Like Schrödinger’s cat or Penrose’s staircase, Kouma is a paradox. A dry and oozing, metallic and hammering sound that springs like a geyser, a mutant power-trio that seems to have come straight from the bowels of the earth. On the drums, abrasive and bumpy, Léo Dumont mistreats the rhythm and shakes up the labyrinthine riffs produced by Damien Cluzel’s baritone guitar, the baritone sax and Romain Dugelay’s lo-fi synths. Three versatile musicians who commit themselves body and soul to the boundaries of the marked genres. A hundred leagues away from the canons of jazz, although rather foreign to the spheres of independent rock, Kouma likes nothing less than to walk the stages of crossovers, those where labels are shredded, where the underground can be seen in broad daylight. So yes, Kouma is a little bit like the bottom of the cellar, the psycho-trash-rock that slaps you around. A gruff bear’s head grafted onto a mischievous pony’s body. An implacable sound mathematics, which can be heard shouting.