CityLife

Arctic Monkeys

Arctic Monkeys

Arctic Monkeys
MEN Arena
November 21, 2009

PERHAPS it’s the rawness of the Morrissey incident over in Liverpool, when he walked off after a punter chucked a plastic glass at his head, that makes the volume of missiles floating around the MEN Arena such a disturbing sight.

But, resolutely refusing to learn the lessons of their neighbours, the Arctic Monkeys crowd hurl pint glasses into the air, emptying their contents on the crowd beneath as they fly, while the ticket holders in the tiers rain down a constant shower of paper planes.

And yet, as much as Arctics frontman Alex Turner moves ever closer to actually becoming Morrissey with every album, there’s little chance of him walking off because of fans chucking glasses.

Shrouding the set is a thick velvet curtain, one which draws back slowly with the dreamy opening twangs of Dance Little Liar, the faces of the newly hirsute Arctics finally emerging from the billowing dry ice.

A fine example of the stranger direction on the band’s third album Humbug, Dance Little Liar proves the Arctics are adopting an uncompromising game plan. That its shuffling beats should explode into the car chase rhythms of Brianstorm, skip into the shimmy of This House Is A Circus or leap into the romp of Still Take You Home is playfully arch – the musical equivalent of Alex Turner sticking his tongue out to those who say the band’s three albums don’t stack up together.

Charismatic

“Who’s seen the Arctic Monkeys before?” asks Turner to a deafening response before dedicating I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor to the half dozen or so that haven’t.

But there’s another subtext lurking. Since exploding as an internet sensation in 2005, Manchester has witnessed their staggering ascent via sets at Manchester Central and Old Trafford cricket ground. Crucially, though, they’ve matched that rising profile with prowess.

Turner’s stage banter still needs work – although his quietness is charmingly charismatic – but in every other way the Arctics have become a big-time band par excellence. 

Turner and lead guitarist Jamie Cook execute the group’s distinctive riffs with faultless flair, Nick O’Malley was the last Monkey in but he’s a bassist who always looms large, and Matt Helders powers his way through the drumming.

This is an indie band from Sheffield, so no one’s expecting pyrotechnics. But the fans get stadium-sized showmanship in the shape of ticker-tape cannons during Secret Door, and the subtle, arty big screens are an interesting compromise to the usual arena TVs.

Showmanship, though, doesn’t come more intuitive than on the encore medley – the segueing of a solo rendition of Mardy Bum into Fluorescent Adolescent. Arenas might be the Arctics’ only option these days, but they’re more than capable of living up to that billing.