Review, Arctic Monkeys at Stubb's
On Wednesday evening, I went to Stubb's Barbecue here in Austin for 101X's (the local alternative station) first birthday concert series. The headliner was Britain's own much-hyped Arctic Monkeys, with a supporting act of my personal favorite, We Are Scientists.
First, a discussion about the venue in general. Stubb's is a great place to see a show, as it's an informal collection of a handful of bar stations, merchandising outlets, and a great open gravel pit in front of the bandshell. The only separation between yourself and the front row is a sharp pair of elbows and the inevitable tall fellow who steps in front of you just as you try to edge past. The downside to Stubb's in the beginning of a hotter-than-average summer is the temperature. When sundown hits at 8:45, and the temperature is still a searing 96 degrees, the midst of the crowd is easily 110.
Because of 101X's heavy promotion, and the Monkeys' position as the current contender for the "Biggest Band Since Oasis" (which they share with pretty much every band since Oasis), I was easily one of the 10 oldest people at the concert. I have yet to stay alive for a quarter of a century, and yet I felt old; the number of us who could legally purchase alcohol was vastly outnumbered by the throngs of high schoolers wearing cutoff Dickies shorts, "vintage" band t-shirts, and plaid neckties. I did manage to strike up a conversation with a friendly photographer covering the concert for a local alternative magazine, who alongside his editor happened to make up an entire fifth of the oldest demographic at the show.
And what a show it was. We Are Scientists's debut album, With Love and Squalor, is a blisteringly tight compilation of songs. The band is a trio, guitar-bass-drums, and it leaves the majority of the group's particular flavor in the hands of extraordinarily competent lead guitarist Keith Murray. With twisting guitar lines and flickering distortion, he carves out a haunted, urgent place for his own peculiar vocals inside the music. The lyrics are quite the clever commentary, both piercing and self-effacing, and in particular one of my favorite lines comes from the propulsive, bouncing "Inaction":
It's hard to rely on the rhythmn section/ When they're all packing up/ And they're heading for the exit/ Yeah we're all about the same/ A bunch of slaves to fashion/ Who are tall, dark and scared/ And just praying for some action/ How am I supposed to know what makes this happen?/ (How am I supposed to know what makes this happen?)
Their music is complex, unfolding on repeated listens; it's also immediately accessible, and relies on refreshingly few production tricks. Their live show is energetic, frenetic, and frequently unexpected--one of their great tricks is to begin wrapping up the song they're playing, and immediately bridge it into the introduction of another song, often one nonadjacent on the album. The unexpected juxtaposition, and their playfulness with our expectations, leads to a positive, enjoyable vibe. The crowd responded effusively to their off-hand absurdist jokes and the stripped-down music alike.
As the Scientists left the stage, the sun sank below the horizon; I busied myself buying t-shirts and beer. Shiner is the latter, and a plain "Arctic Monkeys" logo tee and a brilliant "i are scientists" shirt the former. Having chatted a bit with a crewmember named Timothy on the vagaries of the Nashville music scene, as well as the Steve Wariner show I caught at Stubb's this Sunday past, I spoke again to Eric the friendly photographer as he readed himself to dash before the crowd and catch a few shots of the Monkeys during their set. I edged my way into the first few rows and myself snapped a roll or so with a lomographic camera I received as a Christmas present (and will upload those accordingly after I receive them from my processor). The Monkeys took the stage and opened with, surprisingly, a ballad.
Staying in the pit for their first two or three songs, I retreated to the relative safety of the back of the venue for the remainder of their set. Their mixing was atrocious, their onstage energy absent, and their musicianship sorely lacking. Dressed in torn t-shirts, staggering and more than likely drunk, they had the charisma of wornout gym socks, and projected the air of bored teenagers waiting for something to happen. Perhaps they did not receive the memorandum that they were supposed to happen.
I set myself a goal for listening to the Monkeys: I would wait until I heard their radio-friendly single, "I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor," and then I left the venue with my ears ringing and my legs weak. With the bass and the feed from the drums overwhelming the lead guitar, what I heard of the song was mostly an unintelligble mumbling of the lyrics--with an equally unintelligible call-and-response--and the clattering bang of kick drums and cymbals.
I left Stubb's with a very definite feeling of disappointment: that the Monkeys' live show is terrible; that they've relegated We Are Scientists to their supporting act; that I did not leave immediately after We Are Scientists. But what's done is done, and of all the shows to go to, W.A.S. put on a hell of a live act. Here's to more success for the New York trio, and hopefully the Arctic Monkeys will fade as easily into the background as they have exploded into prominence.