British invasion conquers Missouri

By Jordan Sargent

Published Sept. 18, 2007

Sept. 13, 2007, Uptown Theatre, Kansas City: Alex Turner, the gaunt lead singer of Arctic Monkeys, and his band amble quietly on stage. For the biggest band in the world, they're startlingly unassuming. The four make their way to their instruments (Turner front center, drummer Matt Helders behind him, guitarist Jamie Cook stage left, new bassist Nick O'Malley stage right) and pick them up without acknowledging the crowd.

It would be easy to wonder what the fuss is about, or rather how these four guys, of all people, will end up selling more records in their home country than any band in history. Then, without any real warning or indication, they launch into a torrid, roaring and beastly instrumental. These guys are loud. Thirty seconds later, the song nimbly transitions into "This House Is a Circus," from their second album Favourite Worst Nightmare. They're agile, too.

It makes sense that Arctic Monkeys are a stunning live band: in roughly two years, they've gone from playing to crowds of 50 to crowds of 50,000. But rock songs — especially ones as nuanced as these — don't necessarily go over well live, particularly when performed by dudes who just kind of stand there.

Arctic Monkeys, though, manage to turn their sound up — way up — without losing any of their songs' intricacies. The levels were perfect: the guitars pummeled harder, the bass growled with more ferocity and the drums punched with equal pop and clarity.

This was a refined show by a refined band, and they ran through a perfectly sequenced set list. The show was all brawlers, no bawlers, and though ballads like "Mardy Bum" and "505" are fine songs, the relentless pace sustained by the band's rock songs was invigorating.

They were gone (no encore) after a rousing "A Certain Romance," the song that alone justifies the hype and accolades. Few words were spoken, more was said with the songs, but the body language was most telling. It was an effortlessly confident, stuff-of-legends performance. People doubting this band, or its insane stardom, are kidding themselves.

Cross state, one night later, Bloc Party played to a (surprisingly) stuffed The Pageant in St. Louis. It's nice to see that people still care about this band.

Its second album, A Weekend in the City, has been unjustly maligned nearly everywhere. It's a more obtuse listen, tougher to swallow and heavy on "heaviness." But it's the sort second album a band that's around to stay makes. It reaches, maybe too far, but enough to show that they've got good ideas beyond their near-classic debut.

That said, the songs from the band's first album are nearly unanimously better, and they still soared and thumped and tugged and floored nearly two years later.

The songs from the second album — we were treated to the record's first four — were near revelatory in their sonic precision. The top-heavy guitar line about one minute into set opener "Songs for Clay (Disappear Here)" worked perfectly as the swift punch to the mouth set-opening songs need to deliver, and the searing guitar solo that climaxes "Uniform" might have been the show's musical highlight.

So the songs sounded great. Anything less would have been a wild disappointment. But the show made the leap from efficient and very good to text-everyone-you-know great for one reason: lead singer Kele Okereke (don't laugh).

Okereke, though he's an absolutely fantastic songwriter, will probably never be confused with having a sense of humor or much of an outward personality, even by his biggest supporters.

When I saw Bloc Party about a year in a half ago in Miami, the band turned in a good, competent, but rather listless show. They didn't look disinterested as much as unsurprised.

So chalk it up to Okereke's admitted surprise at the size of the crowd that he was outwardly giddy. He danced on stage, not because that's what people do on stage, but because he couldn't control his energy. He goaded overhead claps from the crowd an innumerable amount of times. He sauntered offstage only to re-emerge in the light shredding back-to-back with guitarist Russel Lissack (cheesy, but cute).

For the encore he donned a white Evil Knievel-esque jumpsuit with a full American flag hanging from the shoulders. He made his way into the crowd and did a lap around the theatre. It was hilarious, endearing and eye-opening. We're lucky this band's not going anywhere. They're lucky we're not either.