Arctic Monkeys Live Show Reviewed
For a moment during the Arctic Monkeys final live performance of 2009, perhaps even a micro-fraction of a moment, I was fully sold and convinced the lads from Sheffield were the world’s biggest rock stars. Listening to all three of their distinctive records, I can believe it, but up until this point each of their Montreal shows were listless and provided conclusive proof there were in fact teenaged Britons hidden behind their shiny Brit-pop armour.
So what made this gig, in support of the supremely underrated and mature Humbug, that much different from the generational zeitgeist that followed them to the late Spectrum in 2006? Or the alcohol-free daycare snoozer a year later at Olympia? Or a deuce of Osheaga sets? Well, like any good rock band in the proper British tradition, the Arctics have been taught to stand there and re-enact, occasionally pacing around with Gallagherian/Brownian swagger to denote old school, “I Am The Ressurection”-style attitude. Their early shows suffered as the hyperactivity of the material prevented them from even taking a swig of beer in-between songs, but conversely that was a major part of their youthful charm they played fast and they played infallibly. Top marks for not trying, if you will.
Anyway, the aforementioned Arctic Monkeys eureka moment happened not as they were hammering out crowd pleasers “Brianstorm” and “I Bet That You Look Good On The Dancefloor” with the type of blinding speed that would have you assuming the stage smoke was emanating from their melting hands. It was during the southwestern-flavoured Humbug openers “My Propeller” and “Crying Lightning,” both of which make up for their lack of flash with steady build-ups and intricate layering. They might seem like stoner rock downers on the Josh Homme-produced record, but on stage, the lugubrious, ominous “coax me out my loves” from the former ticked like an imminent time bomb set to go off, and frontman Alex Turner didn’t disappoint when the time came to whip the crowd into a frenzy, over-annunciating every “propeller” like a skeevy cowboy who’d spent too much time in the cactus patch. Humbug is twisted, horny and less about the big hook than the murk in-between it. Turner got most of the credit, but Jamie Cook stole the show on “Lightning,” with every piercing guitar twang cutting through the dusty musical desert.