Smash hit

Meanwhile, every time that Turner – writer of brilliant pop vignettes about (on Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not) nights out and nights in and flirting and taxi rides, and (on Favourite Worst Nightmare) strippers and romance and ageing women and nutters he met on tour in Tokyo – gets dubbed “spokesman for a generation”, or compared to Morrissey/Paul Weller/Jarvis Cocker, he withdraws a little further. He doesn’t write songs to impress the world. They didn’t form a band to conquer it. Ask the frontman to describe what, to him, is success, and after a long pause all he can come up with is: “Don’t know really. Just want to make more records.”

On the other hand, contrary to belief, Arctic Monkeys are not sullen, truculent youths. They’re funny and welcoming. It’s about doing things their way, in a manner they feel comfortable with.

I followed them around for a couple of months in the autumn of 2005, as they progressed from small club shows in the UK to bigger gigs supporting Franz Ferdinand in Europe. And then I did it again as they consolidated their position as Britain’s biggest and most exciting young band.

As well as Malahide, we went to T in the Park in Perthshire, the International Arena in Cardiff, Stadtpark in Hamburg and Glastonbury in Somerset. At the latter, Arctic Monkeys headlined on the main Pyramid Stage on the first day of the most famous rock festival in the world. Perhaps 100,000 people watched them.

As he talked to the crowd between songs, Turner’s was a strangely old-fashioned stage-banter, as if he was a northern club compere rather than the coolest kid in indie: “This is t’riffic”; “We’re all thrilled to be here”; “We hope you’ve enjoyed yourselves.” Plus, thanks to stage nerves, the phrase “ladies and gentlemen” countless times (much to his later mortification). Only briefly did Turner let something approaching swagger enter the frame. “And I heard that we didn’t have enough tunes to headline,” he muttered into his microphone.

None of the band had been to Glastonbury before; they hung around for most of the weekend, partying. At 4am, I saw Turner trudging through the mud to the distant Lost Vagueness area, a field with its own ballroom. He was dressed as a dinosaur, his face poking out from under the headpiece; Lily Allen had given him the costume (she cut about backstage dressed as a mushroom). At 6.30am I saw him coming back. Still dressed as a dinosaur.

He’d bumped into Chris McClure, one of the gang of close-knit Sheffield mates who are still a big part of the band’s day-to-day lives. Chris is the cover star of Whatever People Say I Am… and the brother of John McClure, the frontman of Reverend and the Makers. It was John who first encouraged 16-year-old Alex to form a band; the two have just got a flat together in Sheffield. “All us mates were there. We had a right good time,” said Turner later.

Arctic Monkeys themselves are a tight bunch, friends and equals even though Turner writes most of the songs. But he’s uncomfortable talking about the writing process when Helders, Cook and O’Malley are around. He doesn’t mind dressing up in public as the Scarecrow or a dinosaur, but he doesn’t want to sound like a knob.

After Glastonbury, Arctic Monkeys had driven on their tour bus to concert engagements in Sweden and Norway. Four days after leaving Somerset, they were in Germany. Alex Turner and I sat down to talk on the lip of the open-air stage at Hamburg’s Stadtpark. On his own, he’s still hesitant, but more forthcoming. When he struggles for words or is trying to convey something, he mimes playing a guitar. As if that’s the position in which he feels most comfortable.

You seem to take your music very seriously, I said to him.

“Yeah, yeah. Absolutely.”

Has he always been a serious-minded person? “I don’t know. I’ve always liked making tunes. From the age of 16, 17, after I got me guitar, if I had a spare minute that’s what I’d feel comfortable doing. Ever since I started doing words with the band – ever since I got into it actually meaning something – I’ve felt like it’s just a good thing to do. I were writing a bit last night, when I got in. Had the guitar out. It’s a way you can sneak out how you feel.”

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