Smart Alex

Given the roll he's on at the moment you wouldn’t be surprised if Alex Turner ends up succeeding Sven as England manager.
One of the few rock ‘n’ rollers to appear on the cover of The Sun recently for non-supermodel squiring reasons, the 19-year-old woke up last Monday to find that he’s authored the fastest-selling UK debut album of all-time.
It’s no wonder then that Arctic Monkeys’ NME Tour visit to Dublin is a full-blown media circus, with Turner and his bandmates unable to scratch their arses without somebody from the BBC, ITV, The Star, The Times or, ahem, Hot Press zooming in on it.
Apparently, though, they’re taking it all in their stride with a Monkeys source revealing that, “The only thing that’s made them go, ‘Fucking hell, is this for real?’ is hearing that the Sugababes are recording a cover of ‘I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor’. I don’t think it’d struck ‘em how far they’d seeped into the mainstream until then.”
Never mind seeping, the Sheffield quartet have deluged a media who are holding internal inquiries to discover how the Monkeys snuck in under their radar. The same journalists who are palsy-walsy with Sharon and Louis are having to offer up theses on why using the ‘net to circumvent the established music industry is where it’s at. Hell, the Daily Mirror even ran a ‘Who’s Next’ piece namechecking ¡Forward, Russia! who a fortnight ago would have to have been caught shagging a dead spaniel to make it into the tabs. The world has gone DIY, indie mad and I, for one, am thoroughly enjoying it!
The Arctic Monkeys aren’t the only band who are appearing at the Ambassador tonight, which is why hotpress have Maxïmo Park’s Paul Smith perched precariously on top of the Parnell Monument.
Second only to Alex Kapranos in the affable rock frontman stakes, Smith uses the time between shots to explain how he gets the inspiration for his songs.
“I make a point of going out for a walk in whatever city we’re in, and then jotting random thoughts and words down in my diary,” says he of the Bobby Charlton comb-over. “When it gets to the proper lyric stage, I type up ‘em on envelopes. Or used to. The typewriter I had for years died, so I’ve started using a laptop which is a bit soulless.”
If Maxïmo Park’s next album is full of Kraftwerkian tales of techumans, you’ll know why.
Sticking with a winning formula, we treat We Are Scientists to a stroll round the Garden of Remembrance. They don’t have any particular affiliation with fallen World War One soldiers, but are sufficiently moved by their surroundings to ask us to forward them on a few snaps. We also subjected New York’s three handsomest bachelors – their words, not ours – to a thorough journalistic grilling, the results of which you’ll be able to read in a fortnight’s time.
The late arrival of their bus means that we don’t even get to meet Mystery Jets, which is a shame because they’ve quite a story to tell. As well as being the only Britrock hopefuls with a father (Henry, 55) and son (Blaine, 20) in the band, there’s the not always welcome attention that comes from Harrison Jr. being born with spina bifida and offstage having to use crutches.
Imagine Liam O Maonlai at a psychedelic love-in with Syd Barrett, Ray Davies and Brian Eno, and you’ve some idea of the freeform racket the Eel Pie Island outfit make.
Lyrically too, it isn’t every day that you come across a song (‘Alas Agnes’) which addresses the socio-political fallout of a “man who falls in love with a transvestite who has lesbian tendencies, has a sex change and then discovers the transvestite has found someone else.”
Beating the crap out of a homemade percussion kit, which includes a dustbin lid and leather briefcase, Harrisson The Younger is a compelling frontman but perhaps a bit too clever and, well, hippyish for the band’s own good.
There’s nary a whiff of patchouli oil about We Are Scientists, whose roots are firmly planted in NYC’s post-punk scene. Muscular, geeky and tuneful in equal measures – this is starting to sound like a Weezer review – they instantly get the mosh-pit going with a version of ‘Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt’ that sears eyeballs.
Unfortunately, not all of the Scientists’ songs are so impactful, and by the time their set reaches the half-hour stage you’re beginning to wish it really was Rivers Cuomo & Co. up there.
Which brings us to Arctic Monkeys, the most eagerly awaited support act since Robbie Williams opened for The Verve at Slane.
Displaying the same self-belief as Robbie, the Monkeys toss out their two monster hits first, safe in the knowledge that they've plenty more aces up their snorkel parka sleeves.
The crowd react to ‘When The Sun Goes Down’ and ‘I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor’ by indulging in the new indie pastime of ‘throw the pint’, one of which hits my companion full in the face. She’s not impressed. More to her liking is Turner’s cocksure strutting, which leads to the scribbling down of “young”, “Paul” and “Weller” in the Clarkian notebook.
His bandmates may suffer from charisma deficiency, but make up for it with a level of musicianship that belies their tender years. Indeed, for all this talk of fermenting rock ‘n’ roll revolution, the Monkeys are a remarkably traditional bunch who recognise quality songwriting as the key to sustained success.
There’s plenty of that tonight with ‘Fake Tales Of San Francisco’, ‘You Probably Couldn’t See For The Lights But You Were Looking Straight At Me’ and ‘A Certain Romance’ confirming that, when he gets it right, Turner is as scalpel-sharp a lyricist as Morrissey.
Being new to the game, though, he still drops the odd clanger like ‘Perhaps Vampires Is A Bit Strong But…’, which sounds like Uriah Heep (ask your dad) on a bad night.
The fake ID brigade love them, though, and rightly so.
Having covered their Heineken Green Room show in Limerick last issue, there’s no need for us to tell you again how awesome a live outfit Maxïmo Park have become. The kid’s are alright, and so are the grown-ups.