I.

Twenty-four hours before Irish rap trio Kneecap take the stage for the second weekend of Coachella, I’m looking for a place to park in Pomona. Driving past the Glass House, the club where the group will perform later this evening, there’s a small crowd of fans who look as though they’ve been waiting for hours.

“My sister and I are mixed, so Kneecap’s respect for cultures and ethnicities drew us both to them,” says a graduate student, grading papers as she waits in a slowly growing queue outside the club’s entrance. She’d driven up from San Diego that morning. “It’s really clear that they don’t have a distaste for the British people. They have a distaste for the British government they oppose. The way they are able to distinguish between hate and fighting back against oppression—I think it’s beautiful, but a lot of people misunderstand them. It can feel hopeless in this world, but to see this many people come together to see a band that has such a strong stance and actually gives a shit about what’s going on in the world? It’s uplifting.”

II.

Kneecap formed in 2017, after Mo Chara (Liam Óg Ó hAnnaidh) met Móglaí Bap (Naoise Ó Cairealláin) at Cultúrlann, a community center in West Belfast that provides Irish language courses and a performance space for music and drama. It’s where Móglaí Bap helped organize the annual festival, Liú Lúnasa, and was even cast in a play written by the late, great Irish poet Brendan Behan. DJ Próvaí (J.J. Ó Dochartaigh) had been teaching Gaeilge (or, Irish Gaelic) near Derry, before joining the group later on.

None of this is included in the movie Kneecap (2024), the so-called “biopic” that charts the trio’s rise. Fueled by a kaleidoscope of drugs, encounters with local authorities, plus a bit of family history and pathos mixed in for equal measure, the film takes A Hard Day’s Night and tosses it into the same bathroom stall where Ewan McGregor famously disappears into a toilet in Trainspotting. It’s hilarious, gleefully anti-authority, and if not entirely true to the last detail, it’s a delightful entrée into the world that Kneecap has created. It’s also a quick and easy primer on the history and ongoing effects of British occupation on the Irish, from the Troubles through the Good Friday Agreement to present day.

It wasn’t until Michael Fassbender joined the cast—and questioned whether the charismatic and camera-ready lads even needed acting coaches—that the film found its footing. Co-written and directed by Rich Peppiatt, Kneecap is an astonishing achievement, considering the group’s humble origins. The film was Ireland’s official entry for Academy Award consideration, and was nominated for six BAFTAs, prompting the band to use social media to adorn Big Ben with a tricolor balaclava and the pronouncement, “Swap You Six BAFTAs for the Six Counties.” The film ended up winning for Outstanding Debut.

I can confirm that DJ Próvaí did, indeed, lose his teaching job at an early gig when he was captured on film flashing his backside to the audience, with the words “Brits Out!” written across his ass in black marker. The school didn’t take kindly to it, and as DJ Próvaí will admit to me later, getting fired was worth it: “You reach a lot more people doing this,” he says, gesturing to his bandmates.

Controversy follows Kneecap around, much like the drug-sniffing dogs they rap about. (“A dog with a job/What the fuck is that?” from “H.O.O.D”; or the track, “Your Sniffer Dogs Are Shite”). The group’s first-ever release (“C.E.A.R.T.A”) is a cheaply made, GarageBand-produced single, based on a real incident with the local police.

Adapted for a scene, early in Kneecap, the track recounts a time when Móglaí Bap was nearly arrested for spray-painting the Irish word for “RIGHTS” at a bus stop in Belfast on the eve of a march calling for Irish language legislation. He eluded the police while his pal ended up in jail, refusing to speak anything besides Gaeilge. The song was quickly banned by a local Irish language radio station for its “explicit” lyrics. The ensuing publicity only served to galvanize the public who petitioned the station to play the track and arguably set the tone for the troublemaking trio’s career thus far.

Kneecap’s steadfast belief in a free and unified Ireland won them a discrimination case against the UK’s retraction of a £14,250 arts grant for being too antagonistic to the British government. When the funds were secured, the band then donated the entire sum to local Catholic and Protestant youth organizations. Thus began Kneecap’s ongoing contentious relationship with Kemi Badenoch, the Tory Member of Parliament who brought the suit against them, and the one who has prioritized silencing the Belfast trio instead of addressing their legitimate concerns (more on that later).

During their set at Coachella’s first weekend, Mo Chara and Móglaí Bap encouraged the crowd to chant, “Maggie’s in a box!”—a particularly morbid swipe at the much-maligned former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. This (allegedly) was the reason the YouTube livestream went dark for a few minutes, in anticipation of further impolite antics from the capricious trio. They also claim the screens behind them failed to project their pre-planned messages in support of a free Palestine.

Touring nonstop in support of their first, fully realized record, Fine Art, released last year—as well as rubbing elbows with the likes of Cillian Murphy, as their feature film impossibly found its way into the awards season circuit—Kneecap’s global rise continues, unabated, despite or because of their antagonistic relationship to authority. They recently played a free, outdoor show to an alarming (even to the band) 14,000 people bathed in Australian sunlight, whose own indigenous language culture has clearly found brothers-in-arms in this Belfast three-piece. Three gigantic gigs this summer, opening for fellow countrymen Fontaines D.C., have already sold out—the 30,000-capacity Manchester at Wythenshawe Park, the 50,000 capacity Finsbury Park show in London, and another at Belfast Vital, where 40,000 tickets vanished 35 minutes after going on sale.

Their US tour this fall is also entirely sold out, and judging by the patience of the queue outside the Glass House that began forming at 10 AM, America is more primed now for an Irish invasion than ever before. Kneecap’s message of national unity is a far cry from the fawning, unquestioning adoration that American patriotism (and the current administration) requires. They prefer people to nations, and the preservation of cultural identity as a bulwark against colonialism. They are also fearless in a time of pulling punches and self-censorship. They’re just getting started, and there’s still tomorrow night in Indio, where thousands will gather to find out what the chatter is all about. And Mo Chara promises me their stage projections will absolutely work this time.

“I think, because we’re Irish, we get away with a lot more in America,” Móglaí Bap tells me later. “You guys have a fascination with Irish people. Trump loves Irish Americans—the Irish American vote, especially.” 

III.

There’s not much of a backstage at the Glass House. I’m sitting on a chair, oddly placed on a spare riser, staring at a pair of swinging doors that look ready to be kicked open by a waiter carrying steaming plates of mediocre diner food. Instead, the word KNEECAP is printed out twice on letter-sized paper and taped to each of the frosted glass windows. Once they do open, I’m invited inside and it’s just the four of us. No tour manager, no friends-of-the-band, not even a snooping publicist to peek in and redirect the conversation if it wanders toward unsafe waters. 

“What parts of it do you want to be true?” asks Mo Chara, when I remark that I’m not entirely certain how much of their film should be taken at face value, and if my prepared questions have already been answered by the movie. Looking over at DJ Próvaí, who is perpetually smiling, I say, “For one thing, you’re not that much older than these guys.” 

“That’s good makeup. And all my clothes were brown,” he says, before finding the melody to the Mamas & the Papas classic “California Dreaming,” adding, in singsong: “‘All my clothes were brown/And my hair was gray.’ They made me fucking best dressed and depressed [for the movie]. But as you can see now, I’m the youngest of the group.” [He’s not.] 

“We were friends before all that [in the film],” says Mo Chara. “We already knew each other. One day we all just got together in his attic, smoked a few joints, and made a really bad song that had a catchy chorus. The worst production in the world—GarageBand. But people enjoyed it, because it came at the right time, and it was representing…I’m sorry, but does that fan say ‘penis’?” 

All three of us follow his sightline to see a rotating room fan with its brand name altered to reveal the term for the part of the anatomy of which he speaks. “It sure does,” I concur, before Móglaí Bap picks up where his bandmate left off.

“I think that’s actually why people enjoyed it,” he says. “We had no expectations for the song [“C.E.A.R.T.A”], we didn’t think anyone would like it, and we didn’t  for it. We just did it for the craic.”

“You did it for the crack?” I ask, wondering if I heard him correctly.

“Not like crack cocaine. The Irish craic. Craic means ‘fun.’”

“Craic is fun,” interjects DJ Próvaí. “No matter how you say it, you just keep digging yourself a hole.”

“Irish crack is fun!” exclaims Mo Chara.

IV.

Once we’ve settled into the regular rhythms of conversation—if that’s even possible with these three friends who finish each other’s sentences, often with an insult and a loud, shared laugh—I broach the subject of Ireland’s early and unyielding support of a free Palestine and ask, perhaps from ignorance, “What is it about the Irish that saw the war in Gaza for what it is now, way before the rest of us did?” 

“Because not that long ago, the same situation—though nowhere near as extreme—was being perpetrated on the Irish,” says Mo Chara. “We were never bombed from the skies…”

This thought gives DJ Próvaí another opportunity for  one of his signature, pithy interruptions: “Once!”

“Well, yeah, once. But that was the Nazis.”

“It wasn’t the Brits,” adds Móglaí Bap. “But the Brits were perpetrating this kind of stuff in the streets of Derry, the streets of Belfast, and the world could see it too. Burntollet Bridge. That was the first time it was broadcast to the whole world.”

On January 4, 1969, a civil rights march was ambushed by nearly 300 British loyalists. Aided by the Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC), who deliberately rerouted the march toward Burntollet Bridge, the peaceful protest was met with men throwing rocks, followed by an even bigger throng armed with clubs made more lethal with nails. The police didn’t just allow for the attack, they made room for it, moving their Jeeps to the side of the road, standing by and smoking cigarettes as blood was spilled. 

“In the media, we have always been the demons,” says Mo Chara. “Margaret Thatcher called West Belfast a terrorist community. What the fuck is that? That’s what politicians were portraying us as to the world, that we were the ones creating all this trouble, when, in actual fact, they’ve had colonial forces there for 800 years. Obviously, this breeds resistance. So, we understand, as a community, or a culture that’s been backed into a corner, you have to bite back sometimes. The rest of the world has been a bit spooked to be supportive of Palestinians. The Irish have been there. Nine times out of 10, we have been on the right side of history. We see the truth. I’m proud to be Irish in that way that we call it out, and we call it out early.”

“The first time we came to America,” recalls DJ Próvaí, “we were watching television, and all of the media outlets were  calling it the ‘Israel versus Hamas War.’ Now, it’s become quite clear that it’s just a fucking blatant genocide.” 

“It was the same with the ‘British against the IRA,’” continues Mo Chara. “It was never about the Irish people. The war is not against Hamas. The percentage of civilians killed versus members of Hamas—how can you say that’s  what you’re targeting when it’s been all civilian casualties?”

Solidarity with those whose culture is under threat is what drives Kneecap to utilize their platform to draw attention to places where indigenous languages are disappearing. Where language disappears, history is erased. When history is erased, whole populations are moved to the fringes, or disappeared entirely. The fact that only a small population in the North of Ireland speaks Gaeilge daily—often moving between their native language and English, as Kneecap does in their songs—makes their recent rise in international popularity even more astonishing. 

For at least the second time during our conversation, I notice all three have described their home as the “North of Ireland,” rather than the “official,” map-certified, Northern Ireland. I interject to ask why.

“We don’t say ‘Northern Ireland’ because that would legitimize the border,” explains Mo Chara. “We believe the border is illegal. It was forced on us. By saying the words ‘Northern Ireland,’ that, to us, is justifying an illegal invasion. It’s making it out that Northern Ireland is an actual country, when we think it’s fake. It’s been made up. So, we say, the ‘North of Ireland.’”  

“The film was made for people like us,” Mo Chara says about Kneecap. “For the people where we’re from, we knew they would find it funny and understand all of the cultural references. But once it came out, we quickly learned that stories of cultural and language oppression travel to all four corners of the earth, you know what I mean? It’s an international story. Whether it’s Mexico or Australia, so many indigenous languages are under threat. We’re obviously white, and we’re from Ireland. On paper, there should be no reason why so many people from around the world should relate to us. But they do, because we share a common history.”

“A common struggle as well,” adds DJ Próvaí. “The indigenous people of America and Mexico—and countries all around the world—feel that the oppressors who moved onto their land claim more ownership of it. That’s what resonates too.”

“Identity can be quite a controversial topic in America,” says Móglaí Bap. “But everybody should be proud of their background and heritage, and they should be given the opportunity to have spaces to express that.”

V.

Something strange is happening in Ireland. Something important. 

Emergent bands such as Fontaines D.C., The Murder Capital, and Kneecap have all been vocal about their support for a free Palestine. Later in the evening, I’ll spot a few concertgoers wearing the Irish flag as capes, a woman walking by with a shamrock painted on her left cheek, and even a few early arrivals who hit the merch table to buy a facsimile balaclava—similar to the one DJ Próvaí dons during their performances—to fully cover their heads in anticipation of the trio taking the stage. I’ll learn later that Kneecap merchandise sells out so quickly, there’s nothing left to buy before the show is even over.

As the first notes of Fine Art opening track “3CAG” pour from PA speakers, the house lights drop, and a few hundred people in the sold-out crowd let out a howl, throwing all kinds of hand gestures into the air. I notice a few fans wearing keffiyehs—a traditional Middle Eastern head scarf, worn, in the context of this concert, to show solidarity with Palestinians. 

Something strange is happening in Pomona. Something important.

VI.

Fine Art is a concept record set in a pub. It features interludes where, in one, you can hear, presumably Mo Chara, chopping lines of coke that chimes on what might be a bathroom countertop. It segues cheekily, with the sound of plumbing, into the song, “I’m Flush,” a particularly crowd-pleasing ode to the (sure, fleeting, but still) thrill of having money to spend and time to waste. “It’s not all about the money/But I’m fuckin’ flush/Now I find it kinda funny/Couple of quid/My rainy day’s turned sunny/Packet in my pocket/My nose goes runny” goes the gang vocal chorus, leading me into an obvious territory with my next question. 

“What parts of it do you want to be true?” Mo Chara said that earlier, when we initially sat down for this conversation. But he was referring to the film’s claim to depict the “true story” of the band’s rise in Belfast, not Fine Art. I remind him of this as a way to not outrightly ask if they do a shit ton of drugs. 

“A lot of the stuff that we do is an extreme version, in order to create a dialogue around it,” he says. “Where we’re from is so serious. It has been for a long time. There’s a mental health crisis in the North of Ireland; we’re one of the most prescribed parts of Europe. Less than a generation ago, there were British soldiers killing people in the streets. We joke about drugs like South Park would do—an extreme parody, something so outrageous that it causes people to talk about it.”

“We just talk about our own experience,” concludes Móglaí Bap, turning the conversation back to how far they’ve come and why they will never back down from being outspoken. “The experience Irish people had when they first came to America? They didn’t have such a good time. We should have compassion and empathy for people who are moving to different countries, from war-torn countries, and try to imagine what they went through. Maybe keep that in mind when you’re thinking about Palestine and Israel, or people coming into your country looking for work or trying to find refuge. Just remember that the Irish people were there once upon a time too.” 

I catch DJ Próvaí mid-yawn and ask if I’m boring him, or if he’d like the last word. He rubs his eyes, stretches his arms above his head, and in a grandiose exhale, proclaims, “Cocaine!”

EPILOGUE

Well, the screen projections worked. Kneecap’s performance at Coachella’s second weekend managed to cause enough of a stir to raise the ire, yet again, of the Belfast trio’s arch nemesis: Tory MP Kemi Badenoch. Should the screens have said “Fuck Netanyahu” instead? Would it have been more clear? Would it have even mattered? Probably not.

Badenoch is currently under scrutiny herself, for allegedly hiring a private car service and requesting taxpayer funds to foot a holiday in Texas, of all places. But Kneecap’s festival performance, on another continent, so offended her sensibilities, Badenoch has reemerged to do the important work she was absolutely not elected to do: Silence a rap group. As of this writing, Mo Chara has been charged with a “terror offense,” based on video footage from a performance that happened two years ago. Predictably, the “incitement” allegations have only served to exponentially expand Kneecap’s fanbase. If this charming trio of amiable troublemakers is inciting anything, it would appear that it’s the ever-increasing agitation of people in positions of political power.

I manage to exit the Glass House, snapping photos of a few stragglers looking uniquely unthreatening in their sweat-drenched souvenir balaclavas, when I spot a smiling young man—head shaved, reddish stubble, military-green pants. He turns around, I lift my camera, and he gives me a great big American smile above a T-shirt emblazoned with the words: “Fuck Trump.”

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Photographed by Xavier Luggage

Styled by Jenny Haapla

Written by Gregg Lagambina

Grooming: Carolina Pizarro

Styling Assistant: Lauren Walker

Lighting Tech: Quin Jaye

Styling Interns: Allison Deer and, Rhea Graza

Location: Pink Box Studio