Angine de Poitrine are the most thrilling Canadian mystery since David Cronenberg’s The Shrouds. Though the anonymous Québécois duo had been gigging quietly around the Great White North for years, a single KEXP session last December at France’s Rennes Festival rapidly made them viral superstars. In bobbing paper-mâché masks and monochromatic wardrobes, these two “space-time voyagers”—known only as Klek de Poitrine and Khn de Poitrine—make weirdly danceable math-rock for muffled drums and comically fretted microtonal guitar. Self-described as a “Mantra-Rock Dada Pythagorean-Cubist Orchestra,” they’ve managed to rack up better view counts than the Tiny Desk Concerts from Clipse and Weezer. A copy of their debut, 2024’s Vol. I, has already sold for more than $1,500 on Discogs. YouTube commentator Rick Beato addressed the sensation in a video called “Please STOP Sending Me This.” Dates on their first U.S. and Europe tour are selling out in minutes. Somehow, the hottest rock band in the world sound like a funk-metal Ruins and look like they snuck a double-necked guitar onto the set of Beetlejuice.

Their sudden, overwhelming success seems like something of a fluke since none of their obvious touchpoints are remotely fashionable. There’s definitely a little King Gizzard & the Lizard Wizard in their hypnotic churn and microtonal melodies, but beyond that, you’re swerving into serious dorkery: Think the ill-angled prog jabberwocky of ’70s French zeuhl bands like Magma or Art Zoyd; the demented herky-jerk of ’80s outsiders like Renaldo and the Loaf or Zoogz Rift; the heady grooves of Primus, Discipline-era King Crimson, or early Battles; the costumed performance noise of ’00s loft-punx like Forcefield, or the similarly two-toned Yip-Yip; maybe even the spate of Turkish psych-rock reissues that started emerging around 20 years ago. The band rides for Arto Lindsay and gamelan records but also Gentle Giant’s hyper-intricate prog, and John Scofield’s Bonnaroo-funk outing Überjam.

The first three tracks on Vol. II provide proper studio versions of their four-song KEXP set (the honking, space-choogle “Sherpa” opened Vol. I). All three are stellar examples of the band’s polyrhythm games. Angine is 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, Angine de Poitrine are more like Meshuggah or Dawn of Midi, establishing a meter and then creating rhythmic illusions using creative bursts of syncopation. Opener “Fabienk” is a simple 7/8. What makes Angine de Poitrine special is how they wiggle and writhe within that structure, filling the grid 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” is 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 pair claim they have been playing together for 20 years, and their telekinetic bond is apparent in these twisted arrangements.

Surely, this type of granular analysis is thrilling to Zappa apologists and people who watch Drumeo videos, but ultimately Angine de Poitrine’s best balancing act is the ability to consistently dance this mess around. Vol. II is body music, dancefloor music, pogo music, moshpit music, noodle-dance music. It just happens to sound like Lightning Bolt trapped inside Pee-Wee’s Playhouse. All but one of the mesmerizing puzzles on Vol. II strut across the six-minute mark, and the songs never lose steam because they contain so many variations and plot twists. As avowed fans of house and acid techno, they not only understand hypnosis but also pacing: The climax is often Klek’s drums doing a frantic surge into straight meter, which is not just a balm for the brain-boggled but a fairly obvious cue to go apeshit. In “Yor Zarad” they cut the time in half, turning a nervy Wire spasm into the world’s happiest Helmet song.

Using a custom-made guitar to craft melodies from the notes in between the notes of the Western scale, Khn is an incredibly versatile musician. Even on the decidedly uncomplicated 4/4 bounce of “UTZP,” he still thrills because he morphs himself from Balkan brass rave-up to Snakefinger-style dizziness to multi-layered Glenn Branca guitar orchestra to total hair-metal shredding. Critic Craig Marks astutely brought up Dutch wacko-prog fluke “Hocus Pocus” by Focus, but I would point to Gary Hoey’s wheedle-metal cover that was a 1993 staple on Headbangers Ball. They’ve managed to take some of the unsexiest music in history and give it the type of groove that renders it undeniable.

Skeptics can paint Angine de Poitrine as gimmicky OK Go stunt rock, but there’s no denying the melodies and chops behind their dotted duds. At their best, they’re a beacon that North America is once again ready for art-fucky noise rock bands, a rising tide that will hopefully lift excellent, margin-dwelling weirdo-gnash outfits like Los Angeles’ Guck, Oakland’s Gumby’s Junk, New York’s Chaser, Portland’s Rhododendron, and Las Vegas’ Spring Breeding. Angine de Poitrine have the muscle, the melody, and the magic to be the world’s weirdest party band; Vol. II is a powerful argument that we should all start seeing spots.