The Arctic Monkeys : A Love Letter

19 Nov


As I’m turning twenty this week, I justified spending £80 on an Arctic Monkeys ticket. Boy, was it worth it.

After queuing for an hour in little more than sheer Primark and flimsy silk, I found myself – inexplicably – in one of the front rows for the Sheffield boys. Even people who had been there all day with pillows could have hardly got a better eyeful of Alex Turner’s belt buckle…

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The Strypes – who are only between sixteen and eighteen but who this year played at the GQ AWARDS no less, were supporting. Headed by Ross Farelly and his immovable sunglasses, Angel Eyes and You Can’t Judge A Book By The Cover were enough to convince me that I should have started to learn an instrument aged three.

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Opening with Do I Wanna Know, the luxurious sounds of the Arctic Monkeys finally bled out into the massive arena, inciting a mosh pit that I should have expected but didn’t. I’d never had my hair almost ripped out, had pee thrown at me or indeed, sweated that much in my life. But now I have. And it was amazing.


Not easily impressed, I went to screaming pieces before the suited front man, who sang each and every song exactly as you hear it on the album. What you can’t see though, what everyone really should experience, is the eroticism with which Alex delivers his lyrics. I’ve never believed anyone more than when:

“I dreamt about you nearly every night this week”

was executed with the slightest of hip movements. It was like he was having sex with the entire audience, all at once. And when my favourite, I Wanna Be Yours was performed alongside the canons of silver confetti, it only made sane the mad idea I’d had in my head to have the song play as I walk down the aisle (yes, really.)

Coming away with a poster and a desperate crush, I can only pity those who didn’t get to see the Arctic Monkeys in their hometown. Sorry, but I do.



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