Stateside, Arctic Monkeys went from no-names to SNL musical guest in about a month’s time. That’s an unfair disadvantage. Anything short of fourth greatest rock band on the planet would have earned them a vicious backlash. But instead of hisses and groans, Arctic Monkeys mostly elicited shrugs. There was nothing there to get agitated and vitriolic about, but figuring out why the hype was theirs to squander in the first place proves trickier than spotting a monkey making a home around the North Pole. Oasis paired with the Libertines, UK’s own Strokes…however you liked to define them, their identity was as indistinct and unoriginal as their sound. Making for an okay spin ensured you could always find their record on your shelf if needed, but that need rarely arose. I assumed I had heard the last of them after two mediocre records.
But then there was the news that earned a half-hearted raise of the brow: Arctic Monkeys co-produced by Joshua Homme. There’s a guy who can slur his words, look stoned straight out of his gourd, and drag riffs like he just polished off a bottle of Maker’s Mark, and make it into a spellbinding show. Who better to show these slovenly lads a thing or two about grabbing an audience without grabbing a can of polish? I will do my best to ignore the spiraling disappointment resulting from the optimism—expectations should not figure heavily into an outlook—but it’s very difficult to forgive the frequently dreary and rote results.
I once found their more raucous side (of the dance rock/post-punk variety) to be a bit too empty and lackluster for the blitz; on Humbug, I yearn for empty thrash. Dark and brooding I can handle with unvarnished (and inappropriate) glee, but this stuff seems half-hearted and overrun with shadowless gloom. Could Homme’s (and James Ford’s) production be to blame? Emphasizing atmosphere over vigor certainly seems to be the widespread fault to the album’s sound. There’s no ache and thrust to Alex Turner’s voice, just morose disinterest. When the riffs move towards tough and angular, they’re bottled by a cranky haze and tepid peyote mind scrambles so it sounds like the band’s simply going through the motions. The material that reads more energetic can sound wayward and boggy; the more introspective semi-ballad moments are, more often than not, simply torpid. They wanted hard, dense, contorted and menacing; they usually ended up with bleakly bland.
Leadoff “Propellor” certainly leads you astray of this at the outset with rat-a-tat drums. The slowed down tempo inside reveals one of their better low-key melodies, perched on the border between the American Southwest and Mexico, perfectly suited for Homme’s desert-dwelling persona. But first single, “Crying Lightning,” which pretends to be a robust and bouncy rocker, is overwhelmed by noodling Western psychedelia guitar whirls that are ill-suited to the steady beat and shapeless lyrics, whether they’re strange metaphors (“With folded arms you occupy the bench like toothache”) or bizarre imagery (“You like to aggravate the ice cream man on rainy afternoons”). Blank, but mildly catchy for their style, and thus far there didn’t seem to be a huge difference between this and their last two albums. The seesaw riffs of “Potion Approaching,” the punchy but aimless rhythm of “Pretty Visitors” and the livelier portion of the bassline in “Dangerous Animals” are kin, too. But the further in you delve, the less fun it becomes.
“Fun” isn’t a proper descriptor for the effort—these Arctic Monkeys want you to hear their maturity, not their vitality—but morbid and grim can indeed be a good time if it exhilarates on the starkest of levels. But songs like “Secret Door” and “Cornerstone” are creaky and overly familiar of better 60s psych-rock engineers and “Fire and the Thud” is almost painfully limp. The equally leaden and indistinct lyrics don’t help much—after this stuff, the silly spelling exercise of “Dangerous Animals” seems almost charming.
With its eerie guitar echo effects and above average lyrical makeup, “Dance Little Liar” could have been one of the peaks, but it’s choking on exhaust before the almost five-minute composition is spent. The more-than-five-minute closer, “The Jeweller’s Hands,” is just as endless, mired in murky keyboards and sagebrush, almost-Spanish guitar plucks that try for evocative but wind up tiresome in the long haul. In these shades, the overdriven, near-punk exercises of Favourite Worst Nightmare are sounding quite lively all of a sudden.
The most memorable moments off of Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not were usually the mid-tempo numbers (“Riot Van,” “A Certain Romance”) because they hinted that Arctic Monkeys might be more than just the latest new-fangled post-punk import (or export, depending on where you live). By their sophomore release, that position had reversed, as only the fast and catchy rockers were noticeable. On Humbug, they blend the pointed with the blunt, the fist-pumping with the pocket-folding, and aim from the dancefloor to the sitting room. Fans may be more receptive (though I contend it’s a style thing and not a prejudice thing) but I suspect that only the most forgiving will say that this new step is already working—“promising” or (the unspecific) “interesting” are more likely. But a step it is, not a fully-fledged work worthy of acclaim. Time will tell if is going to be one of those “transition albums”; if so, Humbug is chockfull of growing pains.
"Humbug" is on sale August 25, 2009 from Domino.
