At the risk of lapsing into just the sort of needlessly florid hyperbole I’m arguably renowned for, IDLES showed up in Brooklyn last night and completely brought the fucking house down. For about the past seven months, I’ve been bleating about the immense greatness of this band to anyone with a pair of ears and a pulse, but have too often been met with blank stares and indifference — even among certain circles who should know better. Months ago, when tickets first went on sale for this gig — at Brooklyn Steel, a cavernous converted warehouse somewhere between Williamsburg and Greenpoint, I believe — I immediately snapped up two, thinking I’d be able to credibly evangelize them to the extent that I’d find a taker for the second ticket in no time. But, no dice. Despite my best, bug-eyed efforts, I couldn’t seem to convince anyone in my immediate orbit of similarly inclined rock heads to take the bait. I ended up selling my second ticket to a grateful fan outside the venue.
Seeing the capacity crowd fill out Brooklyn Steel’s expanse with rapturous zeal was true vindication, and the gig was absolutely nothing short of victorious, finding IDLES ripping through most of their more recent album, the excellent Joy As an Act of Resistance, along with tracks from their incendiary debut, Brutalism, and even a bash through “Queens” from their early EP. No one went home disappointed.
In previous posts, I’ve described IDLES’ live aesthetic as “bananas,” and that does indeed fit the bill, but there’s also a degree of flailing rambunctiousness that crosses the border into strenuous athleticism, personified in dueling guitarists Mark Bowen and Lee Kiernan, who both seem hellbent on giving themselves cranial contusions. How members of the band don’t regularly collide with one another during these frenetic sets somewhat boggles the mind.
But the sheer joy, pardon the pun, with which this band executes its mission is entirely infectious, cribbing elements of virtually all my favorite variants into a burly, clangy, ferocious amalgam of catharsis that is both high-volume and high-spirited. When robustly bearded bass player Dev — who I’d met moments earlier at the merch stand — started lazily playing the bass line for “Peaches” by The Stranglers while the rest of the band assumed the stage, I knew I was right where I was supposed to be. My voice is hoarse from singing along and my face hurts from smiling so damn hard.
So yeah, stop fucking sleeping on IDLES. They are going to rule the world shortly. Get on board or take cover. They come back in October.
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