On Sept. 9 at Forest Hills Stadium in Queens, New York, a 37-year-old Alex Turner languidly sauntered onto stage. At this point in his career, he can afford to adorn a casual, cool-guy persona: the alternative rock crooner merely struts the stage in his black leather boots, and the crowd goes berserk.
Despite being on the North American leg of their “The Car Tour”—celebrating their relaxed, lounge-pop seventh studio album of the same name—the Arctic Monkeys brought back the rockabilly aesthetics of their fifth studio album, “AM,” for the night. The 10-year anniversary of “AM” coincided with the Forest Hills Sept. 9 tour date. As I walked through a sea of knee socks and black tennis skirts, slowly making my way to the stadium seats, the crowd was more reminiscent of a 2013 garage-rock show than a 2023 sold-out stadium.
To commemorate their piece of mid-2010s cultural iconography—an homage to the dark corners of lackluster night clubs and middle-of-the-night texts from ex-lovers—the quartet brought out English performance poet John Cooper Clarke. With tinted sunglasses and a gravelly voice, Clarke, a living legend of late ’70s punk poetry stage performance, began to recite the longing lines of his poem “I Wanna Be Yours.” Originally released on Clarke’s 1982 album “Zip Style Method,” “I Wanna Be Yours” was covered by Turner and the band for “AM.” Clarke’s rhythmic ramblings of personifying vacuum cleaners and electric meters perfectly coincide with Turner’s melancholic serenades that occupy the equally gloomy album.
Despite Turner’s melodramatic musings on “AM,” the Arctic Monkeys opened their Forest Hills Show with the electricity-laced hit “Do I Wanna Know.” This opener decision was a departure from the tour’s usual setlist—the band has opened most shows with “Sculptures of Anything Goes,” a gritty, bass-driven track from the tour’s namesake. At the first chords of the fan favorite, a nostalgia-tripping crowd roared in the stands, instantly singing along.
From the first song onwards, the band kept their infectious energy up. Tearing through notable up-beat classics from their catalog, the entire stadium was standing and bobbing around, mirroring Turner’s sporadic parading around the stage. Hearing the seamless and unexpected transition between two less frequently played tracks—“Teddy Picker” and “Crying Lightning,” from the band’s second studio album “Favorite Worst Nightmare” and third “Humbug,” respectively—was a particular highlight. Nick O’Malley’s bass riffs brought the songs to a new, never-before-heard life. Unlike the recorded versions of the songs, the live show was grounded in a crunchy, yet consistent, rhythm.
Throughout the night, the Monkeys played plenty more songs from “AM” in honor of its 10th birthday. Although my personal favorite Arctic Monkeys album is “Humbug,” “AM” holds a special place in my heart because of its dark-hued aesthetics—a primary influence on my middle-school fashion sense. “AM” marked a time in my life where I was not only discovering my own personal music taste, but also my personality itself. The age of mid-2010s alternative rock aligned with my adolescence. As my shouted lyrics echoed those of the crowd, I felt connected to every former tween-rocker. In fact, I could not help but let out a girlish squeal when guitarist Jamie Cook effortlessly shredded a riff during the climax of “Arabella,” a sultry ballad that reveres interstellar-gator skin boots and Barbarella silver swimsuits.
As the sun set behind the low-hanging clouds, the quartet began to slow things down. For the duration of the show, a giant mirrorball emblazoned with MONKEYS spun tentatively in circles. Tranquil piano suddenly sounded, and a giant spotlight shone on the mirrorball, signaling the start of the lead single from “The Car,” “There’d Better be a Mirrorball.” The whole stadium was lit with glittering light that matched the sparkling night sky, the stadium moving in time with the beat. Subtly, the slinky tune shifted into the opening piano chords of “505.” I had to catch my breath before diving head first into screaming the lyrics—an experience both beautiful and cathartic.
The concert came to a close without its energy dwindling. Each familiar song elicited memories and subsequent excitement I had not felt since my adolescent years. As Turner trampolined around the stage, becoming just a young rockstar from Sheffield with a curtain of shaggy hair, I became my 13-year-old self again, sitting on my living room floor, doing my algebra homework and listening to the Arctic Monkeys.