As the gaze of Alex Turner’s glassy, glaring eyes protrudes through glades of flittering fringe, four scummy-battering Sheffield sweeties, swallowed by the smog of Milan are forever more resembling a certain Merseyside quartet forty years their senior. With jackets and coiffures cut strikingly reminiscently of Britain’s Best Band (allegedly, although after tonight the stakes are most certainly raised), the baited breath lingering on the tongue of every one of ten thousand Italian aficionados as anxious smoke rings from Camel Blues spiral precariously is redolent of the flickering black and white hysteria of John and Paul, back before the majority of Turner’s lyrical terminology had been conceived or coined. In fact, presumably before Mr. and Mrs. Turner had even become acquainted. Following third LP Humbug’s lukewarm reception and a Reading rendition in need of rapid reheating, Turner’s primates’ utter disregard for media expectation left many bemused and unamused; gone were the witty quips and tales of fish and chips, replaced with satirical stories and psychedelic twangs. And so to the live show...Predictably drawing heavily from Humbug (tonight marks their first and only show on Italian soil since its August release) the set’s lined superlatively with a slick smattering of reverb-drenched Favourite Worst Nightmare(s) and, shockingly, the odd B-side. Now it’ll take more than a 2012 sonic apocalypse or an onstage beard ban to get Kasabian or Kings of Leon incorporating Nick Cave covers (Red Right Hand) into their stodgy sycophantic NME-endorsed musical muck. Launching impulsively into Dance Little Liar, an electric atmosphere of bustling bruisers and dainty fashionistas line the aisles of PALASharp’s corporate airplane hangar, frantically and phonetically bellowing back every Northern nuance and dialectal hyperbole as if they’d been brought up secularly on a diet of Coronation Street, Crème Eggs and The Cribs. Brianstorm whirrs and whirls, whipping up an agitated bass-heavy hurricane as hurtling as the snowstorm showering streets suffocated by knock-off tops and t-shirts outside, before the tinnitus drum tints of This House Is A Circus induce further incontrollable raptures. Still Take You Home sounds as gigantic as Genoa, My Propeller reminiscent of Ennio Morricone duelling with dizzying guitar histrionics and Crying Lightning cracks hearts and beams in equal measure. Whilst I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor is dated and desperately overexposed, Cornerstone creeps out of its seductive shadow as the quintessential Arctic Monkeys anthem, as the fawning thousands sway in synchrony to the poetic perfection of the greatest love song scribed and serenaded over the past decade. As Secret Door swings open and ticker tape erupts climactically, it’s painstakingly clear that these Arctic Monkeys are such Dangerous Animals they’re being contained on a gelid glacier fit for one, filled with glimmering guitars and the sharpest of suits. If global warming has taken a backseat, it’s worth standing up, showering and switching lights off just to preserve these special souls.
Download: Arctic Monkeys, Red Right Hand (live)
Stirring strings, guttural guitars and cigarette-stained croons gleam throughout Gainsbourg’s latest LP like iced gems dotted amongst bourbons and custard creams at ninth birthday parties the country over. Blurring the boundaries of silver screen and commemorative platinum discs before Britney became (significantly) house trained, Charlotte gives her old man Serge a frightful run for his overwhelming suavity. Whether blissfully berating Gael García Bernal in Michel Gondry’s cinematographically impeccable The Science of Sleep, or penning pitch-perfect off-kilter lo-fi pop with Jarvis Gainsbourg borders on the ideal indie icon, the sexy girl to Air’s Sexy Boy.
