Morning:
11°c
An awesome and ridiculous film that leaves you thrilled beyond the point of your natural endurance
London faces a wave of bus and Tube strikes that could cause chaos for millions of passengers as unions walkout over pay and conditions
More...
Monkeys are top of the tree
By John Aizlewood, Evening Standard Last updated at 00:00am on 27.01.06
High-flyers The Arctic Monkeys.
On Sunday, the Arctic Monkeys' debut album, Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not, will enter the British album charts at Number One. It sold an unprecedented 118,501 on its first day of release on Monday - almost 5,000 copies an hour, assuming 24-hour opening.
They have already outsold the rest of the Top 20 combined and the Sheffield quartet are on course to sell more than 350,000 copies by midnight tomorrow. It will be the fastest-selling debut album in history, easily overturning Hear'Say's record of 306,631.
It is an astonishing feat. Hear'Say's sales were propelled by their very public assembly on the Popstars reality show. Arctic Monkeys, however, are the authentic sound of the underground.
They rose without the usual stepping stones of radio, press (the NME, supposedly the clearing house for young, hip British talent, was sleeping soundly as Arctic Monkeys began to build a fanatical fan base) and major record labels. Instead, perhaps changing the way bands operate forever, they used the internet.
Based in the north Sheffield suburb of High Green, singer and guitarist Alex Turner, the son of teachers, met drummer Matthew "The Cat" Helders at Barnsley College. Despite not being able to play, the pair asked for and received instruments at Christmas 2002, before forming a band with guitarist Jamie "Cookie" Cook, who christened them Arctic Monkeys.
Later, Andy Nicholson was recruited on bass and they embarked on six months of intensive rehearsals in a warehouse in Neepsend, Sheffield's red-light district. According to Arctic Monkeys lore, dozens of songs were recorded and discarded by these brash young perfectionists, but by June 2003, they were ready for their live debut at The Grapes, a Sheffield city-centre pub. Their stark but perky pop songs, merged with Turner's droll but inescapably northern lyrics, immediately established them as a local band for local people.
In 2004, although none of the quartet could do the technical legwork, they took the momentous decision to make their demos available on the internet (chiefly www.myspace.com) and to allow downloaders to swap them freely. Suddenly, by sheer word of mouth, and, finally, interest from the outside world in the shape of Radio 1, Arctic Monkeys exploded without having released a record.
Last year, the NME finally sat up to take notice; the band released their first EP, Five Minutes with the Arctic Monkeys, limited to 1,000 physical copies and infinite download; and they signed to Domino records, home of Franz Ferdinand. When I saw them in October at a triumphant, jampacked Astoria show, twice upgraded from smaller venues, the crowd knew every word to every song. They were thrilling.
Their first official single, I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor, released the same month, sped to Number One ahead of Robbie Williams and McFly. This year began with another Number One single, When the Sun Goes Down.
Anticipation about the new album hit such a pitch, that they now stand almost beyond rational critical evaluation. As Turner recently noted: "It'll be built up to such a thing that if it doesn't cure cancer or solve inner-city poverty, it'll be a disaster."
Mostly recorded in the tiny Chapel studio in the Lincolnshire countryside last year, it is the true test of Arctic Monkeys' worth. And the hullabaloo is no exaggeration. Reassuringly, in a world of identikit pop stars, the sheer quality of Arctic Monkeys' music is the primary reason for their success. It's that simple.
From its knowing opening line "Anticipation has the habit to set you up for disappointment", to the thunderous closer, A Certain Romance, it is a fantastic record. Each of the 13 irresistible, irrepressible tracks could be a hit single. Even the titles (Perhaps Vampires is a Bit Strong But ... , From the Ritz to the Rubble, You Probably Couldn't See for the Lights But You Were Staring Straight at Me) hint at poetic greatness.
Musically, they don't so much wear their influences on their sleeves, as tuck them under their belts. With their strident, clipped guitars, cacophonous drums and short, sharp, loud songs sung in a rasp, punk is their musical bedrock; but beneath Turner's distinctive Yorkshire yelp, their palette is varied. There are suggestions of the Buzzcocks, the Gang of Four and Franz Ferdinand, but they're not derivative, they're their own men.
Turner, still not yet 20, is a sweary, keenly observant lyricist. He's part northern misanthrope, bewildered by taxi fares ("How come it's already £2.50? We've only gone about a yard"); part dry workingmen's club comedian ("Look here comes a Ford Mondeo. Isn't he Mister Inconspicuous?") and part gauche poet ("If it weren't this dark, you'd see how red my face has gone").
His cast of characters collectively form a 21st-century version of Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (the album's title is a quote taken from the film version of the Alan Sillitoe novel which detailed a weekend in a dreary northern town).
There are "Topshop princesses" or the chancer whom Turner has to remind, "You're not from New York City, you're from Rotherham". They are mostly a little dishevelled after a night out in Sheffield, but there is a strong sense of community and they mean well. Aside from the silent, beautiful women to whom Turner is too awkward to speak, they have much to say for themselves.
As for their appeal, for all their teenage exuberance, Arctic Monkeys cover all bases. They have the boundless energy and surly swagger of the young, but also the songwriting craft to ensure they cannot be dismissed as a youth-club act.
So what now? The foursome have already made sufficient money to move out of their parents' homes and for Turner to buy a Vauxhall Corsa.
Their innate discomfort with fame - they refused to promote I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor on Top of the Pops and, apparently, are dubious about playing the Brits next month - led Helders to rail against press harassment of his grandmother, but they have taken their success with good grace and Cook still plays football for his pub team. Turner is already prepared for the worst: "I'm sure it'll turn around and bite us one day."
As things stand, their debut is a precis of their career to date: a mini greatest hits of rerecorded former internet demos (only two songs are wholly new). Soon they will need new material. Exactly how will Turner's expanded new world - no longer an Everyman from Sheffield - affect his lyrics? Will there be a backlash? Possibly. But, one suspects, Arctic Monkeys will deal with it with the same shrug of the shoulders with which they greeted their initial acclaim.
Meanwhile, they will spend March touring the States. When they return to the UK, to tour as genuine stars, their mettle will be tested once more. Today belongs to them. Tomorrow may well too.
