With their third album, I’m glad that the Arctics have produced something which, certainly from the view of more mainstream critics and significant portions of their fanbase, will no doubt be received as a challenging ‘departure’. Whether this perception of Humbug actually holds any water is meaningless , the cold hard truth being that the Monkeys decision not to repeat either the grubby social realism of Whatever People Say I Am.. or the hit and miss transition of Favourite Worst Nightmare is a bold and welcome one.
As much as I loved those early songs of petty lovers tiffs, drunken taxi rides and knuckle-headed bouncers, I’d heard it all before. The Streets, The Rakes, Franz Ferdinand…the list goes on and on. Of course, what set Arctic Monkeys apart was the sheer lyrical wit and dexterity of Alex Turner’s words, and the breathless, youthful spunk of the music – the pounding drums, the whippet-like guitars, the glorious scum of four talented young upstarts unleashing their world on an awestruck and devoted listenership. Their debut performance on Jools Holland remains one of my favourite TV appearances by any band, ever.
But commercial success brings money, and money takes you away from that world which spawned those wondrous tales of chancers, prostitutes and young tykes out on the pull. In content, sound and delivery, Humbug is far removed from Whatever People Say I Am… There are echoes of Favourite Worst Nightmare, and, more importantly, the expansive pop and lyrical themes of Turner’s dalliance with Miles Kane in the Last Shadow Puppets. Moreover, this new record brims and bulges with the Californian desert in which it was mostly recorded. The addition of Josh Homme as producer is clearly significant – his work with the Queens of the Stone Age has always been a massive influence on the Monkeys. Humbug is therefore profoundly imbued with its surroundings, from the expansive guitar solo of ‘Crying Lightning’ to the muscular drums and sun-drenched harmonies of ‘Potion Approaching’.
A word of warning – to use a reviewer’s cliché, it’s a bit of a grower. In fact, one criticism is that, having heard many of these songs live on radio or the recent web transmission, the sheer verve and power that I’d expected largely fails to materialise on the LP itself, almost as though there was a wilful decision to create something purposefully layered and difficult to penetrate, like a tiny present trapped in reams of wrapping paper. There is a definite coldness to songs such as ‘Dangerous Animals’, which rewards repeated listens but lacks the rockist wall of sound that the Monkeys have assumed when playing the songs in concert. Humbug therefore needs to be approached with both patience and an open mind, for this is a pretty much hit-free affair.
Having said this, ‘Cornerstone’ provides the closest thing to a ‘Fluroscent Adolescent’ or ‘Mardy Bum’, James Ford’s production harnessing the beauty and simplicity of the song – a moment of complete effortlessness, a melody and tune so instant that it seems amazing that it hasn’t been done before.
The real glory of Humbug is to be found the lyrics, which cement Turner’s place as the best wordsmith in music by a nautical mile. Earlier this year I read an interview with Nick Cave (another key influence on the new Arctics material) in which he professed that, for him, confessional writing was a dead-end, and that it is far more interesting to explore the depths of imagination. Listening to Turner’s voice and words on Humbug, this view struck a chord. In many ways the subject matter of these songs are more personal and poignant than before – proof that a move away from songs directly addressing young, Northern life has not tainted the power of his writing. Humbug takes in everything from a lovelorn male desperate to find a mate who resembles his former flame (‘I thought I saw you in a rusty hook/huddled up in a wicker chair/I wandered over for a closer look/and kissed whoever was sitting there’), jetlagged reunions punctured by passionate caresses (‘and we feel asleep in the car/’til the bumps woke me up in your arms and the tide took me to your mouth’), and even Turner’s penis, which he labels ‘My Propellor’, urging his lover to ‘ave a spin’. The sexual hormones are more potent and dirty-minded than Favourite Worst Nightmare, with desire found in hitherto asexual items such as pick ‘n’ mix and seatbelts, so it’s comforting to know that Turner may have a career in erotic fiction if the new album doesn’t sell.
This, however, seems unlikely. For me Humbug is easily the best thing the band have produced, and the annoying thing is they’re still only 23. That the band have come this far and remain unscathed is to be admired, just as their willingness to develop their creativity should be applauded. I welcome Humbug, and not because may well serve to reduce some of the more lumpen MOR elements of their fanbase, but because it is a forward-looking record that creates its own world and invites the listener in, as well as indicating a potential for truly great things in future.
8/10
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