Live Review: IDLES, City Rose

The show tonight’s been sold out for weeks and anticipation has been ridiculously high. Even with a very un-rock’n’roll early kick-off time, a strong crowd has turned up who – most importantly – seem vibed up for the occasion, ready and willing to be pummelled into submission by the wrath to come. Which augurs well for rising Sydney four-piece City Rose, opening proceedings with a burst of deep, doomy darkwave that rivets attention and stops conversations mid-sentence. Singer Andrew Exten’s clean-cut appearance belies his almost-metal growl, calmly wandering the stage while his bandmates lay down the noise behind him. A massive bottom-end underpins the turmoil while scratchy guitars coax out weird sounds and textures, the vocals almost indecipherable but still conveying plenty through tones and timbres. They play it like they mean it and leave plenty of space amid the industrial gloom as they embrace tension and release, Exten stalking back and forth on the dancefloor during the melodic cacophony of recent single 777, plenty of hooks on display despite the uncompromising heaviness. They abandon their aura of detached cool at set’s end, the strong display devolving into a final maelstrom of noise as dark and foreboding as what went before but still leaving people hungry for more as they depart into the shadows, no mean feat.

By now The Brightside is packed to the brim and even a stifling heat born of a full house in an oppressive Brisbane summer isn’t enough to derail the tangible sense of expectation for the catharsis ahead - a unity born of shared cultural totems and semi-drunken bonhomie. All eyes are glued to the stage as the headliners one by one check their instruments and tunings amid the sauna-like atmosphere – the most scrutinised soundcheck of all – but soon enough preparations are complete and the members of IDLES re-emerge from the curtains behind the stage to a heroes’ reception, vantage points at a premium as the packed throng jostles for a decent viewing stance. The Bristol punks burst into Colossus and the floor is immediately transformed into a sweaty, heaving cauldron of pure joy; tattooed frontman Joe Talbot a swaggering font of cool and charisma from the outset. As they move onto Never Fight A Man With A Perm, Talbot beats his chest and cajoles the crowd to invest more as he bares his soul, the challenge accepted as if the throng at his feet were on a football terrace belting back team chants.

All throughout there’s a genuine integrity to the intensity and rage, a certain truth and intellect fuelling the fury. During the savagery of Mother, shirtless guitarist Mark Bowen stands mouth agape, spasming as if being electrocuted. The crowd then belts back the counterpoints of Faith In The City and I’m Scum, the latter summoning this evening’s first forays into genuine crowdsurfing among the excited fans. The heartfelt polemic of Danny Nedelko lifts things another notch with its heavy social conscience and Bowen is suddenly standing literally on top of the crowd somehow being held aloft and upright as he belts out the vocal refrain with manic conviction. The rhythm section is robust and powerful, massive bear-like bassist Adam Devonshire and propulsive drummer Jon Beavis looking like they’re having the time of their life amongst the heat haze, the music angry but empowering as they smash through Divide & Conquer, 1049 Gotho and an epic version of the scathing Samaritans. It’s like some weird mutual admiration society, the band stoked at the display of community unfolding before them and genuinely chuffed at the connection, Talbot pausing to reflect, “We’ve travelled so far to feel so at home, so thank you very much.” He dives into the crowd during Television and is passed around triumphantly on his back with mic held skywards, returning to the stage to lead the chanting crowd like a conductor during the acerbic Great.

The fact that this powerful communion is happening on Australia Day hasn’t been forgotten, a local activist invited on stage to pay respect to the traditional owners prior to Love Song, rhythm guitarist Lee Kiernan shredding as if he’s just experienced a life-changing epiphany then also taking a turn atop the crowd. Absolute mayhem erupts amid the catchy propulsion of White Privilege, Bowen roaring through the crowd to the back of the room shouting into the mic as the altruistic mass passes his lead over their heads to allow safe passage. Traversing the entire room like some mad jester he returns to the stage so he can bang on into Benzocaine, which sees Talbot jogging frantically on the spot – the very definition of insanity in these conditions – before espousing, “This song’s about living in a shithole full of cunts.” As the band bursts into Exeter, suddenly crowd members one by one start to invade the stage itself. Next thing you know, Bowen has the high-hat above his head and is beating it with a pilfered drum stick, which by song’s end, has been transferred to a girl on some guy’s shoulders who strains to keep the unkempt beat alive. Exhaustion is now rife but they soldier on, a ravenous cover of Solomon Burke’s Cry To Me segueing into the relatively downcast Well Done. Talbot pants, “Thank you for making us feel so welcome, I’m sweaty but I’m happy." (The latter part of which could be Queensland’s de facto state motto). They finish with an exhilarating version of Rottweiler and leave absolutely nothing in the tank, Talbot bidding farewell and signalling for his mic to be cut to thwart unwanted vocal intrusions as he exits the madness. The band continue into an extended jam with a lone girl dancing unhindered mid-stage, perfectly encapsulating the incredible sense of community engendered tonight by this ferocious but enveloping music. We finish with Bowen enthusiastically berating the crowd amid squalls of feedback, pummelling what’s left of the dismembered drum kit, every person in the room drenched in sweat and emotionally spent but satisfied to the core. Rock’n’roll dreams are made of nights like this, majestic punk mayhem with a conscience at its absolute finest.