Arctic Monkeys Whatever People Say I Am That's What I'm Not, and the Restoration of Faith in New Music

When the Arctic Monkeys first began causing a buzz I was totally and utterly oblivious. I was buried so deep in music of the past that I had no time for emerging bands or new records, unless, of course, it was one of Paul Weller's latest offerings, or a new studio album by the likes of McCartney or Dylan. I still don't necessarily accept that this was a bad thing; there is such a wealth of fantastic music to catch up on from the last fifty years that a man might pursue the hunt for an entire lifetime and still never make the catch. I have often remarked that I feel cheated for not having been born in 1945 - to have been verging on 18 when The Beatles released Love Me Do, and to have been part of the sixties revolution. However, in hindsight it was naive for me to have totally ignored the modern day scene for so long. I'm so glad that I finally woke up and smelt the coffee. The title of this blog could not be any more accurate - the discovery of Whatever People Say I Am That's What I'm Not single-handedly restored my faith in modern day music.

At the time this record first came out (2006) I had just returned from playing cricket in Australia and was on somewhat of a health kick. Me and my mate Matt were getting out every Sunday morning on our road bikes for a forty mile hike around the surrounding country villages, and generally doing everything in our power to avoid ending up in all the pubs on the way round. Occasionally we failed miserably. On the particular morning in question I had become aware of the new phenomenon through a gang of younger mates who had jumped on the Arctic Monkeys' bandwagon. They spoke of this young Sheffield band (which encouraged me further since a part of me will always hold a special place for the city in which I studied for three years) who had used MySpace as a vehicle to launch their career and thrust them into public consciousness by the most revolutionary method. They spoke of this budding young songwriter called Alex Turner who was writing about all the current issues in the life of young adults; getting pissed, pulling birds, mood swings, police encounters, falling in love, living in a shitty city. I decided that on my way back into town I would park the bike up at Tesco, buy the album, and see what all the fuss was about. I'm really glad I did.

That afternoon, after a lengthy Radox bath, I must have listened to the record three times over. From the initial ferocity of the view from the afternoon, through to the glorious curtain call of a certain romance, I found Whatever People Say I Am That's What I'm Not absolutely spellbinding. This - in Alex Turner - was a songwriter way beyond his years. A modern day poet with plenty to say, and an extraordinary way of saying it. Lyrically it is brilliant. Musically it is raw but totally addictive. For weeks I had no way of talking about it with any sort of conviction - I just knew deep down that I loved it. I had found something brand new that had hit me like a bullet to the brain in the same way as Weller, Floyd, The Beatles and company. I was astounded and excited.

The first single - i bet you look good on the dancefloor - is a riotous and rip-roaring introduction to a vibrant new band. I loved the song so much that I instantly learnt it and introduced it into my own live sets, watching it go down a storm with people of all ages wherever I played it. This song - and in fact, this band - seemed to have mass appeal across the generations. fake tales of san francisco is a superb, catchy anthem, which is one of a handful of songs that demonstrates Turner's ingenious, contemporary lyrical ability: "there's a super cool band yeah with their trilbies and their glasses of white wine/and all the weekend rock stars are in the toilets practicing their lines." Outstanding. dancing shoes is tense and unnerving, but such a good representation of what happens post-midnight in the night-club. you probably couldn't see me for the lights but you were staring straight at me divulges similar themes, though, in the same way as its unnaturally long title, is musically and lyrically subversive. still take you home is a cunning and quirky foot-tapper in which Turner's humour pours through: "I'm strugglin', I can't see through your fake-tan/Yeah you know it for a fact that everbody's eating out of your hands." In short, it is a social comment on the male psyche; once the beer goggles are on there is no stopping us saying fuck it and taking the bird home anyway.

riot van is just a lovely, whimsical gem. It tells the story of underage drinking - which happens on every street corner throughout the country every night of the week. Turner finds a stunning, mellow arrangement in which to deliver his short story with masterful conviction. The following three songs - red light indicates doors are secured, mardy bum, and perhaps vampires is a bit strong provides the unsung highlight of the entire record. "Remember cuddles in the kitchen to get things off the ground..." Well, Alex, the answer is yes we do - we all remember that time in our life when that happened. That is the beauty of this entire record. It seems to document, in a roundabout way, all of our youths.

when the sun goes down - one of the band's live highlights - is one of those records that cannot help but make you sit up and listen. The resulting DVD, Scummy Man, is based on the horror story described in this incredibly cutting and powerful song, and documents it quite brilliantly. The album, for me, could have happily ended there and I'd have still been rapped. The fact that we get from the ritz to the rubble - a hilarious but such a true depiction of what happens in every night-club queue on the planet - is a genuine bonus. The magnificent concluding track, a certain romance, was the cherry on the top for me when I first heard this album. Just when you think it can't possibly get any better, these young lads from Sheffield deliver a bombshell like this. Absolutely incredible. "Well though they might wear Classic Reeboks/Or knackered Converse, or tracky bottoms tucked in socks/well all of that is what the point is not/the point is that there aint no romance around there." What on earth do you say about that?

I've suffered for my love of this record, it has got to be noted. I got absolutely drowned at the Leeds festival in 2006 to see the Arctics perform their debut festival, only to sit in a taxi for four hours half naked afterwards with my freezing clothes in a pile beside me for the priveledge of travelling just four miles back into town. The only saving grace was when some coke-head hi-jacked the spare seat, forgot that it flipped back up, went to sit down and knocked himself clean out. In 2007 I saw the boys perform twice - once at Lancashire Cricket Ground, supported by Amy Winehouse, The Coral, Supergrass, and a fabulous Japanese Beatles tribute band called The Parrots. I got blind drunk and mixed it with the teenagers all day long, but paid for it with one mother of a hangover that lasted nearly a week. Then came Glastonbury - a torrid experience in flash floods and six inches of impossible rain - but yes, I was on the front row to see their triumphant Friday night set. And then to their live DVD performance in 2008 at Manchester's Apollo Theatre. Again, I was there, though in more civilised fashion this time sat at the front of the gallery with my mad mate Glenn, who kept half an eye on the stage, and half an eye on the violent mosh-pit erupting beneath us. He loves the Arctics because he's a big kid. He would, several years back, have been happy to trade elbows with the best of them I'm sure, but in his old age has grown (a tiny bit) more sensible.

So, there we go. A shock for all of us that I could like something so much post 1970, but true enough indeed. I've not been overawed by the band's two follow up albums if I'm totally honest (favourite Worst Nightmare, 2007, and Humbug, 2009), but that's not really the issue here. The Arctics created a monster, and they did it all their own way. Their debut record is a masterpiece that will be talked about in generations to come. Put it this way, if I live until I'm eighty I'd like to think that I'll still enjoy pulling Whatever People Say I Am That's What I'm Not from its cardboard sleeve and slipping it on after my forty miles on the bike. . . . .