Arctic Monkeys – review

MEN Arena, Manchester

Heartbreak does funny things to people. When the news emerged last summer that Arctic Monkeys' Alex Turner and TV presenter Alexa Chung had split up, the indie nation mourned the loss of its articulate and photogenic It-couple. That dismay deepened with the news last month that indie rock's most totemic partnership, Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore of Sonic Youth, was dissolving after nearly 30 years, 17-odd albums and one child together. Never mind the southern European economies stage-diving into the abyss – all that was really solid has been melting into air.

After a plea for privacy, Alex Turner did his hair. He did it in a way that a fashionista girlfriend would never allow. He turned his back on the nicely turned-out 60s mod aesthetic that the Monkeys absorbed from Oasis, and became a rocker. Tonight, three quarters of Arctic Monkeys walk onstage with variants on quiffs. Turbo-drummer Matt Helders has a fierce buzz-cut rising to a peak at the front; likewise guitarist Jamie Cook, whose tight leather jacket channels Kenickie in Grease.

Turner's bouffant quiff has been much mocked since its debut in August. But onstage, on the fourth night of the Arctics' arena tour, it makes a great deal more sense. When Turner leaps dramatically off the drum riser, guitar cocked like a semi-automatic for "I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor", he nods so hard to Joe Strummer that the quiff itself almost melts into air. The rest of the time, beige lighting renders the band as the hip young combo of an early 60s pop programme, with Turner modelling Hamburg-era John Lennon.

Just when you think you can't wring another metaphor from it, Turner's hair evolves yet again – into lovelorn Roy Orbison – as the gentler songs from the Arctics' latest album, Suck It and See, start to flow. Fellow Sheffield crooner Richard Hawley must be wondering who ate all the pomade.

In all likelihood, people will never stop carping that the Arctics' more considered latter-day material isn't as sublime as their break-neck early stuff. But the cheer that greets "She's Thunderstorms" – a very pretty love song from Suck It – is lusty. There is none of the shrugging that usually greets a band's youngest material. Even "Evil Twin" – the Arctics' latest song, one whose amusing video features drummer Helders as a babe magnet – goes down very well. "Black Treacle" – another burnished cut from Suck It – manifests some precision guitar from Cook and Turner.

Everyone here has clearly been listening, even if they haven't all been buying. Despite deposing Lady Gaga from the pointy bit of the chart on release in mid-June, the critically fawned-over Suck It hasn't exactly sold like gobstoppers when you compare it with Arctic Monkeys' debut. Suck It is approaching platinum – that's 300,000 – against their debut's 1.3m and counting. Even allowing for the notion that guitar music is in the doldrums (a notion that, say, Kasabian's or Muse's stats might disprove), those numbers are a bit lacklustre. Contemporary pop calculations suggest it's no calamity, however. Recorded music sales now often come second to tickets, and there are very few empty seats tonight.

The big spaces have often been unfair to the Arctics, a band too cool for cliches. Their performances at festivals have rarely been trumpeted as triumphs. Last summer's Don Valley Bowl shows, in which the Monkeys played to 10,000 fans per night, seem to have proved a turning point however.

They are close to sensational tonight, racking up 21 songs without a real lull. The old songs seem even faster and harder than memory serves. A thunderous "Brianstorm" really ought to land Helders in the first aid tent with dislocated elbows; instead he blithely sings "Brick by Brick", and pile-drives his way through "Pretty Visitors", a great cut from their moody third album, Humbug.

Breaks between songs are few, unless you count some swift guitar-swaps and Turner combing his locks. There are, instead, delicious false endings, pregnant pauses and psychedelics, with the addition of tech John Ashton on organ.

With his new disguise, Turner has made peace with the art of hamming it up. He gabs away like a ringmaster, twirls around at the end of "Teddy Picker", catches Helders's drumstick at the end of "The View from the Afternoon" and whips the crowd into bigger cheers. The word "Manchester" is nearly worn out with overuse. The band? Officially, "mad for it". You even would have forgiven Turner if he'd introduced "Mardy Bum" – a huge singalong – as the Arctic Monkeys' own "Wonderwall" – which, after a fashion, it is. If this is what a quiff can do for a band, let the hair products be unconfined.

Contributor

Kitty Empire

The GuardianTramp

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