Arctic Monkeys

As anyone who has had the pleasure of visiting The Charlotte will tell you, describing it as part of the toilet circuit does a disservice to lavatories.

When bands without any real fans other than their school friends play there it’s not too much of a problem. Sure, the barrier – if you can call it that – has partly collapsed but that’s okay because nobody is stood anywhere near it. That’s because The Manhattan Project have forgotten that when nobody’s actually there to watch you, you need to do something vaguely original. They didn't, and it was so hot that a long trip to the bar was in order.

By the time The Little Flames arrive on stage things are a little livelier. People hover around the fallen metal barrier and shuffle around a bit in time to the scouse five-piece’s skewered take on pop. Edgy and noisy, with a guitarist whose playing style makes The Arcade Fire’s percussionist look sane, they’re a highly original fix of female fronted craziness. Lazy journos will no doubt describe them as The Coral being molested by Sonic Youth, and they won’t be too far wrong.

Anybody who accuses Arctic Monkeys of riding on The Libertines’ coat-tails, on the other hand, will be. Sure, they’re both four-pieces and they both write classically English lyrics but did Carl and Pete ever take to the stage with Snoop Dogg and Dr Dre blasting from the speakers?

By the time Alex and co. wander through the newly parted crowd (there is no other way for them to get to their instruments), The Charlotte is packed to the rafters and still unbearably warm. Guess some people read NME this week, because as soon as the first note is struck anybody within a metre of the stage is flung against the barrier - fixed by staff in anticipation of the headline set.

It’s as though Arctic Monkeys suddenly have songs that make people want to go crazy. But as those from Sheffield will testify, they’ve had tunes this good for a while. Punky and funky in equal measure, their breakneck take on Brit pop (notice the space) combines overdriven guitars aplenty with lyrics that have relevance and resonance to anybody growing up in the noughties.

Jilted teen love tales? Check, ‘Bigger Boys And Stolen Sweethearts.’ Saturday night club shenanigans? Indeedy, ‘Dancing Shoes’ and ‘I Bet That You Look Good On The Dancefloor.’ Fledgling rockers thinking they’re all that? ‘Fake Tales Of San Francisco,’ sir.

And that’s without mentioning the two aces they have up their sleeve. ‘Scummy,’ and ‘A Certain Romance’ both spark near carnage in the crowd, but the melodies are so sweet and the rythyms so catchy that it's (almost) worth getting crushed. Security try desperately, and surprisingly successfully, to keep people off the stage as they finish the set, without an encore, and head off safe in the knowledge that the virus is spreading.

Next stop? World domination, of course. You’ve seen ‘28 Days Later,’ haven't you?