Alex Turner, born in High Green, Sheffield, was once the pinnacle of cool. His formative years led him to write about the things he saw, heard, and experienced on the streets of 21st century Britain, earning him a place as indie’s pied piper, playing to a loyal collective of like-minded souls who followed him wherever he went. The band scored chart success, critical acclaim, and sold out every venue they played twice over. Life was perfect for an Arctic Monkeys fan.
Then came that haircut. Soon after separating from girlfriend Alexa Chung, Turner engaged himself in a breakup hairdo that made him look like an extra from Grease. It didn’t look good. More than just a hair style, his whole demeanour changed. He suddenly started swinging his hips, speaking in a faux-American accent, and yes, combing his hair onstage.
He now talks to the crowd as if he’s Elvis Presley and this is Las Vegas. He swaggers around with sunglasses on when he’s indoors. He has fellow idiot Miles Kane by his side at all times like a handbag dog to his Paris Hilton (the pair have just started writing a 1960s-set film inspired by X-Men, how wonderful).
He gave possibly the worst speech ever at 2014’s Brit Awards. He’s just been caught up in a tax-evasion scheme, because what’s more rock ‘n’ roll than not contributing to the very society that you became famous in, man. Worst of all, he’s converted tens of thousands of once-innocent teenagers into an army of Fred Perry-wearing, air guitar-weilding, pint-throwing, ‘REAL MUSIC’-cliché spouting oiks with nothing better to do than Instagram pictures of their new parkas.
Alex Turner has not only turned into a ludicrous caricature of a rock star, he’s actually invented a whole new niche for such a thing. The man who once wrote, “You’re not from New York City, you’re from Rotherham”, should perhaps listen to his own younger self’s advice for once. You’re not from Los Angeles, you’re from Sheffield.