A few days before the sold-out Angine de Poitrine show at The Pearl on Aug. 23, my editor texted to say that our reporter couldn't make it. He asked if I'd cover the show.
I turned down the Top 40 hits blaring on my car stereo (this is where I’m at in life) and did a quick Google search on a band I only had mild familiarity with. A CBC article offered a helpful primer.
The look: Oversized papier-mâché masks with long, floppy prosthetic noses and matching black-and-white polka-dot bodysuits.
The sound: Complex, high-energy microtonal music played on custom double-neck guitars with live looping pedals.
The persona: Strictly anonymous, communicating in a made-up alien language.
I replied with a quick: “Yup, easy. I’ll go.”
And just like that, this dad had plans on a Sunday night.
I got home to my wife and kiddo and, as one does when preparing for an evening of microtonal prog rock, pulled up some live performances on YouTube.
“This is what you’re going to?” my wife asked.
Yes. Yes, it was. And secretly, I was stoked.
My days of casually wandering into dive bars to see weird bands are probably mostly behind me. These days, a night out requires some combination of calendar coordination, bedtime negotiations and accepting that tomorrow morning is still coming at exactly the same time. So when one presents itself — particularly in the name of journalism — you take it.
Besides, I’ve been to enough shows to know that progressive rock is meant to be experienced in person. However much you enjoy it through headphones or a screen, the sheer musicianship can only really be appreciated when you’re standing in a dark room surrounded by sweaty music nerds.
Angine de Poitrine did not disappoint.
The Pearl was the perfect venue for the show. The crowd was a wonderfully strange mix of crusty prog-rock snobs and a new generation of high-fashion TikTokers who had presumably discovered the band somewhere between clips of strange outfits and algorithmic chaos. It was almost exactly what I expected.
From the opening notes — triggered to repeat by the strike of lead guitarist Khn de Poitrine’s bare painted toes on his looping station — you knew you were in for something special.
The energy was immediate. The musicianship was absurd. And somehow, it all worked: the costumes, the bizarre time signatures, the looping, the alien language, even the phallic noses.
Going in, I worried the whole thing might feel a little performative — a viral internet act whose gimmick overshadowed the music. Instead, it felt as natural as any prog-rock show I’ve ever been to. Beneath all the weirdness are musicians who are ridiculously good at what they do, playing for an audience that knows it.
For a few hours, I wasn't dad watching YouTube videos after bedtime. I was back in a sweaty club, beer in hand, watching an impossibly weird band melt everyone's faces off.
Then the lights came up, I checked what time it was, and immediately started calculating how many hours of sleep I could still get.
Dad’s night out: complete. I just hope bands like Angine de Poitrine are still rocking in 18 years when junior can join me.
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