Either way, Greep takes care to inject a dose of dramatic irony. Perhaps Frost is a self-deprecating satire of Greep himself-the dreamer whose big ideas attract both scorn and begrudging admiration. Of course, once you start saying that, they’ll think the other way, that we’re too pretentious about it.” “People think because there’s jokes in our songs, we’re just messing around. “In music and journalism, there’s a tendency to think in that dogmatic way,” agrees Greep, with a carefulness that suggests this has been on his mind. There’s a goofiness to them, but they’re both so sincere.”ĭoes the band find sincerity in general off-putting? “It’s important to be serious without taking yourself too seriously,” Picton reasons. “That happens a lot with anyone that goes to stadium level. “They both kind of got lost in the sauce with money,” adds Picton.
I can’t gauge what the good Muse is, the good Green Day. “If you didn’t get into them at the time, they seem completely ridiculous. “I think they have a lot of parallels with Green Day,” he says, drawn in. “With the stuff I’ve heard,” Simpson says finally, “there’s an element of fair play.” What do Black Midi think of Muse, I wonder?Ī moment’s thoughtful silence, perhaps to confer telepathically. But as Picton’s painted fingernails flick the bar menu, I press for more shrewd cultural judgments.
When I mention all this online activity, he seems mildly invaded, as though a stranger were peering through his kitchen window. Insecure, dismal, oafish, pathetic behaviour of lost fools.” “I absolutely hate the moviegoer who, when watching a foreign or High-Brow film, squeezes out a guffaw, chuckle, smug ‘hm’ or soft ‘huh’ at any and every line with the slightest semblance to a joke. But his best online missives are shamelessly prickly, like this pitch-perfect spin on a curmudgeonly British tradition: Along with excoriating Noel Gallagher (“His life is not worth living, absolute cunt”) and Coachella (“Cunts galore”), he is loud about what he loves-mostly modern boxers, actors including Gene Wilder and “everyone in The Wire,” and the puckish avant-pop duo Jockstrap. Given his propensity for charming anachronism, it is surprising that Greep is fantastic at Twitter. The boating playlist careens from the Weeknd into Dexys Midnight Runners, Madness into Robin S., Picton cheerfully mouthing along to “Show Me Love.” As we ease into the dock, Simpson jokingly scolds the driver: “You were playing with fire, man!” Spritzing past the webbed dome of the O2 Arena, Exhilaration violently carves up and down the river, surf pellets splashing our faces. Before we can react, Simpson’s phone flies off his lap and smashes against the floor.
U-turn completed, the driver catapults back to full speed. Picton: “Cardi B, Rosalía, Megan Thee Stallion.” A ponderous pause. Here are the shows Black Midi would stage, given custody of the rusty boat: It used to be a floating concert venue for stars like the Beatles and Elvis, she explains. When we ease up for a U-turn, the guide points to a moored ship half-eaten by rust. Now all 23, the members of Black Midi are lightyears from Britain’s typically debauched guitar grifters in what may be a first for their label Rough Trade, the boys in the band of the moment barely have any appetite for beer.Īs Simpson recounts an alarming festival experience the previous weekend-pogoing fan breaks leg, revelers disperse, band gawps in horror at a mosh pit swilled with blood-Exhilaration pelts forward so fast that wind pummels puddles from his eyeballs into his ears, like translucent mascara streaks. But it expands upon 2019’s Schlagenheim and last year’s Cavalcade in every direction, beyond their sugary thumpers and noir balladry into a circus of sonic and literary excess. The prog-scale ambition and rascal sensibility are still there, the rabbit-hole riffs and tangly compositions still yanked along by Simpson’s breakneck beats. Hellfire, Black Midi’s third LP, is a delightfully unruly escapade.