109. Killing Joke
Roundhouse
6 November 2015
Killing Joke slipped onto Top of the Pops in 1985 like a Molotov cocktail with “Love Like Blood”, one war-whoop of a synth line, tribal bass thumping beneath, Jaz Coleman glowering. In an era when the angriest thing on Radio 1 was Limahl’s hairdresser, Killing Joke felt genuinely dangerous: student-union funk hammered into Cold-War paranoia.
Whilst Billy Bragg and Red Wedge were dutifully leafleting against Thatcherism, Killing Joke took a more apocalyptic, pan-European route: lyrics about nuclear winters, surveillance states, and civilisation eating itself, all barked over grooves so danceable you felt guilty shaking your hips to them. Protest music you could pogo to, no placards required.
Fast-forward a few decades and the band land at a sold-out Roundhouse still radiating the same end-is-nigh energy. Jaz Coleman shuffles on in what appears to be a shaman’s dinner jacket, eyes like searchlights. The opening riff of “The Wait” detonates and suddenly we’re back in the era of cruise missiles and poll tax, except half the crowd are livestreaming the moment. Ironic, given Jaz’s mid-set rant about the all-seeing surveillance state.
And yet the fury still bites. “Wardance” arrives on that frantic bassline, sounding less like a song and more like incoming artillery. “Requiem” snarls, “We are not your kind of people,” which feels oddly cosy in a room of aging punks, goths, and the occasional curious Millennial. Over a guitar tone that scours like a sheet of industrial sandpaper; Paul Ferguson and Youth drive the rhythm section like a funky armoured tank.
Between tracks, Jaz mutters about world leaders, climate collapse, and tech paranoia, but the lectures are short, he prefers to let the songs do the pummelling. And they do. “Love Like Blood” still blooms like a black-orchid anthem; “Pandemonium” closes the show in a swirl of polyrhythms and strobes, less encore than ritual cleansing.
By the time the houselights snap on, everyone’s ears ring and we all ponder at the sheer, thunderous relevance of it all. Killing Joke never bothered waving flags; they just set the stage on fire and dared you to dance in the sparks. Decades later, the flames are still high, and the tunes are still criminally catchy.