It’s one thing not to believe the hype; it’s quite another to remain unaffected by it and I doubt there’s a creature in the industry who hasn’t braced themselves for what probably amounts to the most significant musical event to have happened in fookin’ ages; those wiry and septic social observers of the North, the Arctic Monkeys, are about to release their ridiculously long awaited full-length, ‘Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not’. It’s ahead of time, ahead of schedule and ahead of media saturation — well almost. And like most people in my position I’m naturally “shittin’ m’sen” about getting it wrong, missing the bandwagon or at the very least falling for all those fake tales of San Francisco and naturally leaving myself open for every regret known to men with pens.
And to be fair you could leave it there, but for all those folks who’ve had their head stuck in a hole for the last six months let’s at least try to explain the hype.
All the way from High Green (via Hillsborough) Sheffield and with a name scabbed from their uncle’s band in the 70’s, the Arctic Monkeys are part of the that fags and Special Brew generation that like their indie as well as their ‘ip-‘op easy on’t pocket and hard on’t ear. As the title of the album suggests, they’re arsy, they’re awkward and they’re not going to be taken in by any of that cloth-eared ‘Bigger than Beatles’ nonsense: it’s just music, fair and square; free of pretension, free of artifice, although arguably not free of additives. It’s like a group of unruly shepherds high on Mad Bull followed a star and found their new messiahs under a blinking red light in the Neepsend district of Sheffield. Which just goes to prove that the answers to life’s problems (and Gallup Chart stagnation) are not always what you’d expect.
Topped and tailed by some common or garden eloquence and some classic social insight, Alex Turner’s dry, conversational wit tackles your cop-baiting yob culture head-on with a street-savvy belligerence as likely to earn them as many ASBOs as Mercury Music Prizes. Let’s face it; the band are gathering the kind of dazzling momentum traditionally reserved for comets and things that fly off shovels. The band’s first single after signing to Domino Records, ‘I Bet You Look Good On the Dancefloor’ — all tribal drums, garage hostility and smash-and-grab romance — shot straight in at No.1 in the UK Singles Chart, selling 38,962 copies and beating McFly and Robbie Williams in the process. And though influences might touch on the likes of credible hip-hop artists like The Streets, Roots Manuva and the foot stomping, Pharaoh Monche the sound is as provincial and as English as it gets: short, sharp guitar chops, all manner of woozy hooks and a shit- shock-horror look at life on the estate: whether that’s gearing yourself up for a night out on the lash with your tracky bottoms tucked into your socks to reveal your classic Reeboks (‘A Certain Romance’), leering at Topshop princesses tumbling out of their limos and their dresses (‘The View From That Afternoon’) avoiding scuffles in the taxi-rank (‘Red Light Indicates Doors Are Secured’) or just cracking a smile on your moody girlfriend when she gets all arsy (‘Mardy Bum’). It’s not Jean Paul bloody Satre, but it’s not without its flair and you’d be hard-pressed to find a funnier and more accurate rendition of life in the suburbs. Turner’s greater achievement though, lies in his refusal to reveal just where he stands in the narratives. Hapless witness or criminal party? In fact, Turner is as elusive and as difficult to nail as the album title suggests. And then some.
And then there’s that new, damned near perfect rukus of a single, previously known as Scummy — ‘When The Sun Goes Down’ — a hairpin joyride around Neepsend set against a thrashing wall of guitars and subtle propositions. Yeah it’s post-punk alright. Some 30 effin years post punk and if it’s eager for any one thing, it’s to be heard srceaming at the top of its voice that there’s something new here, something fresh.
That cute John Shuttleworth-cum-Johnny Vegas accent may prove something of a passing novelty, and when they’re not living in Sheffield, what else they going to write about, but one thing is certain, these four scruffy youths in their Primark clothing and criminal haircuts have, however briefly, captured the imaginations of a good proportion of the record buying public. And that’s more than most of us can muster in a lifetime.
One thing you can be sure of at least, it’s “proper good” all round.