Rising: TaliaBle is bringing punk-rap chaos to the club

Sounds like: Punk poetry for outsiders
Soundtrack for: Finding your own path through life
File next to: Kae Tempest, M.I.C.
Our favourite song: Scrub
Where to find her: @taliable

Combining community-driven club culture with punk-rap experimentation and theatrical performance, the North Londoner makes music for creative outsiders on the dancefloor.

Channelling a feral theatricality and a vividly handmade aesthetic, the world of Talia Beale, better known as TaliaBle, is one where punk, queer futurism and north London grit coexist in a delirious tangle. Over the past six years, she’s been building a sound and visual language that refuses categorisation. It is restless and clay-like, constantly reshaped. “I’ve always believed there’s more than one way of being,” she says. “We have multiple versions of ourselves.”

Growing up in Tottenham, she was that quiet sort of popular: amiable with everyone yet instinctively solitary – the kid who shaved half her head and dyed the rest blonde before she had a sense of what being ‘alternative’ meant. Beale’s curiosity dragged her across the city. Fifteen years old, wandering Oxford Street alone, then cycling with friends from Southgate to South Bank on marathon seven-hour treks; these adventures became their own education. “I loved connecting with new people, different walks of life,” she says. “That’s informed my life today – my community, my art.”

North London’s lineage helped to shape her early musical imagination. Little Simz, especially, was foundational. “Good for What was the one that really hit me,” she recalls. “Women who don’t care, who take up space… I’ve always been inspired by that.” But the real transformation came later, around 2019, when, inspired by her formative experiences, Beale began recording. Listening back to her earliest online music, especially songs like Tender and Muzzled Butterfly, she oscillates between woozy spoken-word, trap-laced punk with industrial drums and conscious rage-rap. “My first project probably had seven genres in it,” she laughs. “I grew up listening to trap rap; now I’m in this alternative punk-rap sphere… It’s like a character, a way of being.”

That character is TaliaBle, her live persona – protective and explosive in equal measure. “My girlfriend said it perfectly: ‘TaliaBle keeps Talia safe,’” she says. Off stage, she is quiet, observant; on stage, she is a riot. Her performances radiate outlaw warmth, a sort of organised chaos. She conducts rooms with instinctive authority, flipping crowds into a cathartic mess. “A lot of the time, it feels like a movie. Me and my friends say movie with a Z at the beginning – zovie,” she grins. “I want people to think: what the fuck?”

Beale’s audience reflects the scene she occupies: an underground, genre-agnostic warehouse network of weirdos, ravers, punks, queers and neurodivergent young people. “Everyone’s fucking weird, no one’s trying to be cool, and we’re still cool doing it,” she says. “It’s a warehouse culture, but it’s a blend of art as well.”

Her most recent music, released by experimental indie label PRAH Recordings, expands her multisensory punk-rap practice into the club. Her collaborative September 2025 work, Bucket of Magic, with Joe Goddard, is built on erratic broken beats and hypnotic synth stabs that feel just as at home with Talia as they would with Joe’s usual work with Hot Chip. 

Literary and cinematic influences feed Beale’s practice, from surrealist poetry and Kae Tempest’s Hold Your Own to Caleb Femi’s Poor and the slapstick grotesquerie of Jim Carrey’s The Grinch. She is drawn to texture: airbrush gradients, rubbery sculptures, worlds that look carved by hand. Her studio reflects that fascination – a cave of clay creations, puppets and colours wired straight from the subconscious. “I love unusual characters,” she says. “Dark humour, comedy, the weird bits.” 

As Beale’s writing matures, its political contour has sharpened. Class, housing and the commodification of working-class neighbourhoods have surfaced more urgently in her recent, more personal writing. “Poverty porn annoys me a lot,” she says. “Even in an area like Tottenham, people come in… it’s cool now, but they don’t want to be too involved. I talk about estates and flats a lot, but in a magical way. I want to reinvent that narrative. Not everything is bad in those environments.” That being said, she doesn’t use all her music for reinvention: on June 2025’s Scrub, she raps, “Dress up all our scars/ Then we bop out of the yard/ Yeah we’re unapologetic and as British as can be.”

She approaches life with a sort of soft mysticism. “Words are prayers,” she says. “Manifestations. I changed my dialogue a lot, no more doubtful words.” She’s wary of the too-cool posture that stalks underground culture. “Creature comfort,” she calls it. “No one takes risks. That’s what I hate. I’m not like that at all.”