Arctic Monkeys - Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not Review

Two decades on, the Sheffield band’s debut still stands as the moment the internet, word of mouth and a thick Yorkshire accent changed British guitar music.

The early noughties were a strange time for music. A few years before, the hedonistic joy of Britpop had buckled under its own weight and inadvertently given rise to far more inoffensive, industry-compliant bands like Coldplay, Keane and Travis. The pendulum had swung back to America. Radio stations and music channels were awash with nu metal, emo and skate punk. Bands like The Strokes momentarily dragged us out of the mire, but that gave rise to another problem. Open mic night at your local boozer was now brimming with blazer-wearing wannabes. Swathes of trilbies as far as the eye could see. It was a veritable hellscape, somewhere between a Hieronymus Bosch painting and a half-price sale at Urban Outfitters.

I mention all of this to illustrate why an 18-year-old singing about British youth culture in a thick Yorkshire accent felt like such a pivotal moment. Ridiculous as it seems now, it was almost exotic hearing a British band sing the way they actually spoke. “You’re not from New York City, you’re from Rovram!” came the rallying cry. A great shift had occurred. We didn’t have to pretend anymore.

Not only were Arctic Monkeys unashamedly Northern, they attained success the old-fashioned way, through word of mouth. Only this time it was spreading online as well as in person, something that still felt relatively new back then.

Their rapid rise could have heralded a new dawn of innovative indie bands freed from industry meddling. Instead, record companies quickly reverse-engineered the formula and began signing anyone who owned a guitar and a pair of skinny jeans. What might have been another Brit invasion soon collapsed into the often maligned and somewhat misunderstood trappings of landfill indie.

Arctic Monkeys, however, were far too good to sink beneath the refuse. Their debut album, Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not, has now reached its twentieth anniversary. We didn’t know it at the time, but it signalled a seismic shift in how music was discovered, consumed and promoted.

This was a period when long-established gatekeepers of cool like Top of the Pops and The Chart Show were beginning to feel archaic. The kids were choosing computer screens over television screens. Even the Official UK Top 40 didn’t hold the same prestige it once did. The way we connected with music was changing forever, and Arctic Monkeys were at the forefront. 

I grew up in Chesterfield, an old market town with a crooked spire and a million bakeries. It’s only a few miles from Sheffield, so like many local music fans, the first time I heard Arctic Monkeys was via the Beneath the Boardwalk demos circulating on file-sharing sites such as the now-defunct Dancing Jesus. The collection featured early versions of “Fake Tales of San Francisco”, “I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor”, “A Certain Romance” and “Mardy Bum”, many of which would form the backbone of Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not.

I didn’t even have the internet at home, so file sharing was alien to me. Thankfully, a friend had heard about Arctic Monkeys from an old schoolmate who’d been drunkenly raving about them in a nightclub weeks earlier. He downloaded the 18-track Beneath the Boardwalk and burned it onto a CD for me. As he handed it over, he told me they were the next big thing. I was sceptical. I thought their name was shite and told him they’d only get big if they changed it.

Famously, much of this file sharing and CD burning was happening without the band’s knowledge. They’d simply handed out a bunch of demos at early gigs. Their rapidly expanding fanbase did the rest. The resulting online buzz had already set them on a path towards national, and soon global, stardom, long before a major label had even entered the picture.

Back then, Arctic Monkeys rehearsed at Yellow Arch Studios, tucked away on an industrial estate in Neepsend. As well as being home to some of the cheapest practice rooms in the North, it also sat near Sheffield’s red-light district, a setting Alex Turner would immortalise in the song we then knew as “Scummy”, but which would later be released as “When the Sun Goes Down”.

The Sheffield four-piece dragged this underworld, alongside tales of knackered Converse, bigger boys, smoke-filled strip clubs and late-night taxi rides, back into the cultural zeitgeist. Not long after hearing the demos, I went to see them at The Forum in Sheffield. They were playing pool when we walked in and looked like kids who’d stopped in for a couple of Panda Pops on their way home from school. They didn’t sound like that. They sounded huge and frighteningly polished. They hadn’t officially released anything, yet people were already singing along. Something big was happening.

When I saw them again about a month later, they were still unsigned and still playing local bars and pubs, but word had spread and the place was rammed. Those who couldn’t squeeze inside watched through the windows from the car park. We’d arrived early and secured a spot at the front. About three seconds into the frenetic opening of “I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor”, someone flew over my head and landed on the stage. Alex Turner mouthed, “Fucking hell,” and the place erupted into euphoric chaos.

For a fleeting moment, Sheffield felt like the epicentre of cool. Bands like Milburn, Little Man Tate and Harrisons also emerged from the Steel City, and 2005 began to feel like Manchester had, ten years earlier. Unfortunately, the movement stalled almost as quickly as it began. No one else could manage the same meteoric rise that Alex Turner, Jamie Cook, Matt Helders and Andy Nicholson were making look so effortless.

In June 2005, Arctic Monkeys entered Chapel Studios in Lincolnshire to record their debut album with producer Jim Abbiss. Songs from Beneath the Boardwalk and their self-released EP Five Minutes with Arctic Monkeys were re-recorded and joined by newer tracks such as “Red Light Indicates Doors Are Secured” and “A View from the Afternoon”. The album was recorded in just two weeks, with Abbiss keen to capture the energy of those early live shows.

The last time I saw them in Sheffield was at The Boardwalk. Tickets were a fiver. It effectively marked the beginning of their first proper UK tour, which would culminate in a Reading Festival appearance and a deal with Domino Records. It was the first time I’d paid to see them, a sure sign their stock had shifted into bankable territory. There was a palpable sense that the days of Arctic Monkeys as Sheffield’s best-kept secret were numbered. The gig was sweaty, loud and sublime. Afterwards, strangers hugged in the street, united by the feeling that we’d witnessed something before the rest of the world caught up. It was a bittersweet moment. Deep down, we knew they didn’t belong to us anymore.

A few weeks later, I was at Sheffield Railway Station when a mate texted me: “Arctic Monkeys at number one.” And that was that.

Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not sold over 118,000 copies on its first day of release, more than the rest of the Top 20 albums combined. It became the fastest-selling debut album in British chart history at the time and has since surpassed two million UK sales. It produced two UK number one singles, “I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor” and “When the Sun Goes Down”, and secured its place in British music folklore.

These days Yellow Arch Studios is a swanky gig venue, and the surrounding area has followed suit. Arctic Monkeys themselves seem sleeker now too, all leather jackets and sculpted quiffs. I’ll always have a soft spot for them, although I don’t think they ever quite matched the electricity and unbridled innocence of those early years. I mean, how could they?

I still think they should have changed their name though.