Idles Block Party (Live Review) Featured
- Written by Captain Stavros
Idles Block Party
Words & Pics by Captain Stavros
Noise Complaints Be Damned! Idles 2-Day Block Party hits Bristol like a 1-2 punch combo.
Rolling up late to the Idles Block Party feels like barging into a Cirque Bizarre that you must’ve forgotten you were a part of. Thirty minutes behind schedule thanks to London traffic, we arrive just in time to catch a close-cropped, peroxide, local human; touting and gesticulating wildly while costume jewellery, in such abundance Biz Markie’d blush, swung with force as they were being ejected from the barricaded buffer zone around Queen Square, screaming: “These fucking wankers, all I ever wanted to do was dance!”; a fitting overture for Bristol’s biggest letter to the editor on noise and defiance this summer. This being Idles’ only UK show of the year, the microfestival energy was electric. But Clifton locals looked less than thrilled to see their square turned into a fenced off fortress of beer queues, barrier mazes and relentless bass thuds.
Elbows out ya’ll, because space was the first fight of the night. The footprint felt too small for the sold-out crowd; a constant game of human chicken between queuers and punters dodging the crowd swirl. Good vantage points meant risking being trampled or relying on the giant stage screens. Thank God for those screens; they rescued many who felt stranded behind the press of bodies. At least the weather stayed kind: sunshine and warmth helped keep the mood buoyant.
Lambrini Girls, fronted by Phoebe Lunny whose red stained mouth and chin looked like they’d torn through a small child, cracked the first knuckles of the night, serving up their snarling anti-T*RF sentiment like big sisters dragging the world’s worst uncle out by the ear. They riffed sharply on trans rights, unapologetically and their set closer, ‘Cuntology 101’, had the crowd spelling out every letter like a primal banging of the drums. In every raw chord and lyric, they offered sanctuary to marginalised voices; holding space like protective siblings in a hostile world.
Soft Play (formerly Slaves) followed with a smoggy, gritty set. They opened with ‘All Things’, followed by ‘Fuck the Hi-Hat', ‘Girl Fight’ (played twice by request) and ‘Sockets’, mixing sloganeering with smog-punk energy. Isaac and Laurie leaned in heavily to one way audience chatter, of which they spared no opportunity to take digs at their fans. Wandering into the pit aimlessly mid-song, alerting fans to the rogue mic cable mid-performance; one could argue their time on stage could’ve been spent more effectively. Being blown away by their Ally Pally performance a few years back, this set in contrast left something to be desired. When ‘Fuck the Hi-Hat' (eventually) hit, the only thing that got more of a crowd reaction was when the duo kept shouting “Bristol!”, as though they’d collectively suffered amnesia after every song played. It was chaotic, ragged, and utterly bizzare.
But make no mistake; this was always Idles’ night. As dusk settled, opening bass hits from ‘Colossus’ pulled the audience forward like gravity. Their setlist: ‘Colossus’, ‘Gift Horse’, ‘Mr. Motivator’, ‘Mother’, ‘Car Crash’, ‘I’m Scum’, ‘Well Done’, ‘The Wheel’, weaved defiance with emotion, climaxing in a sonic wave that lifted everyone. Those live renditions ran a slower burn than the studio ‘Colossus’, drawing tension until it exploded into motion. By the chorus, the pit had swelled to a breathing organism pulsing with bass.
The sound was immaculate; each instrument sharply defined, every vocal delivered with clarity, and backing harmonies piercing through the roar. Even ringed by barriers, bolstered by screens, the show felt communal, even intimate, like a drenched, screaming embrace.
Joe Talbot’s crowd patter between songs is part confessional, part group therapy. He talks openly about psychotic breaks, mental health struggles, arrests, moving back to Bristol, saving small venues. He doesn’t just sing for the people, he speaks with them, a big brother figure wielding a megaphone instead of a soapbox. Then comes the political gut punch: giant screens flashing a QR code to donate to MAP, a charity helping Palestinians access medical aid. Hundreds of phones rise in the dark, glowing like a constellation of solidarity. It's a rare moment where a gig feels like more than just noise; it feels like action.
The sound throughout is blisteringly good: every instrument distinct, every lyric sharp enough to draw blood. Even with the congestion, even with the disconnect of being forced to watch half the show on a screen, the set feels intimate, communal, a massive, sweaty group hug disguised as a punk gig. Fans in Idles merch hug strangers, strangers scream lyrics back at the band, and for ninety minutes Bristol feels like a place where anger, love and hope all get equal billing. By the end, as the last lights fade and the crowd spills reluctantly back into the city, one thing’s clear: the Idles Block Party doesn’t just give you a night out. It gives you a voice, a cause, and a sore throat to prove it. If this is the only show they give us this year, it’s enough to hold us over—but only just.
