Arctic Monkeys - Whatever You Say I Am That’s What I’m Not

Summer: 1995. I am 15 years old with a cassette copy of Parklife on my Panasonic personal stereo; the beginnings of a love affair with indie rock and roll stirring in my subconscious. Oasis have just declared war on Blur, Pulp would soon struggle to the surface with the wonder that was/is Different Class and Radiohead waited in the wings, world domination imminent. It was a jolly good year for British music. You could pick up any of those records, listen for five minutes and experience life though the eyes of the average British prole. Most of those records said more about the repercussions of New Labour than Tony Blair could ever manage. Brit Pop was a quintessentially British movement; young bands emanating the likes of The Jam, The Clash, The Sex Pistols and capturing politics, culture and sub-culture with a youthful yelp of nonconformist national pride.

Fast forward ten years, bypass Coldplay, Travis, Embrace and much sappy drivel which emerged in the interrim, and lo and behold, the whole process is repeating itself. Enter Arctic Monkeys, precocious darlings of the new British music scene.

Some things actually live up to the hype: The Arcade Fire, Jesus and The Office are three that spring to mind immediately. Arctic Monkeys, four lovable rogues from Sheffield came sailing onto the radar last summer, coasting on a huge wave of hype. It’s not without irony that their debut release, Whatever You Say I Am That’s What I’m Not, opens with the line, “Anticipation has the habit to set you up for disappointment.” For sure the cyncal hacks at NME stirred us up into a reverie of anticipation over the Monkeys. Record industry moguls clamoured, teenagers swapped demos on Myspace and gig tickets changed hands for stomach-churning amounts of cash. The thing is, I’ve been listening for a good few months now and I’m not disappointed yet.

I’m not disappointed because this record takes me back to my musical youth. It nods charmingly in the direction of Parklife and London Calling and all those other incredibly British records that spoke volumes about my culture. It makes me excited about the British music scene. There are kids out there in garages and high school music departments, writing prolifically, creating urgent clever songs, sung in their own words, referencing their own world, screaming at their own generation. More importantly, their generation is buying enough of these records to slam bands like the Arctic Monkeys straight to No. 1 on the first week of release. Like it or not, you cannot argue that this is a very significant record.

Much has been made of Alex Turner’s eye for social commentary. This record advocates loudly on behalf of the ASBO and hoodie generation. Turner sings about the Britain he knows. He sings about curb-crawling creeps, underage drinking, police run-ins, stroppy girlfriends and drunken punch-ups. Like a European Sprinsteen singing about their own particular “town full of losers,” the Arctic Monkeys capture the frustration of being stranded in a working class English city. In “A Certain Romance,” Turner focuses on the apathy of kids who face unemployment and smalltown futures. His tongue is razor sharp on loaded lines like “round here there’s only music so that there’s new ringtones,” as he exposes the flaws in local attitude and the Philistine factor in much of modern British culture.

However, there’s a tender element to the Arctic Monkey’s work that has won them crowd-surfing devotees up and down the country. With one hand they mock their own culture, with the other hand they heartily applaud it. For me the stand out track on this record is “Fake Tales of San Francisco,” a blinding tune with lines like, “you’re not from New York City, you’re from Rotherham.” They dismiss all the wannabe Strokes that clutter the London scene and confirm that Arctic Monkeys are quite happy to champion a very British kind of music. I first heard the breakthrough hit, “I Bet That You Look Good On The Dancefloor” whilst stuck wrong side of the Atlantic. I physically ached to dance to it because the whole song captures so concisely the familiarity of Saturday night in every British club and disco. It sounds like home in a way i can’t quite put my finger on. It makes merealise that the kids you see on every street corner in Britain are aspiring to break out. They have a unique culture, worthy of acknowledgement and perhaps even celebration.

Cultural relevance aside, I happen to like the album. It is an accomplished, mature stab at indie rock. It rages in with the throaty stomp of “View From The Afternoon’” and delivers the musical equivalent of 12 swift blows to the face, leaving you out of breath, reeling on the confident rumble of “A Certain Romance.” The whole thing bounces along with teenage exuberance, the musical equivalent of a 50 metre sprint. Listeners experience the softer side of Alex Turner with token slowish numbers, “Riot Van” and “Mardy Bum.” Even throaty and pathos-loaded, he can’t shake his cheeky chap persona and you can tell the other Monkeys are eager to rock out again. This is a young band making a young record and there’s certainly room for them to grow into their Brit rock shoes. But for now, Whatever You Say… is a refreshing blast of cultural insight and surprisingly accomplished rocking. I can and have hummed all of these tunes whilst waiting for the bus; that’s a winner in my book!

Posted on May 1, 2006 12:00 AM