I have been to a lot of shows. Likely too many for someone who enjoys occasionally liking music uncritically. I have never seen what I saw at Terminal 5 on Thursday. I have seen the deodorant-phobic and the horn-rimmed scuttle and pine around the feet of Jenny Lewis. I have seen the pierced, stewed, and tattooed rally ‘bout the flagpole legs of Exene Cervenka. I have seen the young girls in their summer clothes flock to the clarion call of heart-throbs like Julian Casablancas and (I eternally regret this) Conor Oberst. But I have never seen what I saw at Terminal 5.
Throngs. Throngs of ‘em. All, to the straining eye (and you can bet your sweet $34.95 that I strained), ostensibly heterosexual. Bridge-and-tunnel tribal markers from head to toe: white flat-bill baseball caps, loose jeans, Billabong t-shirts, dull-eyed and traditionally handsome stares. And until a certain point in the night, I would have expected to see them doing, I don’t know, keg-stands, whatever that rarest species, the straight, white, middle-class guy does for fun. Then everything changed.
Arctic Monkeys took the stage.
Every goddamn one of them underwent a drastic change brought on by the noise and the strobe lights and the artificial.
Suddenly, we were at the Ed Sullivan show and the Fab 4 had just shambled into view. I have never seen so many jocks and stoned out Everydudes cringe, scream, and spontaneously orgasm unabashedly at the sight of four unassuming men. Either sexual mores have widened and transformed for the better while I wasn’t looking, or the Arctic Monkey’s deserve an award. I’ll do the honors. It’ll be awarded via the post. The letter will read:
Dear Monkeys,
You are hereby awarded the enviable title of SUBJECT OF AMERICA’S BIGGEST MAN-CRUSH. In lieu of a trophy, enjoy the sweet, warm wash of bro-love that we can only assume seeps syrup-like through your windows every morning when you awake.
Good job!
Lou Wright
‘SUP Magazine’s Lou Wright on the Arctic Monkeys Terminal 5 show
Throngs. Throngs of ‘em. All, to the straining eye (and you can bet your sweet $34.95 that I strained), ostensibly heterosexual. Bridge-and-tunnel tribal markers from head to toe: white flat-bill baseball caps, loose jeans, Billabong t-shirts, dull-eyed and traditionally handsome stares. And until a certain point in the night, I would have expected to see them doing, I don’t know, keg-stands, whatever that rarest species, the straight, white, middle-class guy does for fun. Then everything changed.
Arctic Monkeys took the stage.
Every goddamn one of them underwent a drastic change brought on by the noise and the strobe lights and the artificial.
Suddenly, we were at the Ed Sullivan show and the Fab 4 had just shambled into view. I have never seen so many jocks and stoned out Everydudes cringe, scream, and spontaneously orgasm unabashedly at the sight of four unassuming men. Either sexual mores have widened and transformed for the better while I wasn’t looking, or the Arctic Monkey’s deserve an award. I’ll do the honors. It’ll be awarded via the post. The letter will read:
Dear Monkeys,
You are hereby awarded the enviable title of SUBJECT OF AMERICA’S BIGGEST MAN-CRUSH. In lieu of a trophy, enjoy the sweet, warm wash of bro-love that we can only assume seeps syrup-like through your windows every morning when you awake.
Good job!
Lou Wright
‘SUP Magazine’s Lou Wright on the Arctic Monkeys Terminal 5 show
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