Kneecap: high-octane, no-frills hip-hop from the controversial Belfast rappers
Fresh off a sold-out tour of North America and massive arena gigs across the Irish sea, and with a biopic already in post-production where Kneecap play themselves alongside Michael Fassbender, the buzz surrounding this Belfast hip-hop trio is extraordinary. After all, they only just released their first proper single, featuring guest vocals from Fontaines DC’s Grian Chatten, three weeks ago.
This controversial band duly rocked Camden’s thousand-capacity Electric Ballroom, amid a blizzard of expletives and drug references from rappers Mo Chara and Móglaí Bap. The largely student-age crowd went nuts for their no-frills gangsta-rap grooves, chanting along with the handful of tracks drip-fed via online videos since 2017, such as Fenian C---s and C.E.A.R.T.A., and forming huge circle pits to mosh in, which covered the entire front half of the venue. Such was their fervour, you were reminded of the mid-’00s Arctic Monkeys more than any rap antecedents, as the young audience revelled in their internet discovery ahead of any music-business involvement.
All this, of course, with the added frisson that Kneecap have been banned back in Northern Ireland, thanks to the narcotic consumption flagrantly revealed in songs such as C.E.A.R.T.A., whose lyrics alternate between English and Irish language.
On the surface, this lairy threesome appears confrontational, perhaps mindlessly so. The two rappers swaggered along the stage lip in cagoules and baseball caps, with Mo Chara taking regular glugs from a bottle of Buckfast wine, while DJ Próvaí frequently deserted his CD decks to parade alongside them sporting his trademark Tricolour balaclava.
After a couple of rowdy numbers, Móglaí Bap asked if there were any Irish in the house, and was greeted with waving flags and an overwhelming roar. And any English? There was an awkward silence, filled by a couple of boos, and you almost worried that this band, who’ve wrought only confusion thus far, may be here to revive divisive, pre-Good Friday Agreement rhetoric.
The rapper soon allayed those fears, clarifying, “Any English person at a Kneecap gig is f---ing sound – it’s just the English government we have a problem with.” Cue huge cheers, and audible sighs of relief.
In among broadsides with titles such as Get Your Brits Out and the RUC-baiting Your Sniffer Dogs Are Shite, Kneecap were ultimately preaching a message of Emerald Isle unity, for a generation who’ve grown up horrified and alienated by the history of violence and binary hatred that characterised the Troubles – right down to their band name, a scathing comment on the world’s outdated perception of their country.
It was hard to detect much nuance in the actual music, its beats and basslines over-amped in the manner of all hip-hop gigs. Older DJ Próvaí-produced tracks recalled Cypress Hill and the shamrock-cloaked House of Pain (Amach Anocht even bore a screechy sample right off Jump Around), but newer stuff like Fine Art, hatched with Sheffield’s Toddla T, deviated from the familiar for a faster, tougher sound.
As the slam-dancing became more frenzied, the ever-mischievous Móglaí Bap called for restraint. “C’mon,” he quipped, “we get enough bad press, I’ll be ragin’ if anybody dies.”
Mercifully, the body count was zero, the show was triumphant, and Kneecap’s upward trajectory will surely continue.
Touring Ireland and Northern Ireland in December; kneecap.ie/gigs
