How does any band jump from sinewy, acne-laden garage rock to a form of sleekness that wouldn’t seem out of place in an art-deco-strewn Parisian boudoir? On the face of it, surely no one at their most clairvoyant would ever have thought, on listening to Arctic Monkeys’ 2006 debut album, Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not, that the four Sheffield members (Jamie Cook, Matt Helders, Nick O’Malley, Alex Turner) would develop into one of the most intriguing bands of the past 20 years. We say intriguing because since the release of their debut they have deviated in such a way that it’s virtually impossible to second-guess what their next steps are. Such divergence continues with The Car, their seventh studio outing, and one that subtly connects with their 2018 album, Tranquillity Base Hotel & Casino.
Constituent parts are all present, correct and standing to attention. The coiled piano/strings templates of Tranquillity… shape the songs, while Turner’s lyrics (as you might suspect) are cogent and considered. What comes across most, however, is how, even after 16 years as a recording unit, the band members have sidestepped conspicuous repetition and, crucially, caricature.
The Car begins with There’d Better Be a Mirrorball, a louche interweaving of retro James Bond theme songs, the languor of classic Burt Bacharach tunes and the sonorous tenor of Scott Walker before he upped sticks to Weirdsville. Focusing on a disintegrating relationship, Turner’s lyrics blend enigma and entreaty: “If you wanna walk me to the car, you oughta know I’ll have a heavy heart, so can we please be absolutely sure that there’s a mirrorball?”
Body Paint displays Beatles/Bacharach/Bowie touches with elegant orchestral arrangements and somewhat louder guitars (and deft guitar solos) towards its close. Frankly, it’s a keeper. Jet Skis on the Moat adds sneaky Steely Dan sensibilities, while Big Ideas is a lush, almost symphonic fourth-wall breaker (”I had big ideas, the band were so excited, the kind you’d rather not share over the phone, but the orchestra’s got us all surrounded and I cannot for the life of me remember how they go”).
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The album continues in this vein until the very end, resulting in a suave, often hypnotic piece of work that more than anything else brings to mind Nelson Riddle’s conceptual work with Frank Sinatra’s bourbon-drinking, wee-small-hours-of-the-morning persona.
Unrepentant in its individualism and fully aware of how it might not appeal to fans of angular guitar rock/pop, The Car sees Arctic Monkeys nonetheless follow their instincts like very few other bands of their generation. The conversion from provincial grit to wide-reaching polish continues in fine fashion.
