of family-friendly fun was injected with a (not unwelcome) dose of sleaze, and some acidic, acerbic humour. Smeared in grotesque and clown-like face paint that gave him the appearance of the villain in a Japanese Noh drama or the ghost in a Kurosawa film, the tunage lurched boldly from pounding electro-funk earworms to abrasive punkish riffs to surprisingly tender balladry and back again, his voice a tunefully delicate croon one minute, screaming itself hoarse the next.
After this came the one bum note of the whole weekend which, as it happens, was the usually trusty Death From Above 1979. Although they eventually got down to rocking out, their opening few songs were interspersed with some questionable and even cringey chat from vocalist and drummer Sebastien Grainger who committed the faux pas of making some snide, snarky remarks about Angine de Poitrine. On hearing the band’s name — which translates as angina, chest pain — he said he was disappointed to discover it wasn’t some obese Quebecoise lady with a heart condition but instead “two dorks in stupid costumes”. A stab at humour, of course, but his quip completely missed the mark and the response from the hometown crowd, as you might expect, was a chorus of boos. Grainger may have been able to speak French, but in terms of reading the room he proved to be somewhat illiterate. You don’t show up at a dinner party and poke fun at the guest of honour.
As the festival drew on to its close with two of the weekend’s suitably stand-out acts, any ill feeling engendered by the Toronto duo was soon forgotten. Back at the Télé Québec stage the stellar Yoo II & Nolan Potter — an amalgam of Montreal bands Yoo Doo Right and Population II, with the Austin Texas multi-instrumentalist taking centre stage — were moreish and maximal, their reverb-drenched and distortion-riddled instrumentation sounding both organic and industrial, a kind of lysergic distillation of seventies space rock, locomotive post punk and no-wave noise into something that sounds like what Hawkwind might have sounded like had they put an album out on Constellation Records.
The crowd at La Noce 2026 photo by Samuel Snow
All of which was light years away from the weekend’s exceptional closing act, the mesmeric Quebecoise pop chimera, Klô Pelgag. Richly textured, protean and impossible to pigeonhole, her music though it hits as pop on first listen is full of jarring nuance and juxtaposition and has a decidedly darker underside than you first expect. There is something Nordic and bleak about it, beautiful and sinister at the same time. And onstage, it really comes alive. She is a magnetic, hypnotic performer, whether whirligigging across the stage or sat at the piano, combining elements of haunting baroque pop, rustic folk and punchy electro with seamless ease. There were moments the melodies were so off-kilter I felt like I was at sea, but before things get too woozy she draws you back to the terra firma of a killer hook and a swaggering bassline. And as the end nears she really lets loose and her performance crescendos to its euphoric, cathartic climax, delivering to a fittingly brilliant close a truly wonderful festival.
All in all, the roster of artists performing was well-curated, with no shortage of talent on show — local and otherwise — and music lovers of most inclinations are likely to have left Chicoutimi satisfied. But while the major festivals are all about the line-up, the headline-grabbing names, the FOMO, for the more modest ones without the funding or the clout to attract the biggest artists, atmosphere is everything — and this is something La Noce has absolutely nailed. The festival grounds are not only picturesque but sprawling and spaced out, with lots of pockets of calm to take a break in and regather your forces when the relentless festival momentum has you feeling spent. The organizers probably could have sold another couple of thousand tickets if they’d wanted to but didn’t, meaning the crowds never got overwhelming and you never found yourself caught in a claustrophobic crush of bodies. Importantly, it’s very much a family-friendly, community-spirited event that exists to bring people from far and wide together in an ambiance firmly rooted in good old wholesome fun.
This is hinted at in the name: La Noce means The Wedding. And yes, there are actual weddings taking place. I don’t know how legally binding they are but there are lots of them. Angine de Poitrine shirts were the only items of clothing on site more profuse than wedding outfits and at one point it occurred to me I’d seen more marriages than bands. These were taking place in the Ubisoft zone that at night hosted the after hours parties, but which in the daytime doubled as a marital chapel where for the reasonable fee of $10 Canadian you and your beloved, or your latest squeeze, or just some random you hit it off with the night before, could get hitched. To say the celebrant, in his purple priest’s vestments, was the hardest working man at the festival is no hyperbole, not by any stretch, and he was a deft performer in his own right, administering just enough irony and dry humour into the ceremonies to avoid them becoming too sentimental or sickly sweet.
Indeed, when back in Montreal I was telling people about my weekend, I realised that of all the memorable moments that came to mind, the bands on the line-up hardly even got a mention. One of my favourite shows was an unannounced, impromptu performance by the angelic-voiced Icelandic singer-songwriter Elín Hall who played on Saturday morning in Planète Claire, Chicout’s only record store. Another was a DJ set by some local resident who lives in a house down the street from the site entrance and had set up a pair of Pioneer decks and a PA system on his porch, blasting out a mix of acid jazz and disco funk for the entertainment of a handful of amused festivalgoers on his front lawn. Or walking past the wedding tent to find staff and visitors alike belting out a rendition of Céline Dion’s “Pour que tu m’aimes encore” like their lives depended on it.
And lastly, finally: late, late, in the early hours of Sunday morning, as Roy Vucino and Annie-Claude Deschênes’ PyPy set brought the festival’s final, banging party to a close, sharing shots of some local liqueur with the wonderful staff at the after hours bar who, despite having put in a fourteen hour stint outdoors in 30-degree heat, three days in a row, were all beaming smiles and infectious laughter, having seemingly enjoyed the weekend as much as the rest of us. And as security ushered us out into the starry, cloudless night, the words of farewell on everyone’s lips were the same. Not anything as subtly conclusive as a “Take care, all the best” or the kind of “It was nice meeting you” you say to people you suspect you’ll never see again. Everyone was saying the same thing with a knowing degree of certitude: “See you again next year.”
Yes. You most definitely will.
Words by Stephen Deane
Photography by Samuel Snow
Angine De Poitrine at La Noce 2026 photo by Samuel Snow
More information on La Noce HERE
Show Me The Body
Madonna
mary in the Junkyard
Chanel Beads
Truck Violence
Sign up for reviews, interviews, news, videos, playlists — and more.
Thanks for subscribing.
source
Thanks for visiting our page. Don’t forget to go to our home page for more microtonal and indie music news.