IDLES

2022 POST-PUNK

Crawler is the fourth album by the most renowned of the present day punks Idles, irrespective of their perplexing disdain for such a label. I have a bit of a checkered past with the band, their debut album is great, a mature foray into a more aggressive side of the post-punk wave. Then came their next two which I dislike, not hate, although it can feel like the latter with the amount of annoyance they generate. Lyrically they shifted from clever anger expressed in semi-poetic fashion to a direct message, platitudes for applause. Idles got atop their soap box and yelled into a crowd of liberal arts students if anyone else hates assholes and fascists. Turns out they do, turns out everyone does, and despite their embrace of it, it is still obnoxiously trite, cliché as all else, go through a thesaurus you can have your pick. Every time I hear ‘this snowflake is an avalanche’ a stinging sensation travels slowly through my brain and this is coming from someone who is politically aligned with the band.

Regardless the songwriting was often good, the singles knock-out; Idles aren’t awful and art is ever evolving. As such I will keep listening until they descend to an unlistenable level. Thankfully they have not yet on Crawler. For me it’s a side grade, not good but in a different way, for fans I can see this being a disappointment. The good news is the sloganeering is toned down, the bad news is that everything else is too. Somehow in the year 2021 the passionate anger and sharp songwriting that fueled Idles success is at an all-time low, but not totally enfeebled, they are still more punk than post. I picture their frontman Joe Talbot sitting at home after kicking in the teeth of a few skinheads, staring out of a window onto a rainy night, finger pushing a cube of ice around a glass of whiskey but not taking a drink, contemplating all things as it were. The word for this is morose, not overbearing but you can feel it throughout which I welcome, but the word that stands out in my mind, repeating itself from front to back is flat.

The source of much of this self-reflection is told on MTT 420 RR. The inciting incident is an auto accident, the odd name, the model of a motorcycle. The setting is a cold day in February and the instrumental matches with its icy looped electronics. Talbot’s whispers gain intensity, the synths being to blare, he accents it with the classically unoriginal lines of,

Are you ready for the storm?
Are you ready for?
Are you ready for the storm?

Still, there is enough anticipation in the air, you brace yourself but there is no storm, just the dive bar bash that is the next song The Wheel. It’s dancey, you can feel elbows and shoulders bouncing off each other as boots bang on old hardwood. The lyrics are a flowery gut shot about his Mother’s alcoholism and cycles of suffering but goddamn the chorus is yelped with all the convincing vigor of an awkward principle at a pep rally; even the cadence feels off, it’s plain sad. The clouds roll back in for When the Lights Come On. Nocturnal and aloof, the guitars wail in monotone. It sits upon this featureless plateau to no effect, it plays at building ferocity briefly but there is no crescendo to be had instead another corny chorus, ‘the kids are not alright’, overused since 1965.  Car Crash refreshes with its industrial barbarism. As you might have guessed we are topically back to the same event as MTT, besides that the main thread here is distortion and lots of it. The vocals swerve and screech, I like them a lot but they are a layer too low. When it reaches a fever pitch the meaning is lost but at least the aesthetic remains. The realism of the storytelling is visceral, with a few terrific lines.

Cold goes to warm
As my top gets blood damp
My oh my I can feel the raw
Flesh on the bottom of the footwell floor

And a few far less than terrific.

I’m serious Jack
As a heart attack

The New Sensation, the same old ideas. It’s the usual tongue-in-cheek anti-authority jam of don’t change yourself because some asshole told you to; climaxing with the repetition of ‘Don’t think just follow’. The band really has an obsession with tired bullshit like that. On a more positive note the instrumental is nasty as hell with its scuzzy bass, I especially love the pulsating strikes of guitar at the three minute mark. The thumping march of Stockholm Syndrome does nothing for me, there’s mild poetry I suppose, it’s not forgettable because to be forgotten you would need to be put to memory first and this track can’t even get that far.

The Beachland Ballroom is the lead single and an odd one at that with its old school pop vibes. Talbot is in a battered prom dress, spit flying from his mouth with each grieved howl. I can dig it. It never feels like Crawl had any life in it, maybe it’s the watery guitars or maybe the lack of anything catchy. You see someone punch you but feel nothing, sorta odd, mostly pitiful. The rushing bassline and general cadence are too familiar on Meds. A sudden blast of no-wave brass and an ineffectual guitar solo try to spice it up, it doesn’t work. There’s an interlude type track called Kelechi, it’s thirty seconds long and is barely audible. Why does it exist? Beats me. Progress tries to reflect the term by being the Idles’ version of a brooding autotuned track off of a rap album. Talbot mumbles his way through a dreamy landscape with a few words about addiction that tire out quickly. This style is not inherently bad, plenty of artists do it well, but here it’s a waste. The band is compelling in a variety of ways and this is not one of them. Now Wizz is the kind of brief detour this album needs. The guitar and percussion form a ferocious wall of noise while the singer screams out what sounds like a bizarre advert for cocaine. The best use of a half a minute I can think of.

King Snake is a lively punk tune that works you to sleep with its bland progression, at least there is a fun little Ozymandius king of nothing schtick. I wish they emphasized the chorus of ‘here lies’ then silence, there isn’t enough dead space and Talbot hams it up too much. Wouldn’t you believe it in this endless pool of originality the finale is called The End and they deliver one last instrumental you can not be made to care about. It’s got that signature Idles positive spin on a world of shit

In spite of it all
Life is beautiful
In spite of it all
Life is beautiful

Other then that its boring if fine, but who wants to be fucking fine, I imagine not Idles. Crawler has its bright spots but largely is a gutless slog of a record. You would think with the godawful directness of their lyrical style mostly in the past that this would mark an improvement, but no. I wished for poetic fury and the monkey’s paw curled to give me monotonous rock in exchange. 

4/10

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