O2, Dublin
The rise of Sheffield band Arctic Monkeys from MySpace ingènues to younger statesmen of sturdy rock music has been one of the least surprising pop-cultural events of the past five years. Factor in terrific riff-laden music, likely lads’ larks and provincial British kitchen-sink concerns as seen through the wry mind and intellect of lyricist and singer Alex Turner, and it’s no wonder they’re so successful. They epitomise a smart-mindedness, verbal dexterity and musical alacrity that the likes of oik rock acts Oasis and Kasabian can only dream of.
So, three years on from their debut album, Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not (a reference to a Britain of a different era, courtesy of the 1960s film, Saturday Night and Sunday Morning), they remain an important band. The edges of their early days have been smoothed out but not worn down, helped to a large degree by a collective mindset that sees little problem in deviating from the norm. Certainly, the noise at the O2 was a ferocious reminder of a band that is nowhere near the end of their second chapter. Now able to spread out three albums’ worth of songs across 90 minutes, where once their sets consisted of the first album and a few songs played twice, now the pacing of the show is less frenetic and, inevitably, far more assured and persuasive.
There is little in the way of bravado. Expense has been spared in the areas of lighting, backdrops and production values, making this show one of the least visually bombastic the O2 has staged since it opened. Similarly, frontman Alex Turner is as charismatic as a sandbag, while the other band members effortlessly retain their anonymity.
No matter – what the gig lacks in bright lights, grandstanding and bluster, it makes up for with rock music that ranges from the potent (I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor, Brianstorm, This House is a Circus, Crying Lightning) to the downright subtle (Cornerstone) and witty (My Propeller). Best British band of the past five years? By a mile.
