One thing was certain, there would be a mirrorball. In the Seventies shades, debonair blazer and lush bouffant of a young Sammy Davis Jr, Alex Turner led the Arctic Monkeys – for the last of a trio of Emirates shows – onto a stage recalling a TV cabaret set from the Golden Age of Hollywood or Vegas, all art deco curves in backlit beige. They might have stampeded headlong into the rock rampage of Brianstorm rather than a hip, swinging Mack the Knife but the sentiment was clear. Seventeen years into one of alt-rock’s most uncompromising and unpredictable careers, playing their first UK stadium tour, the Arctic Monkeys are still big. It was indie rock that got small.
By collating tracks from seven albums of slow, sophisticated evolution, the Monkeys managed to stage an entire classic cabaret show in which they played the full variety of acts. At times they were the snarky, manic lust rockers of Brianstorm, Teddy Picker and View from the Afternoon. At others, the languid Sixties lounge band of Four Out of Five and Cornerstone; a majestic modern crooner about trawling Sheffield pubs on the rebound, bellowed out like the Vegas greats.
Snap Out of It, gleaming like a shark finned Cadillac, could have been a cameo from a bubblegum soul band and Fluorescent Adolescent, with its jaunty upswings and risqué double entendres (“was it a Mecca dobber or a betting pencil?” Turner relished), a quick turn from a passing music hall troupe touring a show called If Formby Rocked. “Let’s all close our eyes and imagine a balloon drop,” Turner quipped as Noughties fan favourite Mardy Bum made a welcome return, and indulging such lighter corners of their catalogue helped skim away any sluggishness that had marred last year’s slew of festival sets.
Rising to the setting, their stadium rock incarnation stole the show. Here, the sinister carnival whirl of Crying Lightning, a “twisted and deranged” romance played out over gobstoppers and strawberry lace, became an epic Grimm fairy tale of a song. Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High, previously just R&B with the munchies, developed a Bond theme’s stature, while the riff of Do I Wanna Know sounded like it had risen from the ocean to eat Tokyo. And throughout Turner played the suave, slurring host, fully grown into his Yorkshire Elvis persona, hip-grinding through the solos and high-kicking like a demonic fairground barker through the doom metal coda to Pretty Visitors.
There has been some concern, given the similarities of their most recent album The Car to the hook-shy future-lounge direction of 2018’s Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino, that Arctic Monkeys have been decelerating down a creative cul-de-sac, close to stalling. True, the main set didn’t so much knee-slide as ooze to a close with Body Paint, and the encore drooled into being with Star Treatment. But with Miles Kane joining on guitar for a blustery 505, and I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor setting the Emirates raging, this was clearly a band with a full, fresh tank and its foot to the floor. Destination: Glastonbury.
