Towards the end of Colossus, Idles’ hulking opening number, frontman Joe Talbot orchestrates a moshpit, ordering the crowd to carve out a no man’s land down the middle of the venue. “Are you ready to collide?” he roars. Then, more vehemently: “Are you ready to look after each other?” This combination of violence and compassion is Idles in a nutshell: go wild, be kind. Their shows feel like being punched and hugged at the same time.
Successful paradoxes always intrigue. The Bristol-born band have the brawn and dread of post-punk heavyweights such as Big Black or the early Bad Seeds, but none of their seething malice. Instead, and despite their musical differences, they recall the hoarse idealism of the Clash or 1980s U2: a life-and-death desperation to communicate, and to commune. It’s why they can fill Brixton Academy four nights in a row, and why many of the fans there have committed to inking the band’s name into their skin. Like no other British rock band of their generation, Idles offer a sense of resilient belonging, rendering pain fertile and ugliness majestic.
