So looking back Whatever... was a historical document, a knife cutting to the heart of modern soceity, a documentary of a friday night out, it was an andrenaline rush, and most of all it was a moment in time. We can never go back, nor can Alex Turner, and he is aware of this fact as we our. Favorite Worst Nightmare proved that Whatever... was no fluke, that we were dealing with a once in a generation songwriter, but it seemed lost in transition, they were stretching their wings, oraganically evolving their influences and incorperating them into their sound, while simultaniously broadening their horizons. One question was left on everyones lips; what next?
Enter Humbug, immediately it becomes apparent that the Monkeys will not be a band content to relive their former glories. Alex Turner certainly subscribes to the creedo; evolve or die. So the first things to note is that the Monkeys have slowed down, right down. They no longer thrash on their guitars like their on caffine trip. So in come brooding sweeping arrangements. Reminiscant of sixties psycholodelia and of course Queen's Of The Stoneage. Josh Homme joins Ford on production duties and you'll soon notice the down tuned bass that drives the majority of the tracks on Humbug. The guitar work is more subtly, full of soft florishes, and layering affects. They have forgoed the immediate thrills of I Bet You Look Good... and Brianstorm for ominous atomspheric brushstrokes. This is no longer hit making, this isn't bouncy guitar to backed up killer lyrics, this is genuine songwriting, this is creating a mood, sculpting an soundscape, it's goergeous and powerful. You are rewarded for multiple listens new tricks are revealed with each and every spin.
As for Mr. Turner, he's no longer throwing out punch lines and one liners, he's instead telling us hypnotic tales. He's exchange his quasi rap yelp for a full on croon. The Scott Walker influences so obvious in The Last Of The Shadow Puppets are still present, with seedy guitars taking the place of lush strings. It's kind of like a brooding Tom Waits arrangement sung by Morrissey in a sheffeild accent and written by Turner. It's not as thrilling as the first time you listened to Whatever... it's a different animal all together, instead of jumping up and down and belting out catching cuplets; you now find yourself emmersed in these glorious musical landscapes and you'll have your mood altered, you fall in love with Turner's croon and become fully engrossed in his richly woven tales.
It's a mark to just how far Alex Turner has come as a lyricist that the punchline "What Came First The Chicken Or The Dickhead?" feels so uninteresting and cheap, it's a great line, but it feels out of place and pales in comparison the lush descriptive lyricism that defines Humbug. Pretty Visitors the track that gave birth to the prior punchline, is the albums most familar and approachable moment, while it bares the dullness of familarity, it still thrills with a haunting guitar arrangement that crunches and growls.
The albums three highlights and stand out tracks come towards the tale end of the album. Having forged a dark brooding landscape; that feels as if you've been cut adrift in a great ocean alone, with no one around, and the thick black crowds gathering overhead; conjuring a sense of great sorrow. We are then hit with three gorgeous tracks, rather than lightening bolts they are a cold and ghostly gusts wind chilling our souls. Cornerstone comes first, with Turner showing us his new powers of imagery;
"I Though I saw you in a battleship,
but it was only a look alike,
she was nothing but a vision trick under the warming light,
she was close, close enough to be your ghost,
but my chances turned to toast,
when I asked her if I could call you by her name"
It's amazing that a track that comes in so softly like a ray of light through the thick and brooding cloud turns out to be so tragic and solumn. It's not cliche to say that Cook's guitar glently weeps as Turner throws out emotive snapshots ("I smelt your scent on the seat belt"). It's followed in short order by Secret Door seeing Turner swapping between croon and yelp, and its the croon that plays for you heartstrings with more heartbreaking storytelling;
"She swam out of tonights Phantasm,
and grabbed by hand, and made it every clear,
there's absolutely nothing for us here"
The track builds and builds until it explodes into the huge sweeping ballad that was always threaten on Favorite Worst Nighmare. It's a glorious moment as Turner croons "fools on parade" as the backing vocals goregously coo. It's at this moment that Turner appears a mind out of time, his lyricism has transcended his generation. Whatever... could only have been written in the noughties, Humbug is a completely indefinable.
The album closes with the last of the three stand out tracks the pure beauty of The Jeweler's Hand. It has a bit of everything that has made this record so great, a huge creeping fuzzy bassline, some subtly guitar work, a dreamy (or is that nighmarish) arrangment and Turner's croon is simply a work of art, as he lives us with one last tragic image; "And your a sinking stone...that procession of pioneers all drown". The track builds to the most lush and tragic conclusion imaginable, it's one of the most tragic and emotive peices of music I've ever heard, utterly perfect.
Humbug, ultimately, is a work of art. An album of great scope, it's as dark as they come, desolate and atomspheric, tragically beautiful. Quite simply its the most mature and well crafted work the Monkeys have ever created. The one thing the album lacks is A Certain Romance, there is no human moment, that cuts deep to the heart of modern life, this is not a socail comentary, this as an epic brooding story telling session with ghostly tales of sex and failed romance. Humbug establishes the Arctic Monkeys as the greatest musicians in rock and roll today, it is not their most important work, I dare say it won't be their best remembered, it certainly won't be their most popular, but I can hardly fathom they'll ever forge a work more beautiful than this. A staggering work that must be heard in its entirity, utterly timless.
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