This column is supposed to be about pointing a spotlight at small punk/hardcore bands that don’t get the recognition they deserve. IDLES has over half a million listeners on Spotify, so they’re not strictly in my wheelhouse. But I went to see them play live at the 9:30 Club last week, and it was so damn good that I changed my mind about some misgivings I used to have about the band; I think it’s worth devoting a column to. Plus they’re still pretty punk, so it’s not too off­-brand.

I first came into contact with IDLES through their second album, Joy as an Act of Resistance, which is also their most popular. I was into it immediately. The first track, “Colossus,” has one of the most menacing energies I’ve heard recently, but the track is so sparse that it’s hard to say why exactly. The feeling is addictive. “I’m Scum,” also off of Joy, is much more upbeat, and it captures some of the most floor­stomping fun you can have while comparing yourself to something you scrape off the top of stagnant water. Not to mention that it’s a complete, rendered antifacist anthem; IDLES accomplish a major feat in “I’m Scum” by writing a song decrying an ideology we all know is bad news without making the song elicit the classic “well, duh” reaction you get from, say, a recent Green Day track.
But here’s where I always ran into problems with IDLES. Their albums always toe the line between saying something that needs to be said, something True, and something so old and obvious and talked­about that there’s really no point in talking about it anymore. Case in point: “Stendhal Syndrome,” off of their first LP, Brutalism (which, in general, I prefer to Joy).

Vocalist Joe Talbot sings from the perspective of a person who doesn’t understand abstract expressionist art: “Did you see that painting what Rothko did? / Looks like it was painted by a two year old kid.” Talbot mocks the speaker’s ignorance, but it feels tired. Haven’t we done this to death? Don’t we know by now that there isn’t any point in trying to convince art­haters to see the light? The song leaves me wondering what all the rage is for. It feels like a straw man.

Sometimes their music feels kind of trite, too. On “Danny Nedelko,” their hit single (by punk standards), Talbot sings about the perils of xenophobia, which is obviously worth moshing to in today’s political climate. But by describing his immigrant friend Danny (frontman of Heavy Lungs, a band I might have to write about someday) with “he’s made of flesh, he’s made of love / he’s made of you, he’s made of me,” before screaming “Unity!,” I felt a little underwhelmed. There’s a sort of middle­school­diary­poem­ness to the lines, and even though the message is essential, I was disappointed. On the album, I felt like IDLES oversimplified the issues they address, making them feel kind of hollow.

Then I saw them live, and all those feelings changed. Watching Talbot march around the stage, flinging spit and sweat with every word, screaming until he was goosebumpy pink, it was impossible not to feel what he felt. The band matched his energy, slamming around the room, crowdsurfing and throwing guitars into the pit for fans to strum. They’re the most passionate performers I’ve ever seen; it’s obvious every word to every song is absolutely genuine.

In between songs, Talbot likes to talk to people in the crowd. He calls them “bruvvah” and “friend” in his endearing Bristol accent, always with total respect. When a fan wouldn’t stop heckling him, Talbot swallowed his frustration and, instead of yelling back, he asked the fan’s name and dedicated the next song to his “bruvvah David.” At one point he called for the
audience to split down the middle to form what is traditionally known as a Wall of Death: the crowd is parted like the Red Sea, and when the chorus to the song drops, they charge toward the middle, heads down and shoulders out. This is where people get trampled in mosh pits. But Talbot called it the Wall of Love. “On the count of three (‘free’), I want you to make love to each other like you’ve never made love before,” he yelled. Then he counted down, and we ran at each other with open arms. When the song was over, Talbot asked if everyone was alright.

I’ve never seen a live show that was so inclusive, so gentle, so loving, yet so violent. It puts IDLES’ music in a different context. This isn’t the crusty, cynical punk band I thought it was. This is a compassionate group of weirdos who are brave enough to be naive, to oversimplify with the best intentions, to do something they believe is good, even if people like me hate on them for it. In this case, I was the speaker in “Stendhal Syndrome;” I just didn’t get it. And now I feel like I do.

Toward the end of the night, they played “Danny Nedelko,” the song that used to bother me. Talbot dedicated it to immigration, “the best thing a country can have,” and they launched into their most visceral performance of the night. I got tossed around the center of the pit as everyone around me screamed the words; they all knew them by heart. “Fear leads to panic, panic leads to pain / Pain leads to anger, anger leads to hate,” goes the pre­chorus; on the album I thought the lyric was almost vapid. But played live, everyone in the room sang with so much conviction that the words couldn’t be anything but True. My snobby crust dissolved in the crowd.

IDLES is a fearless band that advocates for universal love and empathy, even for the people they condemn. And if that message feels a little weak on their records, who cares? They’re more of a live band anyway. I don’t think we can afford to be cynical about good things anymore; there aren’t enough of them for us to go around criticizing them for not being good in the right ways. That’s a pretty ungrateful perspective. So, instead, I’ll be getting squashed in the Wall of Love, turning my dumb brain off and yelling “unity” with everyone else.