Arctic Monkeys

What do "pirouette," "cracker factory," "drip" and phrases such as "oil up those sticky keys" have in common? Well, nothing, aside from being lyrics off of Arctic Monkeys' third album, Humbug. Somehow, songwriter and frontman Alex Turner found a way to string these non sequiturs into what can only loosely be described as lyrics, proving there's still a job somewhere for Gavin Rossdale.

Turner seems to think there are certain words that you can really wrap your lips around and suck on, aspirating every vowel and biting every consonant, so that the ultimate result is a deeply satisfying-oh wait, am I still talking about singing? Actually, I am. There is just no room for interpretation. Musically, the seething guitar riffs and ominous use of hihats are clearly striving for some sort of sexual tension to bolster the lyrics, but the result is still less than alluring.

To put it politely, Humbug is an extended lesson in how to fellate your vocabulary. "My Propeller" is about as subtly seductive as when Fergie flosses parts of her body with her microphone cord in concert-maybe less so.

I didn't know what it felt like to be a woman in a bar full of drunk perverts until I listened to this album. Now I do, and I can't sleep at night. In any event, by the end of closing track "The Jeweller's Hands," the Monkeys are hoping their listener is craving a cigarette. Instead, you just want a cold shower.

Humbug proves that an album which consists only of sweet nothings-no matter how sweetly told-still winds up being nothing at all.