Ricky Wilson and Simon Rix aren’t interested in becoming a legacy act. Sure, they’ll happily play “Ruby” and “I Predict a Riot” to a crowd of sunburnt Americans screaming every word. But as they made clear during our chat, the Kaiser Chiefs aren’t looking to get stuck in the mid-2000s amber.
“When it’s in danger of being taken away from you, you realize how much you want it,” Wilson says, referencing the near implosion of the band just a few years back. “It lit a fire underneath us.”
The band’s resurrection came in the form of Education, Education, Education & War, an album title that’s apparently as frustrating for DJs and social media managers as it is cheeky and loaded with purpose. “We shot ourselves in the foot with that one,” Rix admits. “It’s not great on Twitter.”
The title—and the album—were a declaration. A reset. A musical middle finger to the idea that the Kaisers were done after the hits dried up. The band had just lost founding member Nick Hodgson, their primary songwriter and drummer, and found themselves at a crossroads most groups don’t come back from.
“We’d gotten to the point where we were compromising too much,” says Wilson. “Trying to be what we thought we should be, instead of what we naturally are. We were shaving off all the edges.”
That edge had defined the band’s initial breakthrough. In 2005, at the height of a so-called “musical revolution,” Kaiser Chiefs were part of an unofficial club of sharp-dressed, sharper-witted UK rock bands reshaping indie into something danceable, chaotic, and catchy. But momentum only lasts so long, and by the early 2010s, the band was adrift. Albums were confusing. Release strategies were inconsistent. Even they weren’t sure what was happening.
“Directionless,” Rix says bluntly. “We didn’t even want to put out a greatest hits yet. That was Nick’s idea—he was leaving. It was his way of putting a bow on it.”
But if that collection felt like an ending, Education was a beginning. A clean slate. A chance to remember what made the band tick in the first place. “We went back into the rehearsal room. Wrote together. Played together,” Wilson says. “We stopped overthinking it and started making noises again—until we liked what we heard.”
The result was a concise, traditional album—ten songs, 45 minutes. No gimmicks. Just a band learning how to be a band again.
“We realized there’s a reason why records are ten to twelve songs,” Rix says. “Our favorite albums were 42 to 45 minutes long. There’s a structure that works, and we’d forgotten that.”
That rediscovery also meant letting go of fear—fear of risk, fear of bad reviews, fear of hashtags that don’t fit. “We used to obsess about how a title might get twisted in a review,” Wilson says. “Now? Fuck it. They’re gonna twist it anyway.”
What’s most telling, though, is how much the Kaisers still care. About songwriting. About evolution. About proving themselves—even after a number one album in the UK and countless festival sets. “It’s always good to prove everyone wrong,” Wilson says. “Even if that means proving something to yourself.”
And while they acknowledge the ups and downs, they’re clear about one thing: the work matters. “When something’s broken, you fix it,” Wilson says. “You don’t throw it away.”
That philosophy has kept the Kaiser Chiefs not only alive, but relevant. Not every band gets that second act. Fewer still earn it.
Watch the interview above and then check out the videos below.
