(U-WIRE) UNIVERSITY PARK, Pa. – At the ripe old age of 19, Alex Turner is at the center of the most promising thing to emerge in rock music in a long, long time. Turner and his regrettably named band, Arctic Monkeys, released their debut album in their native Britain last month, and it’s speaking to people; its first-week sales bested those of any other debut in UK history.
But Turner’s music isn’t just chart fodder, and with all requisite props to my girl Kelly Clarkson, Turner’s not some “Pop Idol” cast-off. The Monkeys’ debut, Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not, is a revelation; no mere warning shot, it’s a fully realized rock ‘n’ roll explosion.
Stripping the fat from the day’s ubiquitous sonic trend (dance-punk, for those of you keeping score at home) and matching what’s left with melodies heretofore unimagined in even the cream of the burgeoning genre’s crop, all the while shouting something vital about being young and alive in the first part of this brand-new millennium, Turner and his Monkeys have arrived in a shockingly big way.
Whatever People Say I Am is, put simply, a phenomenal record. When you account for Turner’s wunderkind status and the otherwise dismal state of popular rock music, its greatness goes from impressive to shocking. And, untested though its creators may be, the self-assured, thoroughly satisfying Whatever People Say I Am will best virtually every rock record you’ll hear anytime soon.
Turner pens a baker’s dozen pitch-perfect tales of youthful isolation and boredom, cynical in wit and expansive in scope. “A Certain Romance” laments the superficiality in modern rock fandom, equating rock shows with catwalks and dismissing new music as mere fodder for cell phone jingles. Turner details the pain of holding up the wall through yet another lackluster act in “Fake Tales of San Francisco,” but still finds time to revel in a 3 a.m. run-in with the fuzz in “Riot Van.”
His ruminations on the politics of dancing and the malaise of a fresh century gone awry are every bit the equal of contemporary lyrical kingpins like The Hold Steady’s Craig Finn, The Mountain Goats’ John Darnielle, and Kanye’s greatest hits. If you like it when words meet music, you’ll be in awe of Turner.
All the while, these Monkeys, tight as a hospital gurney but never surgical, pound out riff after riff pointy enough for Hellraiser. But unlike dance-punk’s current king Franz Ferdinand’s unerring dedication to the preservation of the motion of hips, the Monkeys isn’t afraid to write a for-real pop song. Its is the kind of hooks that belie trends and hint at the kind of staying power that the young fresh fellows so desperately deserve. It’s one thing to sell a billion records in a week; it’s something entirely more jaw-loosening to make an album as catchy and substantive and just plain good as “Whatever People Say I Am.”
I’m pleased as punch to be able to say it again: Arctic Monkeys has made a raucous, brainy, delightful rock ‘n’ roll album right out of the gate, and the world finally has a new band to rally behind. You can bet the backlash against the Monkeys will commence sometime soon. I guess some people just don’t care for perfectly executed, intelligent, hooky music. Those people are missing out.
