In the war’s aftermath, the word took on a darker meaning in the north of Ireland, which remained part of the United Kingdom. It became a slur — a derogatory term for Irish Catholics by those in the unionist community, police officers, fans of the football club Rangers FC, and occasionally even politicians. (British National Party leader Nick Griffin tweeted the phrase “fenian bastards” as recently as 2012.)“It’s funny how they tried to use it against us,” says Naoise Ó Cairealláin, better known as Kneecap’s Móglaí Bap. “They try to make out like we’re forest people — that we’re backwards.

It reflects this feeling happening overall when it comes to Irish identity. For a long time there was a hangover of self-hating shame around our language and our culture — that it wasn’t that valued.” In a way, Kneecap has made a career out of killing that notion. The band — vocalists Móglaí and Mo Chara (legal name Liam Óg Ó hAnnaidh), and DJ and professional crowd-surfer DJ Próvaí (JJ Ó Dochartaigh), aged 32, 28, and 37, respectively — named its latest studio album after what used to be an insult.

Fenian, out May 1, is a searing sophomore offering that addresses what has been a turbulent year for Kneecap. In 12 months, they won a BAFTA, an IFTA, and a Sundance Award for their self-titled biopic. Their Coachella performance placed them squarely at the forefront of the Palestine solidarity movement.

Last May, Mo Chara was charged under the 2006 Terrorism Act for allegedly displaying a Hezbollah flag at a gig. After months of delays and weeks of chaotic scenes outside London’s high courts, the case was dropped. (The British government appealed, but in March, the judges upheld the dismissal.) Fenian partially responds to those events, but it also sees the band turn back to what it does best: putting out songs that make people go nuts. This is not Kneecap hiding from confrontation in a “just stick to the football mate” kind of way.

Instead of lawyers and social media infographics, this is a sonic reckoning. Solidarity through ceol agus craic. “Carnival,” Mo Chara’s favorite track, speaks to the bread-and-circuses sideshow that was the Kneecap trial, which Mo Chara believes was intended to distract from the Palestinian genocide.

It’s followed by “Palestine,” featuring the West Bank artist FAWZI, which is performed in both Irish and Arabic, a blistering anti-colonial manifesto that includes the lyrics “ní stopfaimid go dtí go bhfuil gach duine saor” (we won’t stop until everyone is free).“I’m not the first, and I’ll not be the last Irish person who has disrupted the status quo and been labeled a terrorist,” Mo Chara says. “Whatever stress we’ve been under for the past year or two, we have to remember it’s fucking marginal to what families in Gaza are going through. At the end of the day I can deal with financial loss, I can deal with gigs being cancelled, countries banning us.”“Receding hairlines,” interjects Móglaí.“I can deal with a receding hairline,” Mo Chara replies.

We’re speaking on a dreary February morning in northeast London, inside the dusty glamor of Walthamstow Trades Hall. Since 1921, this building has functioned as a nonprofit members club for the workers in the area, founded and funded by local Trade Unions. These days, it hosts drag bingos and Women’s Institute meetings, gigs, poetry readings, comedy shows, and quiz nights.

We arrange ourselves in a corner away from the red velvet curtains, chintz carpets, and snooker tables. The band is feeling slightly worse for wear. They arrived in London yesterday and spent the night at Leicester Square Hippodrome — one of the only places in the city licensed to sell alcohol after 11 p.m.But they’re in good spirits.

Breakfasts are swiftly ordered and surprisingly wholesome (bananas and eggs). Mo Chara is the most talkative of the trio, quick to answer and to joke. Móglaí speaks more carefully, interjecting with facts or context, and DJ Provaí is the quietest.

Speaking to them as a group, you get the impression this is a rhythm they’ve become used to in the past seven years, one they’ve nearly mastered: the art of jumping into each other’s gaps, listening to each other’s opinions and interrupting where their own thoughts diverge. There is, obviously, a lot of talking. And the talking is very fast.

This is not a specifically Kneecap observation. There are few things Irish people enjoy more than the sound of a cacophony of voices in a snooker hall. It’s a few months before Fenian drops — when the singles and the anticipation start piling up. But beyond all the buzz and the drama, Kneecap is doing something fundamentally interesting: disrupting the so-called “green wave