ARCTIC MONKEYS

I know that I pledged some time ago that I would never mention hype when reviewing an album but the reaction to this album has got me so irked that I simply cannot review it without venting some spleen. Not the album itself, mind, but the response to the whirlwind of hype that accompanies it. This is a very good album and almost certainly the best number one in the British album charts since... well, God knows when. So what's the fucking problem? Why do the band and their supporters have to be bombarded with smug dismissals of this album by people who probably haven't even heard it? Sure, the music scene is not as healthy as it was twenty, thirty, forty years ago but when the best new guitar band finally gets the nation-wide popularity treatment normally reserved only for the latest 'stars' of X Factor isn't that a good thing? By the very nature of pop music, some groups are going to be feted and praised excessively and sell lots of records. Isn't it a good thing that, for once, it should be a purveyor of good old-fashioned guitar music? I'm simply at a loss as to why the Arctic Monkeys should be sneered at for finally putting Johnny Pop Idol back in his place.

The popular interpretation by so-called music purists, as always, sees the blame laid solely at the feet of the British music media, NME in particular. Now I get as annoyed as the next person when the NME come out and call a great band 'life-changing' or 'era-defining' when they could just leave it at 'great' and make their point just as well. But I'd still rather be in a situation where it is indie guitar bands that get the attention and not the factory-line pop 'products' that get pumped out by the global corporations that are continually trying to strangle the life out of contemporary music. Isn't it good that an independent label like Domino can make millions off the Arctic Monkeys and Franz Ferdinand, whilst the likes of Sony can only look on enviously in their evil palaces? I'd far rather be in this situation than the status quo across the sea where Americans patronisingly sneer at an admittedly overzealous promotion of good guitar bands and then happily turn back to their corporate brain-washing institutes like MTV to get the 'low-down' on Fiddy Cent's wonderful new movie/McDonald's tie-in. Yes, the British music media is generally staffed by dickheads but at least what they write is their own dickhead opinion and not what Sony has paid them to say.

And anyway, in the case of the Arctic Monkeys, the NME are nothing except bandwagon jumpers. One of the truly unique and positive things about the Arctic Monkeys' hype is that it was almost entirely self-generated, with fans downloading demos from the internet with the band's consent (take note Metallica) for free. I've always said great music is ultimately what sells a band and in this case the Arctic Monkeys got so big simply because they have some great songs. Of course, the level of their success I think is inflated by the time at which they came out. People have been desperately trying to claim that all is rosy in the British music scene when, really, there hasn't been much going on since Doherty decided one sunny afternoon that he might see what all that crack cocaine fuss was about. When the Arctic Monkeys arrived people could suddenly stop kidding themselves that the likes of the Kaiser Chiefs, Bloc Party, or (God forbid) Kasabian were any good. I think if this album had been released alongside the likes of Is This It, White Blood Cells and Up the Bracket five years ago (Christ, was it really that long ago?) it might not have been quite so massive.

In any event, the NME have got one thing right - the Arctic Monkeys are the best British band since the Libertines. Although the amateurish clatter of the guitars and sneered vocal style is no great leap from the Libertines the lyrical content has rightly been revered as some of the best and most quintessentially British verse since the Smiths. The way Alex Turner so accurately depicts the monotony of life in a Northern British city has drawn comparisons with the Streets and, indeed, blows Mike Skinner away by matching such depictions and characterisations to a set of actual good songs, rather than 'ironically' rubbish hip-hop. Furthermore, speaking as a fellow Northener it is nice to see the spotlight for once concentrated on somewhere other than London. It is also nice to see Turner amping up his Yorkshire accent, rather than masking it, with typically clipped pronounciations and the best enunciation of the word 'dickhead' on "A Certain Romance" that has ever been captured in song.

One thing that struck me, rather uncomfortably, was this was the first contemporary release I've bought that has a clear generation gap. The Strokes' arrival still seems like yesterday to me, whereas the lads in this band were listening to them as teenagers, in the same way I was loving the Smashing Pumpkins and the Manics at that age. Furthermore, the lyrical accounts, whilst obviously accurate, seem to deal more with the girls and boys fresh out of school and not twentysomething young professionals. In any event, the majority of the material is enjoyable garage rock with memorable lyrics, with outstanding pop tunes like "I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor" and the acidic "Fake Tales of San Francisco" (with its withering portrayal of wannabe scenesters and an excellent climatic hook) mixed with less compelling efforts ("You Probably Couldn't See for the Lights...", "Perhaps Vampires Is a Bit Strong But..."). My personal favourites are the wonderfully true-to-life account of the repetitive clashes between pissheads and the police set to a loping ballad in "Riot Van" and the closing "A Certain Romance", which is the obvious anthem of the set, with its loose ska-punk jangle and immaculate verse encapsulating the whole point of the album in one five-minute gem. Like I said, this is a consistently strong set of rock songs, with a selection of fabulous singles, with the sort of lyrical accuracy that only comes along once or twice a generation, so doesn't it deserve all the adulation? 1967 is a long time ago now and we simply ain't getting ten classic albums a year anymore. Personally, I am glad that for once the best new band around is getting treated like it and the sleazy svengalis are holding emergency meetings with Heat magazine, trying to work out how to put their latest array of Barbie and Ken dolls back on top of the charts.

In the 14 odd months in between the release of their debut and this album the Arctic Monkeys changed Britain. Not in a big way, perhaps more on a par with, say, Ricky Gervais or Jonathan Ross than Tony Blair, but there has been a perceptible shift in the cultural sands. Night clubs are full of retro tracksuits, kids have grown their hair out, more people are concerned where Rotherham and Hillsborough are, rather than Soho or Camden, and - gloriously - the most popular band in the country are also the best. The icing on the cake is the fact that the Monkeys themselves seem so fantastically non-plussed by their effect. They still moan about paying £6 a pint in a trendy London night spot, they neglect to attend their own prize-winning award ceremonies, they get bored in Manhattan, the original bassist (whose name escapes me) even left the band, and with it the guarantee of becoming a millionaire, because he couldn't bear to be away from home. In fact, it is indicative that, other than singer Alex Turner, I don't even know any of their names. With all that in mind it was pretty obvious that album number two would not be an up-beat tombola of hit singles, with the same formula that propelled them to success studiously relied upon second time around. Favourite Worst Nightmare is a compact but diverse album, defiantly downbeat at times, but well-written and, above all, articulate and mature. It is a cliche but over the 14 months it sounds like the kids who wrote Whatever People Say have grown up a hell of a lot. The writing was of course on the wall with the brilliant interim EP, "Who the Fuck are the Arctic Monkeys?", being a razor-sharp dissection of the bullshit that had built up around them, climaxing with the defiant 'Bring on the backlash!'. It is generally unappealing when successful rock stars moan about being successful rock stars and given that the Monkeys were inevitably heading for a kicking, having to follow up an unfollow-up-able album, it is perhaps their greatest achievement that they managed to release not just an impressive album, but a likeable one. The reason for this is Alex Turner's uniformly superb skill as a lyricist. The anti-record industry rants are delivered with seething contempt and cynical humour and instead of asking us to sympathise with him, we're merely allowed to bask in Turner's sarcastic wit. I remember the Guardian critic described this album as mean-spirited, and it certainly is, but then so is 90% of the best contemporary comedy. Even by attempting to ditch his voice of a generation persona, by concentrating on his own experiences that exclude 99% of his fanbase, Turner has still tapped into the cultural vein that underlines our society. The second reason why this album succeeds is because it is an artist's album. Although it is less of a pop album, it is still a songwriter's album. Turner himself said that given that everyone would slag it off he might as well make the album he wanted to make. It is not Kid A, neither is it a masterpiece, but it is something you can take seriously and will hopefully remain an interesting album long after the kids have started dressing like someone else. To match the lyrics, the music is generally tougher and sharper, with lead single "Brianstorm" (a now-famous tirade against an indie scenester in Tokyo) one of the angriest and fiercest three minute pop songs you're ever likely to hear. "Do Me a Favour" is similarly wrathful, but with a gradual build up of bitterness, and "Teddy Picker" is (ahem) my pick of the bunch - a seething dismissal of the music business, full of snarling wit and contemptuous bile, swiping at the fake smiles of the record executives, the 'top 100 lists', and ending with Turner spitting out the ultimate opt-out 'who'd want to be men of the people when the people are like you?'. If Morrissey hadn't made such a big deal about being celibate (and less of a big deal about being gay) one could even regard Turner as potentially his biological son, rather than metaphorical one. This is borne out by the musically upbeat but pitying account of an ageing tart in "Fluorescent Adolescent" with Turner displaying an articulate sympathy that betrays his years. Similarly, the searing tale of adultery in "The Bad Thing" hardly seems the work of a twenty-something lad and its melodic energy is at direct odds with Turner's caustic moral contempt. It is also one of the few songs that could be a potential hit single and one doubts whether this album will have anywhere near the same cultural impact as the debut. The Monkeys' momentum might start stumbling but one suspects that was always their intention. They might finally slip from the cutting edge of the zeitgest and become simply a great band instead. The irony is the only people who don't seem to have enjoyed their cultural revolution and all pervasive impact is the band themselves.

• Return to the main page

Email me at: jackfeeny@yahoo.co.uk