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Idles: Joy as an Act of Resistance ‘Review’

Wrote this straight through in a oner, without editing, as I listened to the new Idles album, Joy as an Act of Resistance. Just something I like to do occasionally for fun, chasing that next word just as hard as it’s trying to escape. Here it gets to spit in the face of the idea of doing boring linear music reviews, too. Bonus! You will notice that I do not use the disgusting manhating American phrase ‘toxic masculinity’ in this, as in every other shitty cookie-cutter review of the album I have read, because I believe that people who use the phrase should be kicked to death on general principle. Anyway…

DO YOU WANT TO TRY IT AT LEAST? And here it is, that drumbeatstart that always reminds me of Stigmata by Ministry somehow, cinematic, sweeps of soundwaves to come, depth charges laid for the next 12 songs, prophecies, enablements, knowing smirks, I’ve drained my body full of pins, let’s confess, I profess to a self-destructive blackground, landminefield-dancing, eyepoppery, they laugh at me when I run, these feet were made for shaping, goes and it goes and it goes and it goes, temperature raising and rising, intensity tempo build, temporary temperature tempo temper, stormtossed, storm in a soundcup, sorta-Buddhist tempest, full of pins, and the screaming and the screaming and the screaming is starting, it’s coming, it’s coooooming….said with the urgent amorphous soundwounding velocity of somebody saying something that means everything at all…tick tick beat tick tick grind quietesque quiet before the swarm…IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII hellthefuckyes kick off into new major tangent style, assault assail arseholes of no hope, fuck your society, fuck your album expectations, stoned on music and cold killer, homophobe cuntkickery, heartslickery, braindance, winner-wrestling pains, bones broken, heart breaking, feelings waken, Jesus nipping in for an ill-placed peace cameo, Reggie Kraze, battershatterbang, a bag of Charlie Sheen, steam ahead, cunt tone and imagery, kick the cock off a cunt bluntly, inbredneck upper-middle wankery, Nancy Spinatra, mouthkickshit, HUGE SCREAMING WAVESLAP CONCRETE AND LEATHER, violence fetishist headswimagery, burn this uncomprehending cunt down, a heathen from Eton eaten alive and excreted into song immortality years of post-mad-shit years later, thyroid high boy, roid rage, hemmorhoid rage, threats are a treat to the self-destructive, promises of hemo to be globbed in a moment of choice of sweatspray, jawtan, eyes glazing over in excitement of who’s to come to harm in a minute, shut my mouth with a boot to the balls, I’m scum, chuckachuckachucka dance on the grave of austerity for posterity, laughing at the all-encompassing societal illness on underground radar-free levels of attrition and true another-cunt scum inattention deficit disorder, following the political trends to the end, scumwhere over the surely-coming-end rainbow, Prodigy wordslapbeat, hey hey, James Bombed, phlegm on Ian’s greatest grating creation killing for queens and cuntry, snowflake, low-blow-flow-flake, Cadbury’s of oncoming death, sweet streets choked with blood come pussy and feeling-death implosion, explosions of doesn’t-matter, a fan of Danny, the fuck-rushes collecting in the non-dejected chin and cheeks and shoulder, boulders of truth rolled up a Sisyphus hill of do-this-constantly comprehension to come back down to the bottom of the hill of the evolution, volition, immigrants, YEAH YEAH YEAH OH HO HO OH HELL YES, hop on board the against-the-draining-grain of humanity and humanism in a life-swallowing island shitely fighting to divide and conquer in epic stupid sweeps of dying govern-mental control, Danny dancing on the streets of London, no panic on the streets of London, feets free, free fleet feet, no racists in the foxholes fuck those cunts, jump into those safe brown arms, masterskater, alive right now, and YOU AND YOUTH standing it all on its head, pissing purity through the headphones at 8.26am, slowing dying feedback grind, SPARK SPARK SPEAK AND SPELL IT OUT, modern love, tainted love, mainlined blood, fine a temptress, echo chambers of me-to-you cheerleader-support echo chambers, dirty dancers, cock-and-comesuckers, come suck a truth, come suck on schizoid disdain, modern looooovvvvveeee, sarcasm as a default setting, Batman for the rage, stand back from the explosions, chance of change, ishishishish push away push the boat out feel the cold winds blowing and growing in the forever-isolated heart, clichéd gun knife wife imagery, snapandsnarl, scar wars, scared warm, scared into the warmth of love, and damn, pause, sorry I can’t write about this one, June, too overwhelmingly painful, need to skip no offence, and we know this one, Samaritans, manfear, dadhate, macho mockery, abundance of American military imagery in the video, eyescratchgleam, I love myself and want to try I don’t hate myself and want to die, never see your father cry and why should you probably had and heard it far harder, the Bleat Generation, howl whines and do-my-bidding pronoun-directives at the whatthefuck-demanding older generations, this is no time to doze off like a freckle-faced boy on a fishing raft, you’ll never see your father again, 80s indie guitar, parry thrust Katy Perry kissed a boy and he liked it well whoop de doo run run run, suck and fuck who you want, snot revolutionary, swallow, rinse, reverse, repeat until defeat of patience, and love yourself self-help self-serving self-therapy, artistic summation of a century of yankborne therapy-gazing, help for some, one size does not fit all, fuck TV but who the fuck even owns such a fucking thing, put their teeth through, teeth bared in places, violence bursting through the skin of the whole in perfect fertile eyeopener places to give a more blackly vertiginous glance at the personality beneath the hype and fury and furor, the happyshaker dances, the anger is an energy, crocodile tears, smash internal mirrors, spin on the end of a flicknife, eat shit and diet, fuck it, diet or die or do or don’t won’t affect me fool stop…listen to more jungle and this is probably the best tender brute song on the album, 50-inch scream in a cul-de-sac of empire-death horizons stretching out far behind the modern disunited kingdom, mock the cunt aboot bacon baps then have him take your hand, sounds fake, I wouldn’t do it, thought he said whitey not Blighty the first time I heard it, thought it was aboot middle rage, not quite sure what the UK’s for, it’s dying on its arthritic feet, Islam didn’t eat your hamster that was Freddie Starr decades ago odd random redtop-mockery ref bled from the 80s, just get ready to work all the time from cradle to the Dickensian chimney sweep grave intonations, no together anyway anymore, I’m sorry your grandad’s dead lovely spread, hilarious, off-key auto-tuneless, niiiice, been saying that fucking griffindor fuckknowshowyouspellit line for days after snorting it on Spotify before album purchase, YEAH YEAH YEAH FUCK MY HACKLES ARE RISING SUN OF THE ELECTRIC BEAT, coked up banker wankers at the funeral of the island they have murdered with financial ineptitude and corruption, supposedly above it all, cokesuckers, cocksuckers, glazed-eyes, babbling nose-bubble buffoons, line-wrappers, insanity-trappers, air guitar, no flair for air, deoxygenate these morons, MY BOY FUCKED TOM HIDDLESTON’S STYLIST BEST LINE ON THE ALBUM NO REASON WHY NOT, this song now a cover didn’t know it initially fits in with the whole general staked-area and ambience of the album, telling the fans not to be alone well Hell, close but no cigar, not my whipping boy crying post, last past that post, recontextualise, a glass of whine, lowliness is just a waste of crime, run rabbit rare bits of cry cry try to reach out and touch a sad fact widely known as Morrissey nods knowingly from the corner of the bedroom, a snake in my boot, fucking great song, sounds kind of the same as another couple on the record of this time and place in space and time, Rottweiler got wilder, imagistic, the photo flakes falling, snakes and rats and sharks and tabloid distortion amplified, fuck is this about to come to an album end, circling for daze and daze, there’s a ghost in my head and my house, not milder, poise, purpose, love letter of cuntkickery to a modern blown age past punk rage and uniform conventions, raided convents of nun-scattering, jamtime, primetime, notecrime, endslime, jelly doughnuts of going-nowhere BULDING DUILDING BUILDING bulldog severances and linear attacks, and endless blown-miles of streets of guitar and guitar and guitar and ah well you know how it comes and goes, you win some you blues some and let’s hear it all hit a critical mass concerted concerto crash of finish-death on the rocks of winding-down KEEP FUCKING GOING screams melding with the air smash it but why…and…we…all…fall…down…and…dirty…as…the…electricity…and…claps…curve…back…into…the…sleeper…speakers.

END

8.52am.

(Addendum: on thinking more about it, I see that the line “My boy has fucked Tom Hiddleston’s stylist” is not that random, in context. Song’s about two coked-up bankers at a funeral (they don’t even know whose!) and one of them is trying to impress some no-doubt-disgusted mourner with his pal’s crap brush with almost-celebrity. Brilliant!)

About Graham Rae

Graham Rae has been writing about weird and wonderfueled cinematic oddities for nearly 30 years. He started off writing for the legendary Deep Red, and since then has been bounced around like a human pinball around such venues as Film Threat, American Cinematographer, Cinefantastique, and Realitystudio.org.. A selection of his genre writings are available at www.facebook.com/raewrites, and he runs a Mad Foxes page on Facebook too. You have been warned.

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