Staging a grand London comeback after spending most of the last two years in lockdown limbo, IDLES delivered a thrillingly kinetic, high-voltage show at the first of four consecutive nights at Brixton Academy. “We have been practising,” insisted the Bristol band’s livewire singer Joe Talbot, “we’re just not very good.” This was a very IDLES joke: first, disarm the crowd with self-effacing wit, then blow the roof off the venue.
The smart choice of support act for this show was Wet Leg, the Isle of Wight quintet who formed after seeing Idles live, and who broke through last year as Britain’s buzziest new band. Their gloriously named frontwomen Hester Chambers and Rhian Teasdale, who on paper sound more like tweedy spinster detectives in an Agatha Christie novel than pop stars, whooped and yelped and demurely rocked out to archly self-aware songs like Wet Dream and Supermarket.
But inevitably it was their much-loved earworm single Chaise Longue that earned the most rapturous singalong reception. This saucy, surreal, half-spoken oddity is already a modern classic, but it would be a shame if became their defining anthem rather than a springboard to greater things. With a debut album on the way, only time will tell.
To their detractors, IDLES are trapped within a limited formula, bellowing simplistic political slogans over a clobbering art-punk racket. There was certainly plenty of boisterous hooligan attitude in this show, on seasoned crowd-pleasers like Mr. Motivator or Never Fight a Man With a Perm. But there were also hints of more emotional depth and textural variety creeping into the band’s rowdy formula, notably on tracks from their latest Top Ten album, Crawler.
Several numbers, including the brooding slow-burn opener MTT 420 RR, showcased Talbot’s underrated skills as a melodic crooner rather than a splenetic ranter. Baritone saxophone player Colin Webster, who guested on half a dozen tracks, also added alluring hints of experimental free jazz to guitarist Mark Bowen’s squalling, discordant shredding. Most bizarrely, a disco mirrorball descended over the stage for The Beachland Ballroom, a heart-tugging waltz-time ballad that incongruously cast Talbot as a raw-throated soul singer.
Restlessly pacing the stage like a caged animal, Talbot seethed with pent-up testosterone energy in Brixton. Dancing daintily one minute, slouching like an apeman the next, he was part prize-fighter and part slapstick comedian. Whipping up a huge moshpit frenzy during the climactic pro-immigration, anti-Brexit polemic Danny Nedelko, he commanded the crowd to separate into two groups, then crash together again, like Moses conducting the Red Sea.
IDLES may not be the most subtle band in Britain, but they remain one of the most explosively exciting. “My face doesn’t show it but I’m very, very happy,” Talbot quipped, trying his hardest not to grin.
