KNEECAP

If one thing is for certain, Kneecap, the Belfast-based hip-hop trio, are provocative. In fact, they take the term and run with it: from being banned by the RTE (Raidió Teilifís Éireann) radio station for elicit lyricism, to chanting “Brits Out” at a gig that took place the day after Prince William and Kate Middleton were pictured at the same pub. In some instances, the bolder the better, and this is certainly the case for the one and only Kneecap.  

  

Tuning in from the Cultúrlann, an Irish language cultural centre where band members and best friends Móglaí Bap and Mo Chara first met, I catch the group in high spirits – in more ways than one. Fresh off the heels of a North American tour, they’re quick to tell me what they got up to: “We shot a lot of guns, which made us shit our pants,” admits Móglaí Bap, a brown-haired, chestnut-eyed chap, decked out with a glistening gold chain and chunky rings. “AK47’s, sniper rifles, the lot,” masked member, DJ Próvaí, adds in his softly spoken Derry accent, sticking on his signature Irish flag balaclava as we kicked off. “It was nice to do something cultural” wraps up final member Mo Chara, as he flashes his pearly whites with a grin. Did they get what Kneecap is about? “They’re very enthusiastic people, let’s just say that,” Mo Chara utters.  

  

In fairness, summing up what Kneecap stand for is not an easy feat. Since their inception in 2017 with debut single, ‘C.E.A.R.T.A’ (AKA ‘rights’) the trio have soundtracked an Irish cultural resurgence. Rapping in their mother tongue, Kneecap – yes, their name is a nod to the paramilitary physical punishment – personify and amplify youth culture in Belfast. A culture full of impromptu pub visits, amphetamine-fuelled raves, and a collective frustration with the dysfunctional politics of their post-war generation. Throughout their existence, they have been deemed political, condemned by the DUP (Democratic Unionist Party) for their republican slang, denied arts funding by the UK government, all the while accused of “glorifying the IRA” by tabloids far and wide. They’re post-Good Friday agreement bad boys, unafraid to challenge authority at every turn.  

“Politicians use us as a means to get on the radio because our stuff gives them something to be outraged about. Everyone wants to be outraged nowadays. We don’t believe in armed violence. We come from a place of seriousness, that now it’s time for us to joke about it. Politicians should be thanking us – they’re getting airtime because of us”, says Mo Chara. “There’s not one shred of evidence that we glorify the IRA,” Móglaí Bap declares. Jokingly, DJ Próvaí covers his balaclava with his hands, moving himself out of the camera frame as Mo Chara interjects “The IRA did not wear fucking balaclavas especially tri-coloured balaclavas. If anything, we glorify drugs, not the IRA”.   

  

The glorification of drugs is undeniable. Throughout their performances and music videos, the trio frequently depict scenes of snorting white substances or indulging in cheeky bumps within the walls of pubs. So much so that DJ Próvaí – who used to be an Irish teacher at a Catholic secondary school – was caught for his mischievous antics. Although he used his balaclava to conceal his identity, his cover was blown when some of his A-Level students recognised him at a gig in Belfast in 2019. Soon the truth came out and the school sent him an investigation letter: “a masked member moons the camera with ‘Brits Out’ on each buttock; he appears to snort a white substance”. “Próvaí was raging. He couldn’t get up for school at 8am Monday to Friday anymore,” remarks Móglaí Bap sarcastically. “Hey, it was a nice routine to have!”, barks DJ Próvaí in defence. He left teaching in 2020 and took his music producing seriously, crafting anything from grizzly punk-rap to hard hitting-trap. A year later, their debut mixtape was ready, titled 3CAG, an Irish colloquialism for MDMA, meaning “three consonants and a vowel”.   

  

The trio are Gaeligeoirs (native Irish speakers),and speak the language both amongst themselves and with family. So, creating music in their native tongue is instinctive . “There were only a certain number of people in Belfast who spoke Irish, so we gravitated towards one another”, reflects Móglaí Bap. He met Mo Chara originally at the Cultúrlann, started running festivals celebrating Irish music, and soon asked his pal of 13 years if he would like to help out. Blasting Irish rebel tunes, techno and eclectic rap, DJ Próvaí later joined the mix as a performer. Their friendship naturally blossomed and, before long, Kneecap was born.   

  

As Kneecap started to delve into hip-hop storytelling in Irish, they encountered a problem. Linguistic gaps emerged when they blended personal stories with youth culture narratives.  “They weren’t doing cocaine during the famine, traditionally speaking,” smirks Móglaí Bap. This made Kneecap start to recycle archaic Irish terms that had fallen out of use. Snaois’ (snuff) became cocaine, whilst dúid (an old clay pipe) became their word for a joint. Whilst detractors criticised their violation of the ‘pure’ language, Kneecap argue that Irish has never been strictly puritan: “The language has been used as a tool to scare Loyalists and Unionists. But if you take a look at the Irish language history, Presbyterians and Protestants were very involved in the language, it has always been a vibrant language,” says Móglaí Bap. “Even the Irish flag is the Catholics (green), Protestants (orange) and a cocaine line in between,” quips DJ Próvaí.   

  

Developed with Curzon Film, the band’s latest venture has seen them delve into the world of cinema, with their uproarious yet pressing biopic, Kneecap. Co-written alongside director Rich Peppiatt, the film delves into their origin story, featuring semi-fictionalised portrayals of themselves. Charismatic yet raw, the movie delves into the struggle for identity amidst societal and familial pressures that threaten their musical dreams. It’s a rebellious tale, where the Irish language serves not as a mere plot device, but as a liberating conduit. The lines of ketamine are long, and their upcoming debut album, Fine Art, drives a compelling narrative.  

Badgering the group for six months, filmmaker Rich finally caught their attention after constant “pestering”. “We just put him in the pile of weird email requests we get. We ignored him for six months, but he was so persistent that we couldn’t ignore him anymore,” laughs Mo Chara. After a drink and the understanding that it would be a collaborative effort, Kneecap agreed to the biopic: “He came with a fresh perspective. He didn’t come up with any weird Irish stereotypical ideas. We didn’t want to do a movie about working class lads who were bumping heads and being pure silly billies. We wanted to portray three intellectual people,” says Móglaí Bap. Mo Chara explains, “It’s not three fucking Einsteins in the movie, but we wanted them to have a head on their shoulders, where they didn’t make stupid mistakes and are violent all the time. We wanted every character to have their own narrative arc.”  

  

Such a want for character development led to each member having their own side story to complement the group’s narrative. Mo Chara’s sublot delves into his habit of exclaiming the republican cause “Tiocfaidh ár lá” (meaning ‘our day will come’) whilst having sex with Protestant women. More grounded in the film’s political commentary is Móglaí Bap’s fraught relationship with his father (played by Michael Fassbender who got taught how to do an Ulster accent by DJ Próvaí via WhatsApp) a dissident republican who faked his own death to evade the law. As well as DJ Próvaí’s wavering dynamic with his partner, who is depicted as a campaigner for the recognition of Irish as an official language in Northern Ireland.   

  

Whilst they wanted to create a film depicting real life events, some of the stories are just inspired versions. For instance, DJ Provai plays a music teacher in the film, whilst in real life he taught Irish. Other parts are directly true. Móglaí Bap was christened at the Catholic sacred Colin Glen Mass rock, and British army helicopters did hover over the ceremony.   

Twice a week for six months Kneecap took lessons for the film: taught by a Professor from Queen’s University, the group made it clear from the get-go that they did not want to learn “the fucking theory of drama” or none of that “becoming trees or pretending you’re the colour purple”. With director Rich joining in to balance the numbers, the group embarked on a series of exercises designed to enable them to be “present in the room”. “We had to stare into each other’s eyes for five minutes,” recalls Mo Chara, shaking his head. “For something that started as very awkward, it became very cathartic and therapeutic towards the end.” Móglaí Bap adds, “We all fell in love. In fact after that we slept in the same bed every night together.”   

  

Jokes aside, one pressing focal point in the movie—and in the teaser for the biopic—is a scene where Mo Chara and Móglaí Bap confront the theme of intergenerational trauma during a visit to the doctor to address their mental health, which results in them receiving a prescription. “There’s no physical threat anymore, but the trauma our parents have suffered has been passed down to us through anxieties and fears,” Móglaí Bap says. DJ Próvaí adds, “There’s a lot of general anxiety disorders about. People are wondering why their stomachs are churning, but these emotions have been passed down.”   

  

The roots of such trauma stretch back to when Móglaí Bap was just 10 years old, embarking with his friends on a trip to the largest swimming pool in the area, located in Lisburn, a predominantly Protestant area. Before their visit, they would give each other Protestant- sounding names, so they wouldn’t be struck by violence. “I reflected on it when I was 25 years old, and realised how messed up it was that we had to anglicise our own names so we wouldn’t be shot.” Móglaí Bap, whose real name is Naoise Ó Cairealláin, went by the name Nigel while his friends adopted names like Steven and Simon. However, in Móglaí Bap’s eyes “more dialogue and craic is happening now” and, despite their differing perspectives, “we can all get on and make progress together.”  

  

Since the passage of The Identity and Language Bill in December 2022 – granting official recognition to the status of the Irish language – significant strides have been made to promote its wider acceptance. Notably, an Irish language primary school is under construction in East Belfast, a historically Loyalist stronghold, and numerous Irish language youth clubs are emerging across the city. Kneecap are only advancing the cause by the debut of their biopic at the prestigious Sundance Festival earlier this year, marking the first ever Irish language film to be featured at the event. “Before we were born, it would’ve been fucking inconceivable that an Irish language film would be at Sundance. It’s telling of the times that we’re living in. People are more aware of minority languages, and it’s becoming their duty to do something about it now,” says Mo Chara.   

Kneecap did more than make an impression at Sundance. Not only with the film – hailed by the festival as a “wild ketamine-laced ride from start to finish” – but also with their choice of arrival. Taking to Salt Lake City’s streets in a PSNI Land Rover, they decked out the vehicle with two Irish flags flapping proudly at the rear and spray painted ‘Kneecap’ across it in neon green spray paint. While some of the American crowd may have missed the ironic significance of an Irish-language band driving around in a PSNI car, they were clear fans of the group, as Kneecap walked away winning The Audience Award.   

  

“It was surreal to walk down the street in Sundance and to have people ask us for pictures. It was even more surreal watching yourself 50ft tall on a screen,” says DJ Próvaí. “50 ft tall?!”, questions Móglaí Bap. “To be honest, I’m only 11 ft tall really,” chuckles DJ Próvaí. However, for Kneecap their appearance at Sundance represents more than just the award, they hope that their participation will set the groundwork for more Irish films to grace the festival in the future. “Just because it’s a minority language doesn’t mean it won’t appeal to wider audiences. Hopefully people will see that Irish is a viable option, and we have the talent to make it happen,” says Mo Chara. Móglaí Bap chimes in, “It would be an awful state of affairs if the world only spoke three languages. We are using our language, our culture and making it contemporary. Every 40 days an indigenous language dies, we can’t let this happen anymore.”  

  

Before the film’s anticipated release later this year, Kneecap have a slew of tour dates alongside their debut album release in June – a project that is sure to ruffle a few more feathers in the tabloids. Centred around an imaginary pub named The Rutz, the album is set to be a proper introduction into the world of Kneecap. “The pub is central to the Irish identity. We have a massive pub culture here. You do cocaine in the toilets and come out and there’s someone singing a 300-year-old Irish song, you go to the next pub and there’s more drama. It’s where the music, the stories and the craic is kept alive,” says Móglaí Bap.   

  

So, are you heading to the pub after this? I ask. In perfect unison, the Irish trio bellow, “You bet we are!”  

 

Kneecap is scheduled to be the opening film at Sundance London this June and is set to be released by Curzon Film in the UK and Wildcard in Ireland in August 2024.