And don't mix their fans with those of the the Test Icicles!
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The Brits love to feud-- guess they are trying to being back the glory days of Britpop.

No, we got free tickets to NIN, so we went there instead. It had been a long time since I'd been to an arena show.

Arctic Monkeys, A Higher Form But Not Yet Fully Evolved
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By J. Freedom du Lac
Washington Post Staff Writer
Wednesday, February 22, 2006; Page C01

Nobody does hype quite like the British music press, which has turned overstatement into an Olympic sport.

But the hyperbolic wags have outdone themselves with the breathless buzz surrounding the Arctic Monkeys, an ascendant post-punk quartet that is, apparently, the greatest U.K. band since the Sex Pistols -- or at the very least, since the Stone Roses. Or Oasis. Or maybe the Verve or the Libertines.

Whatever. NME magazine recently declared the Monkeys' debut, "Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not," the fifth-greatest British album ever . According to this heretical new NME math, the Monkeys are greater than the Beatles.

To which we say: Bananas!

"Whatever People Say" is certainly an outstanding rock album with plenty of things working in its favor. Ridiculously sharp hooks. Smart, witty lyrics. A cocksure and charismatic singer in 20-year-old Alex Turner. Angular guitar riffs (and the occasional monster-rock power chord) slamming into manic, vaguely funky rhythms.

Brash and boisterous, the CD crackles with unbridled adolescent energy -- so much so that it often sounds as though it's about to combust. It's the most exciting new album to have roared through my headphones since, well, the start of this year (whatever that's worth). It's also the fastest-selling debut recording in the history of the British Isles.

It is not , however, the fifth-greatest British album of all time . . . unless "time" began roughly around that fateful day on which the Spice Girls called it quits.

Post-punk has since become king in the U.K. (and in some corners of this country, too), with the Kaiser Chiefs, Bloc Party, the Strokes et al. bashing and burning their way across the musical landscape. You'll find the Arctic Monkeys hanging from one of the very highest branches on that same stylistic tree.

If they're the next big any thing, in fact, the Monkeys are a younger, less caustic and even more promising version of their label mates Franz Ferdinand. This is a very, very good thing, inasmuch as Franz Ferdinand is one of the better bands in contemporary rock, with two superlative albums to its credit. But it hardly means that "Whatever People Say" is as transformative as, for instance, the Beatles' "Revolver."

No shame in that, though.

After nearly being swallowed whole by the hoopla (even Mick Jagger has professed his love), the Arctic Monkeys get down to the business of making music, introducing themselves on the album opener, "The View From the Afternoon." In that deliciously, distinctively British voice of his, Turner sings, haltingly: "Anticipation has the habit to set you up/For disappointment in the evening entertainment but/Tonight there'll be some love/Tonight there'll be a ruckus, yeah/Regardless of what's come before."

The lyric could pass for something like the Monkeys' motto. And the song itself makes for a terrific first impression -- frenetic and full of attitude, with a delightful surprise: a minute-long coda that comes crashing down just as you've started to catch your breath.

The album is, principally, about being a young man in northern England, where life apparently revolves around girls, nightclubs and, especially, girls in said clubs. And so you have Turner singing about running the velvet-rope gantlet on "From the Ritz to the Rubble" ("Last night these two bouncers/And one of em's all right/The other one's the scary one/His way or no way, totalitarian"), and then about what happens once you get past security: the boys eyeballing the girls (on the exceedingly infectious "I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor"), the lads getting cold feet ("Dancing Shoes"), the inevitable brushoffs ("Still Take You Home"), the police harassment on the way home ("Riot Van," a quiet, meditative standout).

On "Fake Tales of San Francisco," Turner suffers through a performance by a "super-cool band" that's anything but. So phony is the group, so wretched is the music, that when one girl's cell phone rings, she sprints out the door, liberated at last. " 'Oh you've saved me,' she screams down the line," Turner sneers. " 'The band weren't very good/And I'm not having a nice time.' "

Obviously, that band was not the Arctic Monkeys, who are great sports for at least partly living up to the hype.