Chilling In The Name Of

Are the Arctic Monkeys an indie landfill band? I don't believe that they are. Granted, there were moments at their Odyssey gig when you could visualise the brick dust and potato peelings, but there were also some lovely parts. Like the cracked betrayal of 'Cornerstone', proof that the Monkeys can still make it work in the company of their American mates with the ugly riffs. I'll bet that earnest English Lit essays are already being despatched on the subject and indeed, "I smelt your scent on my seat belt" is surely one of the most evocative lines that's currently in the ether.

And there's a moment near the end when the confetti bombs erupt during 'Secret Door', when the Odyssey is illuminated and the chords billow and furl. I guess it's not their fault that demand has quickly taken then to venues of this scale, where the modest gestures are lost and the keenly parochial becomes commonplace. Hey, such things happen in a personality recession, and it's at least reassuring to know that Alex Turner is still holding his value.