Words + Photos By: Rob Lucchesi
I’ve had tickets to see IDLES in Brooklyn since February. Almost a full seven months with the little blue Ticketmaster logo in my Apple Wallet, a constant little something to look forward to through the long summer months. We had it all figured out- Liam, who you may remember from the Still Woozy review, was supposed to come up from Charlotte for the show. It would’ve been his first trip to NYC and both our first times seeing IDLES live- would’ve been a huge weekend. But y’know how it goes, life gets in the way and all that, so he and I are going to catch them together on the next tour (album five please, sirs).
But wait a sec, you still had two tickets, Rob, did you just sell them and stay home? That wouldn’t make for much of an article, would it? Well, I’m glad you asked! See, instead of my seasoned, experimental hip-hop, ambient psychedelic best friend, I took my girlfriend, Amaya. I took my R&B girlfriend, my Kehlani and Giveon listener romantic partner, my lovely, never-heard-a-single-IDLES-song-in-her-life significant other to a rock show… a prog-punk-rock show… in Flatbush, Brooklyn. And yes, having spelled that out, there may have been some lapse in judgment in asking her to come, because by no means is IDLES a beginner pit. But in fairness, I did warn her and send her plenty of live sets to show her just what we were up against, so hey, there was plenty of run-up. It was one hell of an adventure we had though!
The two of us hopped on the train into the city around 1:30, got off at MSG and from there it was just a matter of running down the clock and timing our subway trip from Times Square into Brooklyn. No matter how you slice it or split that up, that’s a long, long day on your feet, but we took it in stride. After a few hours of window shopping and a big lunch, we finally found ourselves at Kings Theater in Flatbush, a gorgeous little playhouse just up the street from the train station. It was built in 1929 and looked like it had been pulled straight out of a novel or a cartoon. Blood maroon carpeting, massive marble columns in the lobby, beautiful renaissance-style sculptures and effects all throughout. If it weren’t for all the dyed hair and all the merch labeled ‘scumbag’, you wouldn’t even think there was a punk show getting queued up. We hit the merch stand while the line was short, and waiting for everyone at the front of the line was none other than Adam Devonshire, the Dev, the bassist against racists himself, who was out there signing things and chatting it up with the fans before the start of the show. What a sweet dude, he signed my hat, had a nice conversation with him, and then we hopped in the line.
Doors opened around 7:30, and we pushed our way down to the pit. Amaya was a little put off at first, she had never been this close to the stage before, and truthfully, neither had I! Two rows of people away from the barricade, we could see every corner of the theater, all the way from the front door to every seat in the nosebleeds. Had to take it all in while we could because we would not be seeing it again. Lights dimmed at about 7:15ish, and Injury Reserve took their places out on stage. This tour with IDLES meant a lot for thegroup, this being only their second tour after the death of founding member Stepa J. Groggs back in the summer of 2020. They had a slow start to the set, they’re admittedly not the easiest band to get into, which I explained to Amaya in the middle of their set in between verses and solos- she was a little confused by some of what they were doing up there, but by the end, she and the rest of the crowd were hopefully new fans.
9:00, the lights re-dim, the entire theater is overcast in a deep red light. The Bristol five make their way out on stage, and without even so much as a nod to the crowd, hammer down into “Colossus”s deep growling bass line. We hadn’t even hit the double time riff yet and kids of all shapes and sizes of Doc Martens are throwing themselves at each other, at security, at the barricade. Four long minutes pass, Joe Talbot finally addresses the crowd with a hand outstretched, and one simple request: “Split the crowd down the fucking middle!” Everyone moves seamlessly, everyone’s ready for live music, everyone’s ready to get this pit moving, everyone’s ready to look after each other. “ONE, TWO!” Those two magical little numbers send every poor bastard in that crowd hurtling into each other like Stone Cold Steve Austin, ready to put each other in coffins. Off to a great start, the first pit turns into a dogpile on the slick theater floor, which had gotten covered in beer, water, and a little extra booze before Injury Reserve could even get on stage. I found myself on the bottom of it, still screaming that I was like Ted DiBiase, that I’ll win no matter what it cost me, and found Amaya well outside the pile, horrified at what she’d agreed to.
“Colossus” ends, and the five blokes from Bristol cue up the synthesizer for the electrifyingly deafening intro to “Car Crash.” Heads roll, shoes are lost, shirts are torn, and one dude already took his shirt off, slippery like a Beluga whale, in the middle of the pit. Two songs in, the floor is already feeling like Jell-O under my feet, I’ve lost Amaya three times, and “Mr. Motivator” swings in screaming on Mark Bowen and Lee Kiernan’s translucent and pink guitars- gotta get an arm or two around Amaya, the guy in loafers is about to clothesline anyone that so much as looks into the whirlpool of adrenaline in the center of the pit. “Grounds” comes and goes, everyone’s had their fun, we’d found our strength in numbers, time to get into the heavy stuff. “Mother”, “Divide & Conquer,” “The Beachland Ballroom,” all three back to back to back, not a moment's rest, and we’re not even halfway through the set yet.
After the “Ballroom” did its damage and all the tears were done being shed, Talbot turned the lights on and tried to clear up his penchant for smokes and kicking douches in the mouth, but as always, his last cigarette had gone out. The pit opened wider than I’ve ever seen, almost as wide as Amaya’s eyes as the lights flashed bright enough to blind an epileptic, and the pit crashed harder than a bull in a China shop to “Never Fight A Man With A Perm.” Again, in hindsight, I should have made her listen to more of their music before bringing her all the way to Flatbush, but to be fair, nothing but experience can really prepare you for the shit you see on the floor when that song comes on. We survived “1049 Gotho” and “The Wheel,” and “Television” very nearly took us out, and dammit, that sweaty shirtless guy was back in the middle! The crowd collectively booted him to the edge of the crowd, and finally got a moment to breathe during a passionate rendition of “A Hymn.” The collective peace didn’t last long, however, because no sooner had the hymn ended that we’d been shipped off to war, to anti-war. “War” and “Wizz” stacked together is a tough combo to beat, death to pedophiles and war profiteers, right into a 30 seconds of just unadulterated, deadly elbows.
Covered in bruises and drenched in sweat, with just three short songs to go, Amaya was finally getting into the swing of the pit, elbows were thrown, bitches were shoved, she was a natural! All she had left was the final threshold, the final battle, the ultimate test- “I’m Scum,” “Danny Nedelko,” and the legendary five-minute drum solo in “Rottweiler” crammed together at the end of the set, 20 minutes of adrenaline and nonsense, and she’d be a certified professional. The only trouble with those last three was “I’m Scum” and “Danny Nedelko” pale in comparison to “Rottweiler” because, as the saying goes, this song is an anti-fascist song, and goes unnaturally hard. Not for the faint of heart. But 10 minutes of that was nothing for her, I mean, what’s one more song? The announcement came over the mic from Talbot, and it echoed from the crowd- “This song, this song is an anti-fascist song! Rottweiler!” That tiny little playhouse felt enormous in that moment, the crowd ran wild, the stage exploded into flashing lights, there were people flying overhead, riding the waves of the crowd- I even got Amaya to hitch a ride on one of the waves, not bad for a first pit! And all the while, Jon Beavis is still destroying the drum solo, there’s no outrunning the shark at our feet, no hiding from the vulture at the breakfast table, just the thunder and lightning running around that room.
But all good shows must come to an end. As the lights came back up, and everyone on that boiling, sweaty, slippery dance floor could finally see each other again, there wasn’t anything but a smile to be seen on anyone’s face. It’s hard rock for softies, and it was all softies as far as the eye could see. Kids were being carried out on each other's shoulders, Instagrams, cell and fax numbers were being exchanged, and the gig photographers were already comparing the night’s harvest. And so we all went our separate ways, Amaya and I made our way back to the subway, covered in bruises and drenched down to the bone, with two nearly dead phones, and nothing but a Gatorade and two waters to get us back home. Did we have a huge time? Without a doubt. Could it have been planned better? Always. Will she ever go to a rock show with me again? The same trick may not work twice, but without a doubt IDLES in Flatbush is a show that neither of us will soon forget.
IDLES
Rob Lucchesi
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