Pain And Humor With Joe Talbot of Idles

Images by Tom Ham

What new can be said about everyone’s favorite band?

About their insistence, their gravity, their messaging, and their athletic, even dangerous commitment to every aspect of their craft? Not a fuckin thing, that’s what. At least not by me. What I would like to instill in you above all is the contrast between their severity and their emotional earnesty, particularly as it relates to them actually giving a shit about their fans, so let me tell you a story. 

I saw Idles for the first time in New York City in October of 2021. They played a venue that I don’t love, but was the only one that could meet their capacity draw. They’re quite big, apparently. The show began promptly at nine, with no fuss and no ego and no hype, though palpable and insatiable hype was born the moment the first bass note of ‘Colossus’ made its way from the front of the stage through to the back of the crowded room. The show banged on and I found it difficult to leave the pit despite the gashed and giggling heads. Blood dripped on the floor but there were only smiles and kisses and hugs and love. At a point between songs, Joe Talbot, the lead singer and interviewee, called out a name in the dark, and a hand shot up from the side of the room. Joe beckoned and the man darted up on stage with grins. What the explained together is that the man’s mother had recently passed away, and that Idles’ music (much of which described conflicts, reverence, and grief for Talbot’s mother) had helped the man through it. The band invited him to drum through his favorite song with them on stage to the applaud and joy of the audience, and as the man pounded the floor tom, tears came, and he was beautiful. 

You’ve played in Australia quite a bit and I’m curious about your experience, thoughts on the scene, all that.

I’ve got lots of thoughts on it. For one, it’s some of the best crowds in the world. Our last tour there was magic. We made some good friends out there. One of the things I was surprised at was when our tour manager introduced us to a whole heap of very good bands, and discovered the wealth of music. It makes you realize how sheltered one's taste is. I think my favourite Australian band is The Chats. I think they get looked down on by the press a lot because they’re perceived as not being a very serious band, but they’re incredible musically and getting better every day. 

Because Australia is very insular, they tend to experience music very differently. You said that they’re some of the best crowds, and I’m curious what you look for to qualify that.

The most important thing for any artist to remember is that a good crowd is one that responds to and absorbs your efforts and passion and hard work. If you come in thinking that you deserve something, you’re going to leave with nothing. I think that we have learned that a good crowd is one that reciprocates. Sometimes, you give everything you have and people don’t give a fuck. We love what we do, and our gratitude is expressed by working hard for the crowd. If I’m having a bad day, you’ll see me having a bad day, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to work my ass off. That’s what crowds deserve because they’ve given us everything. To answer your question in short, a good crowd is one that gives back what you give them. 

You’ve been a band for a very long time, but experienced a very quick rise around 2018-2019, at least from an American perspective. How did you fare with that as a band and how do you maintain healthy relationships throughout that experience?

I think that our rise came from Joy As An Act Of Resistance, I think it spoke to people and helped carry us forward to a special place. Partisan has helped us with our American audience and have been instrumental in showing us to the people; showing how much we love our job and how good we can be, and I think we’ve improved with every album. I think that it’s the ten years of growth before that album that made us appreciate and recognize what is important. We spent five years in a van with a hole in the roof, we slept under bin bags, we have played for free, we’ve had seventy hour a week jobs. 

What was your job?

I was a carer working seventy hours a week. Bowen was a dentist assistant, he’d drive off to play a show and then drive back to London to work in the morning. We did it the hard way, so when it comes to understanding our privileges, we know exactly how fucking lucky we are. To truly understand that means that you keep your head down and you work. We split our money five ways evenly, and that’s frustrating at times when I’m doing all the work, but other times they have carried me through addiction and hospitalization - they have carried me. We all work our asses off because we are grateful. Doesn’t matter who’s doing the driving so long as we get to the destination together.

What do you think your ambitions were when you began as a band, and do you think they’ve changed over the years?

Yes, and no. We’ve always had a six month plan, until a couple of years ago when it became a twelve month plan. Our intentions have always been to be a band that is brilliant musically, that speaks to people and makes them feel part of the world, to make them dance, then it was to be able to quit our jobs and just make music, and now for me, it’s to create a sense of longevity and security for my daughter. In terms of music and art, we’ve never lost sight of what we want, which is to be better and better, and we are getting there. 

You’re a funny guy, and your songs have had a lot of humor in the past but have become more serious. Can you comment on that?

I am very funny, thank you, yeah. It comes and goes. There’s humor in my songs but I was a lot more acute with it before, and I’m not so now. If you listen to Crawler, ‘The New Sensation’ is a sardonic attack on Rishi Sunak, the fucking horrible cunt. It comes with humor. I know it’s a losing battle and Britain is falling apart, but it’s kind of funny because the people who are losing are the people who started the fire. There is humor in it, it’s just not as obvious as it used to be. At the moment I’m obsessed with poetry and melody and I want to get better at that now. I’m sure I’ll fire a few jokes here and there. 

Because I think that you are one of the biggest bands in guitar music, is there a pressure to maintain that or to operate at a certain level?

I think there is a healthy pressure in the sense of progress. You can’t only play to your audience, you have to play to yourself and challenge yourself - be evolving all the time. That sense of urgency and needing to be better is a beautiful thing to try and maintain, and if we lose our ‘success’, that’s fine, we’ll just carry on making music. When I stop loving it, I’ll stop doing it. 

What advice would you give to a band in a position that you were in ten years ago?

Pay no attention to your peers, except to steal anything they do that is brilliant and to write down all the mistakes they make. Remember the crew’s name. Everyone that you work with in a studio and a venue. Speak to them with respect and know that they work their ass off for you. Pay no attention to your peers’ success. Have no resentment of their success, especially if they’re shit - it’s just the way the world is. Keep your head down, do what you love, and do it brilliantly, or, quit. Fuck off.