Arctic Monkeys
Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I Am Not

THE REVIEW

A ghost is haunting Europe: summoned by the clamors of the New Musical Express, by hordes of seasoned bloggers in search of the next big thing, and by Virgin Stores across the continent.

Brit-pop is back among us in grand style, even taking on the role of leading the dance. All thanks to the Arctic Monkeys, whose irresistible success is evident to all. What the four lads from Sheffield are playing is, in every respect, a heavy brit-pop, quickly repainted with rock “modernism” à la Strokes, with the arrogant British demeanor of the Libertines, and disco-punk effects bought at the Franz Ferdinand market. Which is quite disheartening, considering we're talking about three wheezy recyclers themselves, with all due respect to those who rave about new rock revolution. Imagine how exciting a formula that mimics them could sound.

Let’s be clear: we are talking about the debut of a group of almost teenagers, so one should be rather gentle when reviewing, highlighting the merits – for example, the lyrics, slices of pub life that aren't too trivial, after all – rather than the inevitable flaws. But the grandeur that hovers around this album cannot exempt us from giving Caesar what is Caesar's. And saying that three-quarters of this record is crap. The pieces that ought to cause a stir in the dancey alternative communities like “I bet you look good on the dancefloor” or “You probably couldn’t see for the lights but you were looking straight at me” are as exciting as Romina Power engaged in the chicken dance.

Those suitable for unleashing the "rock and roll" energy so dear to scottex-type magazines like “Rumore” end up in a banality of stereotypes along the Jam-Oasis-Maximo Park axis. Episodes like “Dancing shoes” or “Fake tales of San Francisco” are so disjointed they make you miss Elastica, and that’s really saying something. Midtempo ballads like “Riot van” and the concluding “A certain romance” are finally conducive to slitting one's wrists in despair. The only successful track on the record is finally “When the sun goes down,” although it's not much different from “Jacqueline” by the ill-fated Austro-Hungarian. The melodic part is interesting, as is the singing, while in the refrain the group avoids making just noise – as in almost the whole album – playing unusually sharp and putting at least one song in the pantry worthy of the hype generated around the band.

However, it really seems too little to promote this album. Sincere congratulations to the marketing division of “Cool Britannia”. But rock and roll is really something else.