Were you to know absolutely knowing about the Arctic Monkeys, you would immediately be able to tell that they are slathered in British. The frontman, Alex Turner, clad in a pair of skinny jeans and a crop of hair dangling just short of his shoulders, vaguely resembled an illegitimate child of Michael Caine and a mop. He spoke in aimless, rambling niceties throughout the concert in his intriguingly affected English, and thus fas has been the only foreigner to French soil I’ve seen to off-handedly mutter “Ca va?” and receive an enthusiastic response not only from one Frenchman, but a couple thousand of them.
The Arctic Monkeys made their French appearance last night at Le Zenith in Paris to a packed house, which in itself is no small feat. Le Zenith has more of a feel of a smaller-scale sporting arena as opposed to a concert house: sparse, utilitarian decor of metal girders and beams with arena-style seating, an enormous overhead in the actual concert hall, and people mulling about idly in stadium bleachers with pints of beer in hand parlaying with an air of anticipation. The stage was pretty impressive, draped with maybe hundred, hundred and twenty foot red curtains containing a hum of activity during sound check and set-up. I’m not sure if I want to chalk it up to general excitement or no one in the audience had ever been to a show before, but every time a sound went off behind the curtain rigging up the sound system and instruments, the crowd went bonkers. Well, I thought they went bonkers, until the Arctic Monkeys actually took the stage.
I was down in the pit, and there was an immediate surge toward the stage in a swam of adolescents draped in scarves, gingham shirts, and upturned collars (you know who you were, shame on you, put that down). The band opened up to a pounding number of Alex Turner and fellow guitarists plucking erratically at their axes while Matt Helders, the drummer, hammered out a steady tattoo on snare and floor tom, dictating a pulse and sway throughout the mass of bodies in the pit.
The stage show was equally as impressive as the band, doubtless adding to the grit dance aesthetic. At any given point, you could be subjected to a phrenetic visual assault of alternating strobe lights with parti-colored baths of reds, blues, teals, and yellows. Two fifty foot LCD screens hung like acid-soaked sentinels on either side of the stage, displaying live shots of the band in a myriad of colors and effects. The only people I assume who wouldn’t find themselves privy to such a sight would be those susceptible to seizures, but hey, you have to crack a few eggs to make an omelet, or you can’t make everybody happy all of the time. I’m not sure which one of those is offensive to the context, take your pick.
To be frank, I’m not terribly partial to the Arctic Monkeys, but I was rampantly impressed with the show, they’ve developed quite a handle on the live scene since their breakout in 2006. To summarize the show in one instance, I was standing by an exit towards the back, and there were three teenagers standing around the top of one of the exits, and at one point when the band asked the crowd how they were, one of the kids stood on the railing with his hands in the air shouting “SUPER!” at the top of his lungs. Yes, super indeed my little French friend, super indeed.
Arctic Monkeys: Become a fan!
The Monkeys Cometh.
Where would you be without a rhythm section? Nowhere, that's where.
Why Mr. Turner, how long your hair's become.
Arctic Monkeys: This shit is bananas.
It looks like the sun threw up on stage.