By now, Arctic Monkeys have earned the right to be weird. Not just indie-rock-weird, but “what if Peter Pan was actually RoboCop?” weird. It’s a freedom hard-won over years of wrong-footing fans who came for pub rock and stayed for desert glam, falsetto funk, and whatever Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino was.
“Whatever people say I am, that’s what I’m not,” Alex Turner didn’t quite quote, but definitely lived. Sitting in the Austin sun with Kyle Meredith, Turner and drummer Matt Helders sound like two guys who’ve cracked the cheat code to being a legacy band that doesn’t act like one. “If they want Peter Pan, I’ll give them RoboCop,” Turner deadpans. “Why can’t you be RoboPan?”
The album at hand is AM, a slinky, late-night monster that swerves between hip-hop throb, Sabbath guitars, and—somehow—Nat King Cole. “I was listening to ‘Nature Boy’ the other day,” Meredith offers. “That’s a dark soul song.” Turner perks up. “That’s a great tune! I forgot about that.” It’s that kind of record. The kind you forget is technically rock until someone shoves it into a category.
According to Turner, AM was “something we’ve been looking for.” Helders adds, “Even when we didn’t know where to shape-shift to, we still made the attempt.” That persistent restlessness has made Arctic Monkeys one of the most difficult bands to pin down—a minor miracle considering they emerged from the same scene that gave us The Pigeon Detectives.
“We always wanted to last,” Turner says, sipping the kind of vibe that would make Lou Reed squint in approval. “It was always about where it could possibly go.” The answer, apparently, was dark-soul grooves and Turner singing like Elvis impersonating Leonard Cohen over a Dr. Dre beat.
The lyrics are still very much Turner, even if the music’s sexier than it used to be. “The words definitely come more naturally than the melodies,” he admits. “But it’s not a piece of cake.” Which sets off an impromptu philosophical detour. “Why is ‘piece of cake’ easy?” he asks. “Making a cake is not easy.” Eating a cake is. Turner shrugs: “I never finish a full piece.”
Of course, with a back catalog this deep, the old songs follow them around like tattoo regrets. Do they still like playing them? “Some of them are still fun,” Helders says diplomatically. “‘I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor,’ we’ve never not played that.” But others? “There’s some you just can’t see yourself playing anymore,” he admits. “It’s like telling the same joke a thousand times. You’ve got to find a new way to tell it.”
Luckily, AM gave them a whole new act. “It’s our most ambitious album,” Turner declares, not entirely unselfconsciously. “We were reaching for something that hasn’t existed on one of our records before—or possibly anyone’s.” He pauses, then smirks. “Just forgive the arrogance.”
You almost do. Because for a band that started off snarling about bouncers and dancefloors, Arctic Monkeys now sound like they could moonlight as Bond villains—or the house band for the coolest funeral of all time. They’re not here to meet expectations. They’re here to hand-deliver the weirdest, darkest, most soul-slick version of themselves and disappear into the shadows again.
And if that sounds like RoboCop with a pompadour? Even better.
