The Arctic Monkeys’ noir The Car.
Dainty orchestrals and lyrics make The Car the band's most ambitious and misunderstood album.
album artwork believed to belong to either the publisher of the work or the artist.
The last ten years have been a helter-skelter for Arctic Monkeys fans. When the band released their 2013 AM, commercially their best album, they introduced a romantic swagger to the British grit that gained them notoriety. The opening song, “Do I Wanna Know,” seduced listeners with a darker sound than the usual Monkeys. The riffs were heavier, and Alex Turner, lead singer and writer, adopted a crooning sound and lyricism distinctive from earlier works. From “Arabella”: “And her lips are like the galaxy’s edge/And her kiss the colour of a constellation fallin’ into place.” Seldom is the case when fans love a band’s change in style, but with a third of the album’s songs boasting over a billion streams on Spotify—the rest over hundreds of millions—AM is the band’s most popular album.
Then came Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino, a concept album about a hotel and casino on the moon. The 2018 release boasted enigmatic, galactic-themed lyrics echoed by spacey jingles. From the first song, “Star Treatment”:
“Rocket-ship grease down the cracks of my knuckles
Karate bandana
Warp speed chic
Hair down to there
Impressive moustache
Love came in a bottle with a twist-off cap
Let’s all have a swig and do a hot lap.”
Despite its innovative sound and provocative lyrics, the release was a confusing change in style for fans, as it lacked the sultry rock of AM. Some even called it “elevator music” due to its hotel lobby sound and lullaby-like jingles. But this is unfair. The creativity of the album is under-appreciated, and its social criticism of the rapaciousness of technology gets slid under the rug by self-indulgent (they say) imagery like “weekly chat[s] with God on video call” or “Killer Pink Flamingos, computer controlled.” TBH&C is a slow burn—certainly—but if you enjoy jazzy lounge music and Huxleyan commentary “in deep space,” then listen to it. It’s brilliant.
Then, in 2022, the Monkeys surprised fans even more with their most ambitious project yet: The Car. Blending funk with orchestral panache, the project expressed a heartfelt message to fans with theatricality and a drop of melancholy. Fans neither liked nor understood it. And what they did not understand most was that this album was not for them.
“There’d Better Be a Mirrorball” was released as the album’s first single in 2022 when I was in my second year of college. The cover art was the surface of the sea, pink with white shimmer from the sun, a picture I found fitting given the dreamy repetition of the track. The song draws you in with a mysterious, Bond-esque tune, from which Alex Turner belts, “Don’t get emotional/That ain’t like you.” I half-smile, not only because he is joking but also because he is teasing me. If I always knew what I felt, I don’t think I would write—anything nor would I care for the dainty lyricism of the song that ‘leaks into the roof’ of my heart. There is something quietly beautiful about the single–some romantic melancholy in the rosy-sky shine of the sea. I used to play this piece in the pink intermission before evening on the way to my dorm from work or wherever. The song lent itself well to a sort of “departing,” and the architecture of the university pushing into the pink-pale blue clouds was perfect imagery. If I timed it well, I would hear Turner’s falsetto at the end of the song as soon as I dropped my things on my desk in front of my wall-sized window facing Woodlawn. From there, I could see the last of the sun’s yellow splash on the sunset and on the white stone of the dorms. I like to call songs ‘cinematic’ when they possess a romance that integrates harmoniously into the beauty of the real world. “There’d Better Be a Mirrorball” is one of those songs, and I could not review The Car outside of its shine. The single was my first taste of the album, the tender wave that drew me into the cool splash of their new sound, and every time I listen to their album, that same wave washes over me.
I use the word ‘noir’ in the title to describe the album because it reflects the somber gravity of the Arctic Monkeys saying goodbye to an old sound and, as a result, old fans. I sympathize with those who long for what was. It’s difficult to let go of someone for their own good, but humans are not static organisms, and the self goes through mirror after mirror, looking for its truth. I believe that beauty and truth are inextricably linked, and the truth about the Monkeys is that they are maturing. Part of maturing, and coincidentally being a good artist, is being honest with yourself. How could I call myself a writer if my words were not fragments of my heart or if my truth did not undress you to your nerves? Similarly, how could the Monkeys call themselves artists if they did not create music that was true to them? Turner says it himself: “But somehow giving it the old romantic fool/Seems to better suit the mood.” Yes. But this romantic fool is not the unrestrained youth from “505,” not the leather-jacket lover from AM, nor the martini-swigging astronaut from TBH&C. He’s the worn poet who knows his truth and what that truth means to others. That’s why Turner says:
“So 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?”
Admittedly, the album is far from perfect and has its weak tracks. “Jet Skis on the Moat” and “The Car” have awkward deliveries compared to the rest of the album, but their contributions to the album can be found in the lyrics. From “Jet Skis on the Moat”: “Is there something on your mind/Or are you happy to sit there and watch while the paint job dries.” There is a “saw-toothed” jab from Turner here, asking us, the fans, what we think about the band’s change in sound. He already knows the answer, but he can’t help winking at us. Or from “The Car”: “Thinkin’ about how funny I must look/Tryin’ to adjust to what’s been there all along.” With this line, we are back to our “old romantic fool” but with an admission that he’s been there all along. I joined the Monkey fanbase late, during the early stages of AM, but ever since then, I could not get past the subtle softness of Turner. Since the bluntness of “Cornerstone” and the slickness of AM, there has been something sweet and sublime swirling inside of him, and The Car is his attempt to put those feelings into words.
“So if you wanna walk me to the car…” Yes.
I think we owe it to the band—the way we would to any artist, painter, singer, or writer. We can’t expect people to be who they aren’t, least of all pressure artists to give us what they don’t want. Being an artist means pursuing truth, whatever that may be. It means relaying the pangs of conscience to those who are either half-conscious of it or completely consumed by it without proof of its universality. And these sweet nothings we say—let me walk you home or to the car—are not simply courtesies but confessions of weakness and longings for our love to persevere. That’s why Turner wants us to “be absolutely sure/That there's a mirrorball?” He wants us to love the way humans are meant to be loved—by willing the good of each other, even if it means having a “heavy heart.” He understands, as did Emily Dickinson, “that it will never come again [which] is what makes life so sweet,” and that seldom is something beautiful because it lasts. “Devouring time,” Shakespeare cries, “blunt thou the lion’s paws.” True, but these Monkey paws are not blunted. They are honed and free from pretenses, cut closer to the truth and thus closer to the heart. We may listen to them, but they don’t sing for us, so let’s “put the rose tint on the exploded view,” and walk the band we love to their car.
edited by Alex Oder
album artwork believed to belong to either the publisher of the work or the artist.