It was only about two months after the United States release of its debut album that Arctic Monkeys released the update EP “Who the Fuck are Arctic Monkeys?”—a sort of postcard from the front lines of international pop success.
Its main purpose seemed to be the delivery of the title track, the EP’s one major musical or lyrical statement. The thrilling multi-section song hinted that the band would adopt some Clash-style reggae pop punk. Mainly, though, it was a sort of email from backstage on the band’s first headlining tour. “I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed,” frontman and lyricist Alex Turner sang, warning that “your heroes are not what they seem when you’ve been where we’ve been.”
Recognizing the fleeting nature of buzz-propelled success, he even taunted the scene to “bring on the backlash.” (This lyric is absent from the lyric page on the band’s Web site, curiously.)
The success of “Whatever People Say, That’s What I’m Not” was not unearned or due to buzz. It is a kickass rock and roll album, stuffed with riffs and propelled at a dance-rock pace while never fully committing to that subgenre. And, of course, there were the lyrics—slice of life scenes from the Northern pub-and-club world, chasing unwinnable birds and getting kicked out of taxis for bringing food.
So comes “Favourite Worst Nightmare” (Domino), the follow-up LP. Perhaps it’s unfair to be unsatisfied that it sounds like “Whatever People Say…” part two. “Riot Van” is traded for “Only Ones Who Know,” “Mardy Bum” for “Fluorescent Adolescent.”
The band has never played endearing slop-rock—their combustible sound owes everything to its airtight execution. On the new album, the interplay of lead guitarist Turner and rhythm guitarist Jamie Cook is as appealing as ever. The rhythm section (bassist Andy Nicholson and drummer Matt Helders) was one of the secret weapons of the debut album, so we listen to the work of new bassist Nick O’Malley with interest and detect little change in the sound.
The lyrics are still self-referential in a fly-on-the-wall way that sounds earnest. “When did your list replace the twist?” Turner sings, apparently making a half-formed reference to the infamous NME declaration that the band’s first album was the fifth best British album of all time. When the complaint moves to the warning “don’t be surprised when you get bent over,” one quite reasonably wonders why this wildly successful band seems to think it has it so bad.
The insecure scene-sneering that covered the band’s debut was all softened by the closing lines of the album, when Turner finally admitted in “A Certain Romance” that his own friends act exactly like the chav rabble he’s been slagging and so he “just cannot get angry in the same way.”
This time around, though, there’s no truce with the Other; the poorly tasting pieces of the scene are still all here, and this time lead to unsoftened disaffection. “This House is a Circus” could be about a packed house party or a club show, but in either case is full of ennui as Turner admits that the perks of fame leave him feeling worse than before:
“The more you open your mouth
The more you're forcing performance
All the attention is leading me to feel important
Completely obnoxious
Now that we're here, we may as well go too far”
The chorus confirms something more than a bad night—a good old-fashioned existential crisis. “And we’re forever unfulfilled, can’t think why,” Turner sings, “Like a search for murder clues in a dead man’s eyes.”
Good thing they didn’t win a Grammy--Turner may have had to commit suicide.
Though Turner spit many a sneer on his band’s debut—at the hipster club scene, music industry sycophants, navel-baring, painted maypoles he wanted to take home but grumbled insults at instead—it came from a band of 19 year-olds who still lived at home with their Mums. Coming from their current perch, the unrelenting bitterness is less attractive.
There is no offhandedly brilliant summation like “Who the Fuck..” or “A Certain Romance.” This time, the album closes on a randy, downtempo daydream, with Turner’s forehead perhaps pressed against an airplane window. Now our hero doesn’t have to worry about getting kicked out of cabs.
If he can move beyond a rather adolescent fixation on “phonies” and dwell upon more personal (and less sarcastic) themes, the subtle confession of “A Certain Romance” will prove to be more than a red herring.
Until then, the sound is still completely winning, and one shouldn’t be too hard on a band for pulling the same great trick twice.
