The Debate: Is ‘The Car’ Arctic Monkeys’ worst record or an overlooked gem?
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(Credits: Far Out / Zackery Michael / Domino Records)
“Hey Alex, how’s California?” read a graffiti-drawn mural in Sheffield’s famous Hunters Bar in 2018, with an illustrated coffin and the doom-ridden letters of “RIP” scrawled alongside. It seemed Yorkshire’s prodigal son was being sent off with a wave as he imprinted his Chelsea boot into the Hollywood Walk of Fame. In 2018, upon the release of Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino, fans of early Arctic Monkeys records and their observational grit were in mourning, as the Smirnoff Ice had given way to martinis, and the band no longer seemed to represent the existence of the everyman.
Change had been rumbling since AM, but it was still wrapped up in a palatable hip-hop-inspired groove. When Turner wholeheartedly adopted a borderline arrogant and hedonistic disposition in the second The Last Shadow Puppets record, the full Arctic Monkeys metamorphosis in the following album was complete. So, when it came to their follow-up, seventh record, would the grim-reaper graffiti prove to be too haunting, or would the band double down on their lounge-club aesthetic?
The answer was, of course, the latter, and Matt Helders’ drumstick was ordered to stay firmly on the hi-hat. Turner crooned with even more annunciation while Jamie Cook fiddled with a Moog in a move that would ultimately cement the band’s destiny in the avant-garde. Compositionally, it proved to me that the band could take their sound anywhere and intrigue me, for the inherent idea of those four people playing together is at the crux of their brilliance, not the genre they play.
But not all critics were enamoured. What is experimental charm led by method-actor performance is toe-curling arrogance to my peers. But with little to no room to prove otherwise, I, Callum MacHattie, will challenge Lucy Harbron to a duel of thoughts and finally bring an end to an ongoing debate within the Far Out offices: Is The Car Arctic Monkeys’ worst record or an overlooked gem?
Is The Car Arctic Monkeys’ worst record?
Lucy’s case against
Does Alex Turner know where he’s driving?
On my first playthrough of The Car, I had one immediate note: why does this album sound like demos? No, it doesn’t even sound like demos; it sounds like voice memo ideas, recorded quickly with the thought that he’ll plug in the actual lyrics later.
While Turner has always had a penchant for the metaphorical, often using niche or left-field images to codify feelings, even he seems to have lost track of himself here. Too swept up in his suave new 1970s image, desperate to separate himself from his old Sheffield troublemaker youth or his leather-clad indie icon late 20s, the result is an odd uncle-type vibe. He’s dressed up like he’s Jacques Dutronc singing things like, “Lights out in the Wonder Park / Your saw-toothed lover boy was quick off the mark”.
With every re-listen since, I’ve simply never been able to shake the question of is Turner himself aware of what he’s getting at here? With no discernible message to the release, a loss of any kind of cohesive aesthetic between the band and lyricism that had descended them into, let’s be real, complete nonsense, does the leader of the pack have a direction in mind?
Callum’s defence
Can an artist not use an album to tackle crises?
I’ll tell you what, ‘There’d Better Be a Mirrorball’ is some voice note if that’s the case. But maybe that speaks to the gulf in my mediocre eloquence compared to Lucy’s, which could well be the difference in this entire debate.
Regardless, I think we need to swiftly discard the idea that Turner is a fearless crusader who takes a merry band of hostages with him into the creative breaches.
As for his aesthetics, admittedly, his haircut has bordered too closely on the verge of Richard Hammond these past few years, but his choice to do so is symptomatic of a career chapter I fully embrace. There is a freedom to his performance style that extends beyond the limitations of meme culture, internet critique and more importantly, an indebted expectation from us journeyman fans.
Maybe some messages are muddled, but isn’t that the point? “Puncturing your bubble of relatability with your horrible new sound / Baby, those mixed messages ain’t what they used to be when you said them out loud” points the finger at you, me and Turner altogether for our shared ridiculousness in expecting a more modest method of approach in the first place.
Do the rest of the band consent to being in the car?
Beyond Turner, even if we act like he knows where he’s going, are the rest of the band being kidnapped?
It’s nothing new to focus mainly on the frontman, but behind Turner, there has always been an incredibly powerful pack. Matt Helders’ huge drumlines drive some of the best rock and indie tracks of our generation and have impressed icons from beyond it, which saw the drummer teaming up with Iggy Pop in 2016.
Nick O’Malley’s basslines thud through your feet when you see the band live, revealing themselves to be not only powerful but interesting and slick. Pinning it down, Jamie Cook’s guitar play has also proved iconic, again soundtracking this generation with recognisable riff after riff.
But where are they all in this wagon? At least with Tranquility Base, the moment most see as the start of Turner’s odd turn, there were still some big band moments. There were still chances for the rest to go all out, even if their leader wanted to cosplay as a lounge singer. But overwhelmingly, The Car lets the band down by never really letting them get to be a band.
Behind Turner’s new limp musical identity, the best rock band of our times is wasted, and that limp rot is heard loud and clear as it feels like they’re doing nothing but playing around Turner rather than actually getting to showcase their chops.
They didn’t just consent, they’re behind the wheel
If Jamie Cook had his hands tied, then well on him bringing the Moog to studio sessions, for it was quietly his idea to base ‘Sculptures of Anything Goes’ around the more avant-garde instrument.
I’ll give you Helders on drums, though, that’s for sure. Granted, he’s gladly accepted the role of timekeeper, but I, too, want to see him break out into a fit of frenzy more often. But I can’t accept the oversight of some of Cook’s most interesting guitar lines to date. ‘I Ain’t Quite Where I Think I Am’ and ‘Hello You’ showcase his signature atmospheric minimalism, while quietly acting as the coherent stage manager who slips the sunglasses and flares onto what we’re calling a drunk and stumbling leading man.
But what does a full band album sound like? Is it individual performances of respective instrumentation, jostling with one another for a moment in the limelight, or is it a shared artistic voice that commits to one specific sound? I would argue generally and, in the case of The Car, it’s the latter. A preoccupation with how Turner presents himself is perhaps the greatest shame of this entire album, for the arrangement builds on the template set out by Tranquility Base. Hence, I don’t just think the band consented to being in the car, they’re driving it.
Genius syndrome strikes again
At Glastonbury 2023, Arctic Monkeys took to the stage. The entire Pyramid crowd, all 120,000 of us, went crazy. What did they start with? ‘Sculptures of Anything Goes’. Do you know how disappointing that is? Immediately after, they launched into what they should have started with: ‘Brianstorm’. Exactly the kind of high-octane, rousing, kick-down-the-doors type of song that a set opener should be on one of the biggest stages in music. It should not have been a slow, angsty new album track that left audience members audibly groaning.
That was one of many arrogant insults Turner threw at his crowd during this era. This was the moment where he also started singing all the band’s hits in weird new tempos live, throwing his audiences off so no one could sing along. He started to ask questions like the worst kind of rock star, one that hates their fans or hates the fact that their fans want to hear their biggest tracks. He started to step into the worst caricature of the musician who now thinks he’s above all that, who now thinks he’s a genius.
The downfall of ‘genius syndrome’ is all over this album. At one point, Turner genuinely crooned, “LEGO Napoleon movie” and thought, ‘Yep, that’s mint, give it to them’. In the nonsense of what he’s saying, with no desire to root it to anything relatable or to clarify things at all, no interest in making any of these tracks more accessible or broadly enjoyable, Turner was clearly casting off his audience. Pair that with the arrogance the man has always displayed, and the album only leads to one conclusion: Turner thinks everything he does is golden now. I’m here to say, actually, Alex, it’s not.
We’re not owed anything
The Monkeys haven’t opened with ‘Brianstorm’ for 15 years, and they don’t need to now. It has always been the second track, and they’ve proven why it’s best placed there. It perfectly pops the bubble of tension established by whatever the preceding track may be, ‘Library Pictures’, ‘Do I Wanna Know?’ or ‘Sculptures of Anything Goes’. So when I scratch around for the answer of whether I found that disappointing, I can only rebut with a question of my own. Do you know how fitting that is?
I, too, was in the crowd that day, and arrived having spent the previous eight hours sweating over the anticipation of whether the fears of their cancellation would actualise themselves. But as the sun set behind the Pyramid on a frenzied Friday night, and darkness descended upon the stage, the drama of a synthesised E minor was the appropriate launch pad for a follow-up of songs designed to bring the chaos and drama of a modern Arctic Monkeys show. As 120,000 people waited with bated breath for the return of a homegrown icon, I welcomed a quick middle finger flip to remind those with their wellies stuck in 2013 that two more albums and several open collared shirts have come since their last appearance on the stage, and the past isn’t to be repeated.
Long ago, I resigned to the fact that my musical heroes are largely arseholes who would be insufferable company over a humble midweek pint. And without getting too dewy-eyed, we live in a too-glossy digital world now, where every ounce of inhibitive behaviour is suffocated. So I actively want my favourite performers to showcase their freedom, defy expectations and wear their flaws on their sleeves. If art is a mirror to society, then performers should be allowed space to showcase their imperfections in a live environment, and we should be permitted to lose ourselves along with them.
We learn again that the band cannot commit
In general, I find that people who hate The Car are also people who hate Tranquility Base: not me! I would genuinely consider the 2018 record one of my favourites from the band, but what it taught me is that while the group might like to claim they have vision, they have no follow-through.
Tranquility Base is a concept album, best listened to from start to finish as a singular thing; they could have leaned into that. If you’re making an album about a hotel in space, you can go all in with a film, maybe a tour in retro theatres playing the project front to back, or maybe, at least, a dedicated section to it at the shows. But no, they lazily scattered these very different songs amongst their hits; they gave up on the concept—they refused to fully commit.
The Car is the same. It’s laziness. If you’re going to pivot so intensely as a band and lean so far into your own idea that you abandon the things that first made people love you, it just feels like there should be more to grip onto. There should be a story, a feeling, or, at the very least, an energy around the release. The Car had none of that. As muted and bland as its artwork, the group gave us nothing while still somehow being under the impression that they gave everything.
What even is a concept album?
When we start laying out the guidelines of a concept album, I think we approach dangerous territory. Sure, a foregrounded plot usually helps, but equally, some of the best concept albums don’t follow one specific guideline. The very idea of it being conceptual is based on its drawing upon a singular idea through a myriad of references. In the case of Tranquility Base and The Car, I think they make a compelling case for consistency while giving space to each song.
I would also argue a catch-22 is at play, as their very commitment to their concept roles is what seemingly irks critics so much. The arrogant lounge singer or the jazz-infused drum lines are all players in a wider storyline set in this super-eight montage of a megastar grappling with his own identity. If you feel confused about where Turner stands, you’re not alone. So do I. So does he. We were warned that ‘Golden Boy’ was in bad shape back in 2018, and we can’t expect him to have solved that in a mere five years.
Who knows where The Car will lead us; maybe a horizon of self-assuredness that thrusts the 12-string Vox back in his hands to deliver us meaty riffs once again. But to paraphrase the Hollywood films that tinge the soundscape of this record, it’s not the destination that’s important, but the journey.
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