It's Cold Out There for an Arctic Monkey-

"The proof that love's not only blind but deaf."

I recall the curious affair of the Arctic Monkeys, three or four years ago. There they were, if you believed cross-Atlantic hipsters: the most beloved, groundbreaking, influential, rock-saving band of its generation. Then it was back-lash time, and they were the most reviled and ridiculed wannabes imaginable. Oh, and then there was the anti-back-lash-double-back-lash, and they were beloved underdogs again, comeback kids barking in their DIY fervor.
True, no one had even HEARD their FIRST ALBUM, but don't quibble with love!

Three albums in, and no one much cares outside of the devoted in Sheffield, England, but it's all a pity, because the Arctic Monkeys are the real thing- once you modulate your expectations and take them for the eager, limited-world-view rockers they are. The formula is effective: Nirvana-like riffing smothered on post-Strokes affectations, and vocalist Alex Turner's tales of- well, hooking up in the dancefloor, or going for a (British) fag in the back alley. This is a band that has spent so much time immersed in cockney-club-land that they have nothing else to document with authenticity, but Turner has a way with words in "Whatever People Say I Am (That's What I'm Not)" and "Favourite Worst Nightmare" that tricks you into ignoring the repetitious insularity of the songs. "Humbug", their new album, steps a little differently, but we'll get there.

"WPSIATWIN" has indeed become a classic of its type: check out tracks like "When the Sun Goes Down", (an indignant take on "Roxanne"'s condescending nature); "I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor" (with its Duran-Duran come-on to remind you that, after all, one DOES start a rock band to get laid); and "Fake Tales of San Francisco" (another shining example of getting all your life wisdom from fighting with ego-tripping bouncers).


More muscular than its predecessor and less single-happy, "Favourite Worst Nightmare" was bound to be the moment where the masses tuned out and the fans felt confirmed. The songs still smell like cigarrete clouds and unfortunately spilled beers, but Turner's wordcraft vaccilates between too sped-up and too slowed-down and too strained, like he's been studying Elvis Costello and coming out with the wrong lessons: ("your rendezvous rate/means you'll never be frightened to make them wait"? That sounds like trying.) It's never too annoying though, and the best moments match (if not surpass) the debut's. Check out "Fluorescent Adolescent"- (which manages to make a rhyme between "rascal" and "Tabasco" charming.).


Largely produced by Queens Of The Stone Ages' Josh Homme, "Humbug" is a more moderate affair: the Monkeys got the critics off their backs and aren't embarrassed to embrace their inner Beatles... I'm sorry, I meant their inner Oasis. But not in the anthemic or psychedelic way, (that would be something!): It's more like: "does anyone know how to play the organ? Then they'll say we 'expanded' our sound!" "Humbug" is dark, disappointed, and, as its title suggests, of an almost Scroogeian nature. It's hard to tell if they want us to take them seriously, or if they've unfortunately BECOME serious- and seriousness is for the most part a divorce from the dancefloor. And Turner, who started as a colloquial story-teller and moved on to a Thesaurus devotee is here- he thinks- a poet. Moments like:
"I was biting the time zone, and we embellish the banks of our bloodstreams,
and threw caution to the colourful" are not bad, but when you consider that once the band had you shouting this chorus: "Yeah, I said, what do you know? /Oh you don't know nothing, no!/But I'll still take you home/ Yeah, I'll still take you home" it can't be denied that there's a change in aesthetic. It's dumb to gripe about a group changing sound for the BETTER, but "Humbug" is a sideways crawl that doesn't improve on their past- although it doesn't turn you off from their future.
There's stand-out tracks: (do you hear the Nick Cave in "Crying Lightning"? They
also cover "Red Right Hand" as a bonus track.)

And there's the Beatles (again, I mean Oasis), with a turn for the melodic in "Cornerstone" ( "I elongated my lift home"!) and "Secret Door", which sound pretty but still manage to turn the Nirvana-snark on their fans- and themselves: "Fools on parade conduct a sing-along..." (but they don't know what it means?)