And yet, I find myself writing this column on a cross-country train travelling from Leeds back to Edinburgh, rather the worse for wear.
Nursing a flat bottle of Coke, my head throbs in rhythm with the wheels, and I am dangerously close to vomiting. You see, last night I was enmeshed in a sweaty moshpit - jammed among tens of other inebriated fans - all united by the sheer exhilaration of watching hip-hop trio Kneecap perform in a small social club in Leeds.
Kneecap are a rap group from West Belfast in Northern Ireland (or as they’d put it, the ‘‘North of Ireland’’).
Comprising three friends who go by the stage names of Mo Chara, Moglai Bap and DJ Provai, Kneecap raps in a mixture of Irish (Gaeilge) and English, blurring irony and provocation with their brash, catchy, republican-themed lyrics.
Kneecap released their debut single, C.E.A.R.T.A.(meaning ‘rights’’ in Irish), in 2017.
The track was inspired by Moglai Bap’s real-life brush with the Police Service of Northern Ireland (PSNI) after he and a friend were caught spray-painting the word on a bus stop. Although Moglai managed to escape, his pal was not so lucky. This friend, however, only spoke Gaeilge at the police station, much to the chagrin of the PSNI officers.
Kneecap’s first album, 3CAG, was released in 2018. (The title, a reference to MDMA: 3CAG means ‘‘tri chonsan agus guta’’ - ‘‘three consonants and a vowel’’).
In June this year, they released their sophomore album, Fine Art, accompanied by a hilarious and poignant biographical film later in August.
Kneecap’s style is gritty and beat-driven, a captivating blend of hip-hop, punk, and rave. Their lyrics are brash and profane, weaving between Irish and English with ease, revelling in wordplay, double entendres, and outright provocations of certain Democratic Unionist Party politicians.
And their live shows are utterly explosive and unapologetically political.
But the boys have a soft side to them too. In 2021 Kneecap released the single MAMas a tribute to their mothers. The style of this song is noticeably different from their other bangers - it’s softer, slower, more considered. In an interview with New Sound Generation, Mo Chara stated that they wanted to show that ‘‘we can ‘roundhouse’ you off the stage but we can also give you a hug afterwards. We wanted to do something a bit sentimental, we don’t wanna just box ourselves in with masculinity all the time.’’ It was later revealed that Moglai Bap’s mother had died of suicide before the song could be released, and that all proceeds would be going to the Samaritans.
Much like Scottish Gaelic, which faces limited use despite increased promotion in schools, Irish has been historically overshadowed by English, especially in Northern Ireland, where British influence repressed its use from the 19th century onward.
Though recognised as an official language in the Republic of Ireland in 1920, Irish continued to decline in Northern Ireland until the 2022 Identity and Language (Northern Ireland) Act, which officially recognised it there. Despite this milestone, only about 6000 people in Northern Ireland use Irish as their main home language, with another 71,900 able to speak it.
Through their irreverent lyrics and wholehearted embrace of the Irish language, Kneecap have made Irish vibrant and dynamic again. Their Irish is a vigorous expression of contemporary youth culture, in defiance of the stereotype of Irish speakers as traditional, rural, and restrained. At times, their use of republican phrases and slogans have landed them in hot water; D.J. Provai, one of the group’s members, revealed that he resigned from his position as an Irish teacher in 2020 after his school took issue with a Kneecap video featuring an anti-British phrase, ‘‘Brits out,’’ scrawled across his buttocks.
In a sense, their music can be in the tradition of Irish rebel music, which dates to periods like the 1798 Rebellion led by the United Irishmen, with songs such as The Wearing of the Green.
Similarly, Kneecap’s C.E.A.R.T.A. was swiftly banned by RTE Raidio na Gaeltachta for references to drugs and swearing, sparking a fan-led petition with 700 signatures calling for its reinstatement. This censure is something Kneecap gleefully embraces - there’s no such thing as bad publicity.
Kneecap are rather controversial, to put it mildly. In 2019, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge visited Belfast’s Empire Music Hall. The following day, Kneecap performed a gig at the same venue singing Get Your Brits Out. Christopher Stalford of the DUP was enraged; Kneecap responded by releasing an ‘‘official statement’’ video featuring a slow-motion clip of Mo Chara flipping his middle finger, set to a dance remix of Come Out Ye Black and Tans. Charming.
There’s something to be said for (relatively) small gigs in ramshackle social clubs. I like the sheer variety of the audience, the fact that pensioners stand nursing a warm pint of beer next to over-excitable teenage fans, the closeness of the crowd and the stage, the intimacy of it all.
At Monday’s gig, I was mere feet away from the stage. I felt every thrill and surge that rippled through the crowd; if I wanted to, I could have moved further in and helped propel Moglai Bap around as he crowd-surfed. As Better Way to Live played, I hoisted my friend up on my shoulders, aided enthusiastically by strangers around us.
Kneecap gave us a special shout out, telling us to ignore security concerns.
My shoulders ached and my friend almost fell backwards, but those around us propped her up, and we carried on dancing.
It was glorious.
• Jean Balchin is an ODT columnist who has started a new life in Edinburgh.
