Describing music as ‘Beatles-esque’ is a dusty platitude. Even worse, it’s quite meaningless when taken literally – am I referring to ‘She Loves You’ or ‘A Day in The Life’? It’s true that “Beatles-esque” could mean a plethora of things. Yet, this is exactly why I think there is, at least philosophically, something ‘Beatles-esque’ about Arctic Monkeys’ new album, The Car – and it’s not just strings.
Arctic Monkeys have amassed a truly chameleon crop of albums; from the frenetic noise of their debut, to the supermarket-ready sounds of AM, to the more sophisticated sci-fi of Tranquillity Base Hotel & Casino. They have, for better or worse, embodied a philosophy of constant growth – or change, at the very least. On their new album, this ethic leads them right and wrong in equal proportion, with tunes I can tepidly vouch for, and others I can heartily respect for their artistic ambition – if not for much else.
The Sheffield four-piece consists of bassist Nick O’Malley, drummer Matt Helders, lead guitarist Jamie Cook, and vocalist-guitarist Alex Turner. The band exploded onto the scene in 2006 with their debut album, Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not, wherein Turner spins tales of teens on the town over punky power-chord riffs, told with an eloquence unexpected of a rambunctious teenager. The Car is their seventh studio album and serves to further vex any effort to stratify the band into a genre more specific than ‘rock’.
The Car is laden with musical explorations utterly alien from the pre-theoretical punch of their first record. Harmonically, it lives in the land of large chords, dizzyingly dense when compared with those two-note power-chords of early days. Chord progressions are unusual; often pleasantly so, as in ‘Body Paint’. However, this approach sometimes yields progressions that can uncharitably be described as directionless, as in ‘Mr. Schwartz’. The record also features some rhythmic experimentation that is refreshing and tasteful. ‘Body Paint’ boasts many such instances, with an odd number of phrases in the bridge and some dropped beats in the outro jam. These curiosities are seamlessly executed, coming across as interesting and novel rather than unnecessary or pretentious.
Although it certainly has some singable tunes, the catchiest track on The Car doesn’t hold a candle to the dankest deep cut from AM. While this isn’t a problem in and of itself, there are certainly some tracks where the melody seems to wander without direction. Turner croons enigmatic, moody sketches, which are by turns ominous, manic, and melancholic. He alternates between rich, intimate lows and strained, often plaintive falsettos, which all come together in an emotive singing-in-the-shower synthesis.
There are a handful of highlights where all this experimentation pays off. ‘There’d Better Be a Mirrorball’ introduces the album with a unison of strings and piano that is all at once lush, loungey, and foreboding. An undulating synthesiser ostinato carefully weaves through staccato piano chords, while Turner sings of fleeting romance in a wistful ebullition. The track ends in ecstasies of melancholy, with a forlorn falsetto climax supported by the swells of the string section. ‘Body Paint’ also features an ear-worm ostinato, preceding a wonderfully crafted chord progression which develops in myriad unexpected directions. An upbeat mood-shift a la ‘A Day in The Life’ punctuates the track, prior to an explosive overdriven guitar interlude. A slightly cumbersome but effective guitar solo adorns the extended jam which concludes the track.
‘Sculptures of Anything Goes’ is sparse, drenched in an ominous atmosphere. A rumbling, premonitory synth underscores surreal lyrics fascinated with creation and performance. Turner sarcastically barbs the backlash towards the band’s ever-evolving style; “Puncturing your bubble or relatability/ With your horrible new sound”. The eerie conclusion is ever-so-slightly coloured by tinctures of the parallel major key, which conjure a wonderfully beguiling brightness that feels deceptive given the context. ‘Big Ideas’ betrays Turner’s thoughts and frustrations with ambition and creativity, with apropos lyrics that are particularly relevant to the album as a work. ‘I Ain’t Quite Where I Think I Am’ grabs the listener with a charmingly jaunty guitar riff and a fragmentary stream of consciousness about disillusionment and “stackable party guests”.
In many remaining tracks, the core idea doesn’t seem strong enough to support the orchestral add-ons, leaving the finished product feeling mercilessly overwrought, and the listener bereft of any assertive elements to cling onto. For instance, the title track is burdened by an inertia which it never overcomes, suffering from meandering progressions and listless melodies. For a song named after a vehicle, it is ironically stationary.
Nonetheless, when a Beatles analogy is made to describe an album, it surely carries some intrinsic praise. Many of the tedious tracks are redeemed to some extent by the ambition on display, deserving of far more respect than some of the band’s more insipid and spineless tunes. Whether some little piece of posterity will look on this album with the same reverence as a Sgt. Pepper’s or an Abbey Road is impossible to know, but credit is certainly due for its boldness in continuing the band’s ideal of constant evolution.
