The Car wreck: Arctic Monkeys' latest is a chrome plated disaster
After an extended period of radio silence in which it was assumed that Arctic Monkeys were regrouping to craft a world-dominating comeback in response to the total miss of 2018's Tranquility Base Hotel + Casino, the band has emerged to deliver The Car - a chrome plated disaster that crumples under the weight of its own overwrought decadence like a malaise-era brougham upended in a roadside ditch.
People are going to heap praise on this album, they already have, but the reality is that The Car is desperately uneven. There are some high points, for sure, but the lows scrape bottom hard enough to threaten to scuttle the whole endeavor. It can be argued that TBH+C set the bar so low that its all but impossible for this album to not earn a blue ribbon for "Most Improved," but higher accolades prove just as elusive as Turner's meandering train of thought across The Car's ponderous track list.
Its apparent by now that Arctic Monkeys are solidly within their 'mature lounge act' phase, as the moth-ridden polyester vibes of TBH+C carry over nearly wholesale into The Car's general aesthetic. The whole affair is more tuneful than their previous effort but still smells faintly like the neglected interior of a grand vintage sedan left to languish in the musty stillness of a dark garage, an emblem of former excess deteriorating away into obsolescence. The problem may not be one of apathy, but rather a shift in priorities away from the elaborate vibrancy of a bygone age towards a staid existence reminiscing from the bottom of a rocks glass.
The Car frequently looks backwards, much in the same way that TBH+C did but without the retro sci-fi angle as a narrative framework. References to "city life 2009" and past triumphs as a card carrying member of the jet set abound, viewed from an even greater distance than the waning days of 2022 as if Arctic Monkeys are channeling the duality of Janus to simultaneously look backwards and forward through time, ungluing their perspective and resulting in a sense of resigned ambiguity that causes the entirety of the process to waver distractingly in and out of temporal focus.
Perhaps as a nod to the band's most notoriously successful LP, Arctic Monkeys occasionally dip into the pomade to imbue The Car with flashes of the slick, muscular attitude of AM, but these moments fade as quickly as they arise - like catching a passing glimpse of oneself in an old photo situated on the mantle. The effect is that of a sheepish acknowledgment of the past, vaguely embarrassed by the haircuts but secretly aware that those salad days are long over, replaced by the complacency of success and a half-hearted pantomime of more 'artistic' pursuits.
Transmitting from the sunset aft deck of a richer man's yacht, "I Ain't Quite Where I Think I Am" struggles with Arctic Monkey's newfound position as former Sheffield punks and LA lotharios too recently turned 'dignified' rock music elder statesmen desperately trying to fit in amongst the old money set while maintaining some semblance of an edge. There's a tangible sense of disorientation in the wake of tremendous success that the band flirts with addressing but ultimately fails to seal the deal amidst the ultracheese wah guitars and flat champagne prose that feels like an awkward karaoke-grade Sinatra impersonation. "Jet Skis On The Moat" continues the wah effect motif from "IAQWITIA," a little bigger but still capped off at the knees before allowing the idea to truly come together into anything compelling beyond a mildly amusing title that would have been more at home on an Action Bronson mixtape.
The baroque strings of "Body Paint" conjure images of an opening credit sequence from a 1980s Roger Moore 007 film, in which a venerated icon collapses in upon itself to emerge a full-on parody going through familiar motions and struggling to keep pace with the rapidly changing cultural landscape. Turner even goes so far as to break the fourth wall, admitting to the audience "I'm keeping on my costume and calling it a writing tool" in an attempt to make it seem like this entire farce had been carefully planned all along.
After a regretful cavalcade that juxtaposes visions of the past and possible futures, the riff at the end of "Big Ideas" is a welcome breath of fresh air that crackles briefly before transitioning into the intro of "Hello You," perhaps the most Arctic Monkeys of all the tracks on The Car that pulls references from across the band's catalog stretching back as far as Suck It And See. Had the band sidestepped the orbital listlessness of TBH+C, "Hello You" could have neatly served as a template for Nü Monkeys, an alternate dimension band that was able to grow in fresh new directions without completely abandoning previous accomplishments in favor of untested, unflattering sounds half-baked in pursuit of change simply for change's sake.
Turner's once biting vocal delivery has given way completely to a saccharin croon that flows with the sluggish transmission of black treacle off the spoon, reaching into uncomfortable falsettos as it tumbles among frustratingly obtuse non-sequiturs and half-hearted analogies. There's nothing as egregious as the notoriously cringe-inducing "kiss me under the Moon's sideboob" from TBH+C but its a wonder how Turner manages to maintain a straight face as he drops some real nuggets along the lines of "show-stoppers anonymous, come over here and give your buddy a hug."
Not for lack of trying, but Jamie Cook and Nick O'Malley's contributions to the Arctic Monkey's sound has been always been negligible at best. They're trying their hardest to stand out but this has always been The Alex Turner Show featuring Matt Helders hanging off the far end of the sofa as the ever reliable sidekick - ready at a moment's notice to roll a stinger off the skins to punctuate the boss' joke. Helders' powerful, machine gun percussion was once one of the band's most defining characteristics, so its incredibly disappointing to see his once effervescent technique mothball into subdued rhythms driven by diet jazz brushes and predictable cadences.
There are moments when Arctic Monkey's new style clicks, fleeting glimpses into an alternate reality where the band still traded their leather and denim for polyester suits but managed to hire a proper tailor to ensure the fresh threads fit properly. Yes, The Car is better than TBH+C, but really not by much.
If you're still curious, The Car is streaming on Spotify and available to buy from the label here or on Amazon. Follow Arctic Monkey's PR team on Instagram.