4 to Watch: The Arctic Monkeys

Hometown: Sheffield, England
Members [L-R]: Jamie Cook, guitar; Matt Helders, drums; Alex Turner, guitar/vocals; Andy Nicholson, bass
Fun fact: Frontman Alex Turner, who wrote “Fake Tales of San Francisco,” recalls every minute of his grandma-chaperoned trip to the Bay Area when he was eight.
Why they’re worth watching: The Monkeys turned the U.K. pop world on its ear in ’05 by rocketing a series of singles to the top of the charts, bolstered by a diehard retinue of singalong, tour-following fans dubbed the Arctic Army.
For fans of: Franz Ferdinand, Buzzcocks, Undertones

The group’s currently untitled Domino debut has yet to be released, but the Arctic Monkeys—by word of mouth alone—are already the biggest, must-hear buzz band Britain has seen since the glory days of Oasis. How did this happen? Even 19-year-old lead singer Alex Turner—on a 12-hour San Francisco layover before heading to Monkey-rabid Japan—isn’t so sure. The combo formed two years ago in industrial-grim Sheffield with an unusually bright outlook. As soon as they’d finish a demo, Turner says, “we’d hand ’em out at our shows. And the audience took those demos we made and spread ’em around, for whatever reason—copied ’em or put ’em on their websites.”

A behavior reminiscent of—gulp!—tie-dyed, tape-haggling Deadheads? Turner heartily guffaws. “I know! That’s pretty much what it was! And through trading, people got a certain affection for the songs and really started to care … so by the time we actually released something, people were so into it already that they went right out and bought it and we topped the British charts that week.”

The upcoming album, Turner says, will probably feature early hits like “I Bet You Look Good On The Dance Floor” and “When The Sun Goes Down” (a true-crime tale of sordid after-dark activity in Sheffield), plus new numbers “Riot Van,” “Still Take You Home” and “The View From The Afternoon.” Do the Monkeys have what it takes to be stars? Turner—a shy, soft-spoken lad—turns into a veritable whirling dervish onstage, typhooning through a pogo-manic set like some CBGB’s vet from the ’70s. And half the S.F. crowd, believe it or not, is singing along with every bombastic syllable.