Arctic Monkeys character study
Serious Arctic Monkeys fic. Somebody please shoot me. 5 Things Arctic Monkeys Said When They Got Famous Like for dreamofthem
I apologise in advance if you are offended with image of the music industry that I'm putting forth here.
Alex Turner is new to being famous. Interviews are still a laugh, shows are still fun. "What do you think of The Libertines?" asks one journalist, "You're so often compared to their music, but how do you feel about being the ones to 'carry on their legacy' so to speak?"
"Carl Barat is fit," says Alex, with a slight blush. The journalist looks delighted. "Oh?" he begins, but is stopped by Matt.
"Excuse me," Matt interrupts, taking Alex's arm and pulling him out of the room. Jamie and Andy leaned forward to speak to the journalist in the corner of Alex's eye before Matt closes the door firmly behind them.
"You can't say that," Matt says, pushing Alex against the wall, arms on either side of him. "You've got to think before you speak."
"Say what?"
"Carl Barat is fit."
"Why not? He is. It's a fact."
"No. No. It makes us look like one of those gay bands."
"So?" Alex is not of entirely straight persuasion. Neither is Matt. Jamie could care less about sex and Andy's in love with his girlfriend. Not that any of these things matter. They make fucking good music and that's all.
"Gay bands don't sell records, Alex. Don't you want to be taken seriously?"
--
"363,000 sales, give or take a couple hundred. You've just made history, boys," their manager reads over the phone from London. The band is struck dumb in Sheffield.
"Jesus fuck," says Jamie.
--
"I was on the dacefloor last night with a couple of choice members of Franz Ferdinand," says Alex flippantly to an NME hack at some awards show or another. He thinks he is telling an amusing anecdote. He isn't. He is providing the hack with the means to bring down a kingdom. "Dancefloor, our style."
A member of the Kaiser Chiefs happens to be passing by the table and, after hearing Alex's comment, he grabs Alex Turner around the neck, mock choking Alex and ruffling his hair with showy affection.
"Our Alex, eh?" he says, with a wink at the hack. "He just never stops. Busy man! How's the hangover? Still alive after last night I see. You were so drunk, Ricky was afraid you might not make it back to your hotel."
"Party?" asks the hack hopefully. The Kaiser Chief's arm tightens around Alex's throat. He shakes his head. "No party, but we were double-booked for a DJ gig last night." The Kaiser Chief smiles. "So Alex got drunk and left Ricky and I to the djing duties. Told us to play his record though."
"Any other bands hanging about?" presses the hack. The Kaiser Chief shakes his head. "Nah, just us."
The hack turns away. The Kaiser Chiefs leans down and hisses in Alex's ear, too sharp and close to be seductive- "watch it, cunt."
Alex turns to watch The Kaiser Chief's retreating back. He doesn't even know the guy's name.
--
"We are," Matt chooses his words carefully, "the best band in the fucking world."
"Universe."
"Millennia is a better word."
"That leaves the dinosaurs, man. Since time began. We're the best band since time began."
The band grin at each other anxiously. If only the NME had heard them practicing. Their manager sticks his head through the open doorway. "Alright? You've got an audience waiting, you know."
The audience are the beginning and end of time for the band when they take the stage five minutes later.
--
There are groupies waiting outside for the band. Jamie and Andy go straight for the girls. Alex and Matt are more interested in the teenage boys in oversized "Arctic Monkeys" t-shirts hanging off their thin frames. The boys with smiles on their faces and pens in their hands.
One boy in particular shutters with terrified energy and nervous infatuation when Alex holds his arm to steady so he can sign the lad's forearm. Alex writes his name and, pausing only briefly to exchange a look with Matt, writes down their hotel address and room number.
"See you later," says Alex.
I apologise in advance if you are offended with image of the music industry that I'm putting forth here.
Alex Turner is new to being famous. Interviews are still a laugh, shows are still fun. "What do you think of The Libertines?" asks one journalist, "You're so often compared to their music, but how do you feel about being the ones to 'carry on their legacy' so to speak?"
"Carl Barat is fit," says Alex, with a slight blush. The journalist looks delighted. "Oh?" he begins, but is stopped by Matt.
"Excuse me," Matt interrupts, taking Alex's arm and pulling him out of the room. Jamie and Andy leaned forward to speak to the journalist in the corner of Alex's eye before Matt closes the door firmly behind them.
"You can't say that," Matt says, pushing Alex against the wall, arms on either side of him. "You've got to think before you speak."
"Say what?"
"Carl Barat is fit."
"Why not? He is. It's a fact."
"No. No. It makes us look like one of those gay bands."
"So?" Alex is not of entirely straight persuasion. Neither is Matt. Jamie could care less about sex and Andy's in love with his girlfriend. Not that any of these things matter. They make fucking good music and that's all.
"Gay bands don't sell records, Alex. Don't you want to be taken seriously?"
--
"363,000 sales, give or take a couple hundred. You've just made history, boys," their manager reads over the phone from London. The band is struck dumb in Sheffield.
"Jesus fuck," says Jamie.
--
"I was on the dacefloor last night with a couple of choice members of Franz Ferdinand," says Alex flippantly to an NME hack at some awards show or another. He thinks he is telling an amusing anecdote. He isn't. He is providing the hack with the means to bring down a kingdom. "Dancefloor, our style."
A member of the Kaiser Chiefs happens to be passing by the table and, after hearing Alex's comment, he grabs Alex Turner around the neck, mock choking Alex and ruffling his hair with showy affection.
"Our Alex, eh?" he says, with a wink at the hack. "He just never stops. Busy man! How's the hangover? Still alive after last night I see. You were so drunk, Ricky was afraid you might not make it back to your hotel."
"Party?" asks the hack hopefully. The Kaiser Chief's arm tightens around Alex's throat. He shakes his head. "No party, but we were double-booked for a DJ gig last night." The Kaiser Chief smiles. "So Alex got drunk and left Ricky and I to the djing duties. Told us to play his record though."
"Any other bands hanging about?" presses the hack. The Kaiser Chief shakes his head. "Nah, just us."
The hack turns away. The Kaiser Chiefs leans down and hisses in Alex's ear, too sharp and close to be seductive- "watch it, cunt."
Alex turns to watch The Kaiser Chief's retreating back. He doesn't even know the guy's name.
--
"We are," Matt chooses his words carefully, "the best band in the fucking world."
"Universe."
"Millennia is a better word."
"That leaves the dinosaurs, man. Since time began. We're the best band since time began."
The band grin at each other anxiously. If only the NME had heard them practicing. Their manager sticks his head through the open doorway. "Alright? You've got an audience waiting, you know."
The audience are the beginning and end of time for the band when they take the stage five minutes later.
--
There are groupies waiting outside for the band. Jamie and Andy go straight for the girls. Alex and Matt are more interested in the teenage boys in oversized "Arctic Monkeys" t-shirts hanging off their thin frames. The boys with smiles on their faces and pens in their hands.
One boy in particular shutters with terrified energy and nervous infatuation when Alex holds his arm to steady so he can sign the lad's forearm. Alex writes his name and, pausing only briefly to exchange a look with Matt, writes down their hotel address and room number.
"See you later," says Alex.