The walls sweat before we do. The air thick with pre-impact tension, like the moment before a brawl or the instant a firework rips apart the sky. And then, IDEA 01. A percussive sledgehammer to the ribs. Drums like someone taking a crowbar to industrial piping. Joe Talbot arrives like he’s just been kicked out of heaven and has come back with a vengeance. He doesn’t sing. He declares war.
The crowd surges forward, bodies ricocheting off one another like atoms in a too-small space. Momentum, chaos, a shoulder to the ribs. Alexandra Palace is too regal a name for this. This is a factory floor, an engine room, a riot with a stage.
No breathing room. No lull. “Colossus” drags itself into being, a slow-burn menace that stalks the perimeter before pouncing, the bassline a heartbeat on the edge of panic. A moment stretched to its absolute limit, then the snap. A thousand bodies thrown into the air at once. A single brainstem controlling them all.
The guitars don’t play so much as they grind. Serrated edges of sound slicing through the mix, feedback curling around the rafters. Lee Kiernan and Mark Bowen are less musicians, more wild-eyed prophets in the throes of revelation, flinging themselves into the fray as though the music itself has possessed them. They are out of control but precise. A paradox made flesh.
“Samaritans.” The room chants back at Talbot, loud enough to break glass. The words aren’t just lyrics; they’re confessions, expulsions, exorcisms. Toxic masculinity takes a beating in real time. Somewhere, a father hears his son scream those lines and realizes he should have been listening all along.
The set moves like a muscle spasm. Jerky, unpredictable, violently necessary. “Never Fight a Man with a Perm” is both a taunt and a thesis statement, a sneering dismantling of knuckle-dragging bravado. The pit convulses, an undulating mass of catharsis and release, violence without harm. This is where the rage goes so it doesn’t kill us.
Talbot locks eyes with the room, a preacher without the sermon. “Danny Nedelko” hits like an inside joke everyone is screaming at full volume. Unity weaponized. The crowd turns into a singular entity, surging, howling, fists aloft. Somewhere, a shoe flies overhead. Someone lands hard on their knees but gets pulled upright before they can even process the pain. No one falls here. No one is allowed to.
By the time “Rottweiler” unspools itself, there’s nothing left to take. No voices unshredded, no sweat unshed, no bones unbruised. The song is an onslaught, a prolonged, feral thing, stretching itself to absurdity, chewing on its own tail, refusing to end. Then, all at once—
Silence.
The stage empties. The crowd stands, steaming, feral, needing a cigarette or a cold shower or a moment to process what just happened. And then, the lights come up, and reality slams back into place. Alexandra Palace is just a venue again. London is just a city.
For now.
Words & photos – Richard Isaac
“We Love Live Music” is a new platform dedicated to celebrating the energy, passion and joy in live music – thank you for visiting our site! You, the gig goers & festival goers, are a big part of the “We..”. So we’d love to hear from you, share your views or gig stories in the comments below the reviews, or tag us in your socials in your posts from the shows. Look us up on TikTok/IG/Facebook/YouTube where we’ll be posting regular content
