Kevin Bronson on October 6th, 2013

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[Guest contributor Nina Bhadreshwar gives us a U.K. perspective on Arctic Monkeys’ show Tuesday at the Wiltern:]

By Nina Bhadreshwar

It’s the last of their California dates at the Wiltern Theatre, a venue much the same size and layout as Manchester’s Apollo only with a giant balcony. Tonight it’s full of young teenagers of every hue and style and loads of over-forties. During the concert, petite polite waitresses carrying neon wired trays bob about like futuristic fairies getting drinks orders so no one loses their spot. Behind me, a crowd of Korean gentlemen are raving about the Arctic Monkeys. But the support bands have their own fans here too. L.A. rockers the Black Tibetans open with T. Rex-inspired, straight-up black-leathered rock ’n’ roll, and then Queens of the Stone Age’s Matt Shuman’s four-year-old trio Mini Mansions take over, his cymbal taking center stage rather than the bass guitar, packing Bowie/Fountains of Wayne-esque songs in cathedral capsules.

• ||| Photos by Kessia Embry

As the lights dim, a polite round of applause starts up (this is L.A. – people are way too cool to go crazy without serious provocation). An electronic hum starts up as the newly suited and booted Arctic Monkeys come on stage. This is their Vegas: The
neon lights of a giant AM flash on behind them and we are in strobe city for two full songs, phones in the air. The thump of the bass starts as Alex Turner punches the air. Disoriented, we are shoved into the heavy siren riffs of drawcard “Do I Wanna Know.”  It’s Tommy James/Drake meets T. Rex/Led Zeppelin, and it’s as fresh, fun and disarming as their first album was.

Guitars are swapped and the irrepressible red roar of “Brianstorm” starts up, seamless and fierce Aston Fiskar-style. There’s nowt doing no more wi the mean indie boys and the over-worked Sheff accents. Now they are in their element: The Arctic Monkeys’ world, the vision they created in the desert without the crumby definitions of musos and sociologists. Slick-sexy-suits-you-sir. Turner’s Sheff tones meet a Western drawl and new-found stage persona – I can’t work out how tongue-in-cheek it is, but it’s real. Still, 0114 (Sheffield’s dialing code) is still declared loudly and proudly on the drums. They know where they’re from but do we know where they’re at?

“How you doing, LA? We’re the Arctic Monkeys, from Sheffield – not London. Are you feeling good? If you’ve not put them on already, now’s the time to ”¦ ”˜Put On Your Dancing Shoes,’” Turner says. He’s straight in. My friends are amazed and the moshpit and crowd-surfing that follows. “This doesn’t happen in L.A.” Well, tonight it does and the band are totally loving the ruin of it all, Turner posing like a sci-fi Elvis for the line “You sexy little swine.” Jamie Cook – here’s the theatrics. Let’s go. No more cardboard cut-out cool.

Next comes “Don’t Sit Down As I’ve Moved Your Chair.” “Teddy Picker” and “Crying Lightning” crank up the energy still further with more crowd surfing, broken phones, sprained wrists, folk being marched out by ginormous security who otherwise nod and move to the music.

Broken hand notwithstanding, Matt Helders flawlessly thrashes out his drum riffs, and the other three genuinely look like they are having the time of their lives. I’ve been to several Monkeys gigs but it’s always been one song after another with maybe a monosyllable from Mr. Turner if you’re lucky.

“Thank you very much,” he says. “You’re very kind. We put out a new LP the other day, folks. Did anybody like it?” I guess the roar answers that.

This is a Sheffield/Los Angeles version of Elvis before us – all that Jarvis Cocker could almost but never be, pointy fingers and hip thrusting to “Snap Out of It” and “Reckless Serenade.”

“I suppose you want me to sing about wet weather ”¦ Well, here’s a song about bricks instead,” Turner says. “Old fucking yellow ones.”

On Helder’s stomp, the whole floor shakes Monkey Richter style as the crowd owns it.

“Who wants to sleep in the city that never wakes up, blinded by nostalgia?” may be prescient of their relocation to the wild west. There’s lots of weird jangly stuff and chord synching before the rushes of the sultry chords, two hands smoothing the quiff.

“Why Do You Only Call Me When You’re High?” starts with a beat more at home with L.A.’s ’90s G funk. This, plus the addition of falsettos and harmonies, makes this a driveable, rideable, bumpable, fuckable tune well-fitted to L.A. as the hysterical screams testify.

“And I want to tell you about a girl called Arabella”: No guitar – just Turner and a mic, a homage to the Cali model/actress girlfriend who may have turned out the more confident Alex, this real live, snake-hipped showman. There was always latent charisma but this is performance poetry and Turner is loving every minute. After the bridge, he picks up the guitar and rips up the remainder of the song with Cook.

Josh Homme’s vision was bang on: the melding of riff-focused, genuine heavy rock with the band’s suave artistry for pure pop and Turner’s precise lyrical dissection of what matters to people has finally hit home with the Monkeys’ most definitive creation to date. The unlikely union of the rough and rigorous with the sweet and seductive has harnessed the real horsepower of the Monkeys, and Turner is riding it like rodeo. No more defensive Yorkshire snarls and surly muteness between songs; now he’s combing his quiff, flirting like fuck, punching the air, shirt opened to the navel, swiveling hips, mics and not a few girls’ heads from the screams around me.

“There’s a couple of boys not joining in with the arm moving. Always a couple of boys at the back,” he declares in a mock teacher voice. “I’d like to dedicate this song to their girlfriends.”

“I Bet you Look Good on the Dance Floor” cracks in. The band are totally enjoying the ruin of fame and L.A. has never had so much fun. Forget arms – legs are in the air.

Then the acoustic comes out.

“Thank you. You’re too kind. A slow one,” Turner says. He plays three chords. “Have to mop me brow first.” The winsome “Cornerstone” starts, showing how much the audience are totally enthralled, swaying to this and then “Number 1 Party Anthem” – a bit like the last songs at a futuristic Working Man’s Club, warm, surreal and fuzzy. Even “Fluorescent Adolescent” gets the AM makeover: not the fierce, feral indie anthem of four years ago but now an altogether more suave affair.

Turner’s arms go up: “We’re just playing here forever. Unfortunately that’s not the truth. The time has come for us to leave you, folks. You’ve been a wonderful bunch. Thank you for having us. Have you enjoyed yourselves?”

The beeping of synthesizers and futuristic beats start up for “Knee Socks” with a falsetto and presence provided by Josh Homme himself. L.A. goes crazy. My ears are bleeding. The band exit but we wait on and they return for three more songs.

“Do you think you’ve got a couple of bars left on your phone?”

“One For the Road” starts with Nick O’ Malley vocals, followed by the thunder of “Do Me A Favour.”

“Thank you very much , everybody,” Turner says. “I’m so sad this has come to a close. Have you enjoyed yourself? It’s been an absolute pleasure. I know you think I say this to all the crowds, but I am yours. The question is: ‘R u Mine?'” And mayhem. Turner kicks the pedal at last, out with the earplugs, blows kisses.

That’s it. Arctic Monkeys riding the Wild West like they own it, recreating the landscape. These guys haven’t just landed; they’ve appropriated.

Nina Bhadreshwar writes for the U.K.’s ClashMusic.com.