Fine Art by Kneecap

If Fine Art by Kneecap is “art,” then it’s the kind you might find scrawled on a bathroom stall after a particularly rowdy night at the pub—amusing at first, but it quickly loses its charm once you realize the punchline is the entire joke.

The album, a chaotic mix of political barbs, Irish slang, and screeching electronics, tries to be both anarchic and profound, but lands somewhere between frat-party satire and a dodgy hangover. Kneecap’s conceptual framework—a night in a fictional Belfast pub called The Rutz—is undeniably intriguing, but the execution feels like a disjointed bender rather than a cohesive experience. The music ranges from rave-inspired grime to moments of screamo-rap that make your eardrums beg for mercy. There are glimpses of wit, especially with their rebellious, anti-establishment rhetoric, but the humor often feels forced, like they’re trying to shock rather than provoke real thought.

Musically, Fine Art revels in abrasive production. Tracks like “I’m Flush” feel like getting trapped inside a malfunctioning bass speaker, and while the raw energy is undeniable, it’s exhausting after a while. The production, helmed by Toddla T, is more about sensory overload than any real depth. At points, the album’s constant noise barrage starts to feel like a test of endurance.

Lyrically, Kneecap’s sharp political commentary is present, but much of it gets buried under the album’s bombast. Yes, their Irish-English code-switching is clever, but there’s only so many times you can hear “Get Your Brits Out” before it loses its punch. Even the interludes—short sketches meant to add depth—come off more like awkward pauses in the party, where everyone’s wondering when the next actual track will drop.

The standout moments, like the opener “3CAG,” hint at what this album could have been—there’s a haunting beauty in its Celtic-infused melody, lifted by Radie Peat’s vocals. But those moments are fleeting, quickly drowned out by tracks like “Rhino Ket,” which is less art, more sonic assault.

In the end, Fine Art feels like an album that’s trying too hard to be edgy, at the expense of musicality and coherence. It’s the sonic equivalent of a sloppy night out: loud, chaotic, and ultimately forgettable once the hangover hits. If you’re into screamo-political-rap for the novelty, maybe this is your jam. For the rest of us, it’s more like fine start, rough finish.