Kneecap, Bob Vylan and the new era of radical truth-telling in music.

Recently we’ve seen how long time #Zeenagers top pick artists Bob Vylan and Kneecap have faced severe legal and professional consequences for their unflinching political expressions during performances.

Bobby Vylan, whose impassioned "death to the IDF" chants at Glastonbury last week has resulted in a criminal investigation and US visa revocation, stands resolute in his call for "change in foreign policy" amid the ongoing humanitarian crisis in Gaza.

Similarly, Mo Chara's alleged display of a Hezbollah flag at a London concert—which led to the terrorism charges—reflects the desperation felt by many artists witnessing what Kneecap themselves have described as babies "about to die of starvation in Gaza, with food sent by the world sitting on the other side of a wall."

While establishment forces have condemned these acts as crossing lines, supporters, including us at TheZineUK view them as necessary if perhaps imperfect cries against injustice when conventional channels have failed to halt the suffering of Palestinians and none of us have been without trying them.

My DIY flag for court. © Weather Underground, 2025

Now facing the full weight of state power, Kneecap and Bob Vylan have transformed their platforms into spaces of urgent political resistance during a genocide—choosing moral obligation over career safety in a moment demanding urgent and radical truth-telling.

….Alas there's something beautifully inevitable about Kneecap and Bob Vylan standing shoulder to shoulder for Palestine. When you trace the roots of these artists back to their origins, their solidarity feels less like a political statement and more like a natural extension of shared lived experience.

Kneecap emerged from West Belfast, a community shaped by decades of conflict, surveillance and resistance. Growing up in the shadow of what the British with little hint of irony call “The Troubles” means knowing what a military occupation looks like from the receiving end. The trio came of age in a post-Good Friday Agreement Belfast, but the legacy of British military presence, sectarian violence, and systematic discrimination wasn't just history – it was the physical and emotional landscape of their childhoods.

Chaos Twins’ Belfast/Kneecap trip. © @MissDizzySpell/Weather Underground, 2024.

When Mo Chara, Móglaí Bap, and DJ Próvaí talk onstage and off about identity and resistance, they're drawing from a community memory that includes British soldiers patrolling streets, arbitrary detentions, and the criminalisation of cultural identity. The parallels they see with Palestinian experience aren't academic – they're visceral. The concrete barriers and militarised borders of Belfast echo in the separation walls of the West Bank. The collective punishment tactics employed during “The Troubles” resonate with Gaza's blockade and the actions of the IOF. More curious readers are invited to look up how Ireland served as a training ground for oppression in Palestine even from the days of British Mandate.

Photo: Ruby Blue © Weather Underground, 2025

When Ruby and I sat outside Westminster Magistrates Court last month for Mo Chara’s first court date, we were surrounded by hundreds (if not thousands) of other people there to support Kneecap, Mo Chara, free speech and predominately Palestine. The sterile legal language inside the court couldn't mask what was happening – the criminalisation of art, of identity and of solidarity. Outside - our presence stood as testimony that he wasn't facing this alone. When he requested his next court appearance be conducted in Gaeilge – his native language – it wasn't just a procedural detail. It was a profound act of resistance against a system that has historically tried to erase Irish identity. In that moment, he connected his personal struggle directly to generations of resistance against cultural erasure, reminding us all that language itself is territory that must be defended. The insistence on speaking the native Irish language in court echoes the same fight for dignity that drives our solidarity with Palestine – the right to exist fully as yourself, in your own tongue, on your own terms.

Ruby Blue films Kneecap’s defiant speech outside Court. © Weather Underground, 2025.

For Bob Vylan's Bobby Vylan, the connection runs through different but equally powerful channels. As Black British artists whose family story intersects with the Windrush generation, their work has consistently explored how Britain's colonial past shapes its present inequalities. The Windrush scandal – which saw British citizens of Caribbean descent wrongfully detained, denied services, and in some cases deported – revealed how quickly the state can designate even long-established communities as "other" when politically expedient.

This understanding of institutional racism, colonial legacy, and state violence provides a natural framework for solidarity with Palestinians. When Bobby speaks about Palestine, he's connecting dots between different manifestations of the same systems – systems that determine whose humanity gets recognised and whose suffering gets minimised.

What makes both acts so powerful is how they've transformed these connections into art that refuses easy categorisation. Kneecap's blend of Irish and English, traditional and contemporary, creates something that feels both ancient and urgently modern. Bob Vylan's fusion of punk aggression with grime's urban storytelling produces something that couldn't exist without both Britain's colonial history and its multicultural present.

The establishment's panicked response to their Glastonbury performances reveals how threatening this kind of connection-making can be. When artists with authentic roots in communities that have experienced state violence stand with Palestinians, it becomes harder to dismiss solidarity as performative posturing.

Defiant. Bob Vylan Statement. © @BobbyVylan on twitter, 2025.

When they draw explicit parallels between many different struggles against oppression, it challenges the narrative that Palestine is somehow an exceptional case that defies normal ethical standards.

That's precisely why the misuse of terror legislation against these artists feels so chillingly familiar. The Terrorism Act that's now being weaponised against artistic expression has its roots in legislation originally designed to control Irish republican communities. The criminalisation of symbols, flags (although a convenient blindness seems to overlook UVF flags that litter the skyline of East Belfast), and political speech was refined during “The Troubles” before being expanded after 9/11. Palestinians have faced similar tactics, with their cultural symbols and political expression frequently criminalised.

When Kneecap stands on stage with Palestinian resistance imagery, they're not just showing solidarity with another people – they're recognising patterns of oppression that echo across different contexts and eras. When Bobby Vylan leads chants supporting Palestinian resistance, he's connecting it to broader struggles against systems that have historically devalued Black and brown lives.

What we're witnessing isn't just about music or even just about Palestine. It's about artists who understand oppression intimately refusing to compartmentalise struggles for justice. It's about recognising that solidarity isn't charity – it's mutual recognition between communities that have experienced different manifestations of the same systems of control.

The government's attempt to silence these voices through terror legislation and visa revocations isn't just an attack on artistic freedom. It's an attempt to prevent the kinds of connections that might lead to more powerful, unified resistance against systems of oppression. It's fear of what happens when communities start recognising their common interests instead of remaining isolated in their separate struggles.

In standing with Palestine despite the consequences, Kneecap and Bob Vylan aren't being divisive – they're being consistent. They're applying the lessons from their own communities' histories to recognise another people fighting for dignity and self-determination.

And in doing so, they're showing us what meaningful solidarity looks like.

Rose, the Palestine Cat knows about solidarity. © Ruby Blue/Weather Underground, 2025.

Psst!! Support Mo Chara’s legal cost fundraiser here. We’ll see you outside the court on August 20th.

Psst!! Psst!! - I write this the evening after the Government have proscribed Palestine Action as a terrorist organisation, please - if you can - join them and supporters online on Zoom July 4th, 7pm here.