“We’re ‘avin a Soonday parteh, a fookin’ Soonday parteh!” That’s Arctic Monkeys frontman Alex Turner. 

With all the hype (and subsequent backlash) around the band after their rapid rise to stardom, the Monkeys should be playing like they have a point to prove. But do they? Far from it. They’re northern geezers who want to shag and get pissed. We’re ‘avin’ a fookin’ parteh!

Similar to the Arctic Monkeys in style and attitude are The Grates. Sure, they A. aren’t English, B. are two-thirds female and C. have no bass guitarist, but the Brisbane trio are barely out of their teens and, like tonight’s headliners, couldn’t care less if their careers ended tomorrow.

The Grates also rely on a minimal back catalogue, but unlike the Arctic Monkeys, they aren’t expected to play an hour-long headline set. This suits the band perfectly, as they play a short and sharp set full of favourites. Even the pommy backpackers in the crowd start to get into Trampoline, Science is Golden and 19-20-20. But there’s no question about who everyone’s here to see — the lagered-up geezers making this crystal clear.

There’s time for about 10 rounds between bands and by the time the Monkeys finally arrive on stage, the smell of sweat and lager is nauseating. But in the blink of an eye we have the awesome foursome in front of us, easing through opener Riot Van. As Turner’s vocals stumble over laid-back guitar chords that hang at the end of every line, it’s as though the other three-quarters of the band are threatening something big. And before you can say “Stella Artois is Northern for wife-beater,” we’re stuck right into The View From the Afternoon — if they had anything to prove five minutes ago, it’s been proven.

One thing the Arctic Monkeys need to learn is how to arrange their setlist effectively. The mid-set lull comes after the opening two songs. For the rest of the opening half-hour, the only standout is Dancing Shoes, and even that is almost lost in amongst the filler. There’s a collective sigh of relief as they finally play I Bet You Look Good On the Dancefloor — not because it’s the song half the crowd came to hear but because it lifts the mood back to where it was 30 minutes earlier.

There’s something refreshing about a lead singer whose accent shows through in their vocals. In just one album, Turner has managed to define his own style in both voice and delivery — when the obligatory singalong comes halfway through I Bet…, every last paying punter puts on their best Yorkshire accent. Even the band’s biggest critics should give them credit for making Sheffield fashionable.

After playing a killer hand relatively early in the game, it’s interesting to see whether the band manage to hang onto the crowd’s attention for the remainder of the set. Again, they don’t seem to care at all. Instead, they make hits out of Fake Tales of San Francisco, Mardy Bum and From the Ritz to the Rubble. All of a sudden this band seems very different to the one-trick pony I took them for.

While guitarist Jamie Cook, drummer Matt Helders and Turner do their best to keep the “fookin’ parteh” alive, the Nikolai Fraiture-esque presence (or lack of) of bassist Nick O’Malley was the only dampener. To be fair, he’s only just joined the band (after founding member Andy Nicholson left the band in May) and being thrust in front of massive crowds would be enough to make anyone nervous. Nevertheless, O’Malley’s lifeless stance puts the brakes on a performance otherwise that oozes confidence.

After making another hit with A Certain Romance, the band draw the set to a premature close. Just over an hour after they kicked off, they have nothing left to play. So instead of padding the set out with covers and B-sides, they leave the stage to do whatever it is boys from Sheffield do in their gap year. Shag and get pissed, most likely.