Wednesday 30/09/09 Arctic Monkeys @ Electric Factory, Philadelphia

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Having seen Arctic Monkeys pre-'Humbug' this summer at All Points West, I looked forward to a more informed experience of the new album and a longer set that could include more classics. While the first wish was granted, the lack of material from older albums was an obvious disappointment for American fans who see the band so rarely. The Monkeys accommodated the dramatically new sound of 'Humbug', and while the set was cohesive and polished, the frenetic energy that once defined their sound felt diminished.

The show kicked off with ‘Dance Little Liar', an unusually slow-burning opener that set the tone for the night. The clash between old material and new became apparent in follow-up ‘Brianstorm', which injected energy into the set then segued neatly into ‘Crying Lightning', bolstered by a militaristic drum roll during the bridge. The showcase of new material continued with a brilliant cover of Nick Cave’s ‘Red Right Hand’ that was, tonally, what all of 'Humbug' should be. Its creeping vocals and staccato drums echoed standout tracks like ‘My Propeller’ and outshine less spectacular moments like ‘Secret Door'. ‘Hand’ was paired perfectly with ‘Propeller', which hit the crowd with a bombastic start before boiling slowly with twisting Bond-theme guitars.

‘This House Is a Circus', galloped into ‘Still Take You Home’ and ‘I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor'. Crowd enthusiasm for classic tracks was massive, particularly the call and response of ‘...Dancefloor’ that had the room shouting “You’re dynamite!”

The night’s worst moment was cacophonous ‘Sketchead' - a track that has neither the nuanced structure of 'Humbug' nor the bright energy of 'Whatever People Say I Am...' I thought a live version might change my feelings, but my dislike lingered as the band thrashed through a graceless arrangement. Brilliantly structured ‘Cornerstone’ and bouncy ‘Fluorescent Adolescent’ redeemed the set. ‘Cornerstone’ in particular proved itself one of the new best tracks; it retains a clever, personal lyrical structure while introducing a subtler musical approach.

A brief encore saw Turner slightly muddled, particularly as he appeared with the greeting: “Philly. Philly. Filet mignon.” ‘505’ closed the set softly, and the band departed to mixed chatter.
While the Monkeys are relatively motionless, concentrating on solid playing rather than showmanship, Alex Turner exudes a rockstar confidence that makes him magnetically watchable. That said, there’s too much arrogance in his style. He barely looked out from behind his grunge-affecting long hair; the most interaction occurred when he drowned out a chant for ‘Mardy Bum’ (which, criminally, wasn’t part of the set) with feedback.

While their musicianship impresses, the energy that made the Monkeys so compelling is fading. Their willful departure from their old sound is admirable as musical evolution, yet there’s a sense that they’re ignoring what their fans love about them. Turner and Co. seem to feel that they can’t return often to the sound that made them famous because it undermines the levity of their new work. Good bands evolve, but great bands do so while remembering their roots.