Album Reviews

Well, is the uber-buzz justified? Fastest-selling debut album; Greatest band since the Beatles, number 287 in a series (collect ‘em all)?

Not quite. But this is a terrific album, especially considering that the Monkeys are like 17 years old or something. Holy Mozart, Batman!

I hear occasional flashes of the Libertines and (particularly in the lead vocals) the Buzzcocks, but these guys are pretty original and very exciting, and they grow on you. Not quite as accessible and hooky as the two aforementioned bands, Arctic Monkeys’ music might just have more staying power. I know I liked it better on second listen than on first, and on fourth than on third. For example, their funk efforts aren’t very funky at all, which irritated me at first (if you’re going to attempt something, do it well, right?). But it actually works fine for them. Doesn’t groove within miles of the Brothers Johnson, but the lyrics are more interesting!

Which leads to a broader point. I thought at first that on the funky and the punky stuff, this band suffered from rhythmsectionorrhea, a fairly common rock band disease (see the early Chili Peppers, and more recently the overrated Killers, among many others) which causes the bassist and drummer to unneccessarily and counterproductively “prove” that they’re important too, darn it, and look how many notes they can play. You can definitely hear some of that from the word go here, on Track 1, “The View From the Afternoon;” drummer Matthew Helder’s cymbals must be screaming for mercy, and I don’t mean that as a compliment. That nonstop high-hat was exciting for about five minutes in the “Saturday Night Fever” era, and that’s about the last time it worked well. But a great left-right rhythm guitar break less than a minute in saves this song; and as my barista countered my complaints the other morning, “hey, they’re young.” It does indeed come across more as badass fire and exuberance than bad-attitude showoffery; and, even more important, Alex Turner’s dominant voice and excellent lyrics prevent the rhythmatists from running away with the show… as do the good guitars, which employ delightfully and surprisingly-varied tones for such a young band: from the raw crunch of “Perhaps Vampires Is a Bit Strong But,” to the clean cutting leadwork of “Mardy Bum.” Sheer talent, or an excellent producer? Sounds like probably both. On “Vampires,” producers Abbiss and Smythe even Strokesishly distort Turner’s vocals without it sounding like a pointless gimmick, before flirting with garage-psych in a raveup led by nightmare bass midway through. The sound is pretty fat and punchy, rather analogish for a modern rock record – nice.

Track 2, “I Bet You Look Good On the Dancefloor,” has been some sort of hit over here for a few months before the album was released (enormous in Britain and elsewhere for a while, like the rest of the album). Great punchy rocker, all about Alex’s vocal presence: the Libertines (or the Smiths, whose lyrical wit comes to mind) would’ve demanded more musical hooks from themselves, but the Monkeys know that garage piss and vinegar plus a good front man are sometimes enough, a la Ramones and various garage geniuses of all eras (and I almost spelled it “Monkees” above, which somehow seems appropriate!).

Anyway, there are hooks aplenty on the very next track, “Fake Tales of San Francisco,” where they really put it all together: great chanting vocals, excellent dynamics on the choppy little Brit-reggae breaks, and the best bass on the whole album, full of snakey ropey climbs and falls that take you up and down and all around. Bassist Andy Nicholson continues to excel on track 4, “Dancing Shoes” (dig their “dance” lyrical motif: commendably un-shoegazerish), where they start off supercrunchy, then go to the funk that used to annoy me but is actually a nice change of pace: these guys really are rather virtuosic, and better yet, they’re virtuosic AS A GROUP, not so much solo—all in service of the song, as a valid musician’s cliché states. And how about this line: “Put on your dancing shoes… you sexy little SWIIIIIINE!” What would your reply be?

Speaking of versatility, “You Probably Couldn’t See For the Lights But You Were Staring Straight At Me” starts off so fast and with such charmingly wimpy-clean guitar that I thought for a minute someone had slipped in a Feelies or They Might Be Giants CD! But those guys never played and sang with so much sweat and phlegm flying as this. (More Sheffield vocal delight: “The expressions on their STYOOOPID faces!”)

Track 7, “Riot Van,” is a beautiful weary ballad in a Velvet Underground mode (speaking of weary, a rather tired comparison, but it really does apply here: one hears the third VU album or perhaps “the Ocean,” all very good things). Then they bounce into the monster-movie funk of “Red Light Indicates Doors Are Secured,” with some of the album’s best rhythm guitar – scratchy, insistent and just right.

The closer, “A Certain Romance,” is the longest song at 5:31 – most of the songs are short-- but the boys hold our interest easily on this one by pulling out all the tempo-change stops they do so well. While the term “opus” seems better reserved for such somber novelettes as “Three Days” or “Midnight Rambler,” this Opus Junior moves merrily from opening supercrunch, through some very pretty clean solo guitar, on into a bouncy, semi-reggae groove Weezer would kill for, the latter served up with more excellent bass. I take back all the semi-nasty things I said about the rhythm section above. They rock.

Summing up, this album sounds like it was born, not pumped out of a machine. The sound has a human warmth, the record’s pacing an organic unity. It’s just raw enough, just streamlined (not polished!) enough. And best of all, the band have an indefinable something that suggests they’re capable of challenging themselves and putting out good stuff for a while. I don’t say that often. Of course, some tragically-hip Brits are already saying the Arctic Monkeys have Lost Something in the six-odd months since this record came out, giving very mixed reviews to a new EP, “Who the F— Are Arctic Monkeys.” I haven’t heard it yet. We’ll see.