‘Piledriver Waltz’: The Arctic Monkeys song that inspired Matt Helders slow drum revolution
I recently went to journalistic war with my Far Out colleague, in defence of Arctic Monkeys’ latest album, The Car.
I fended off accusations of over-indulgence and bloated instrumental performances in the spirit of evolution. In the staunch belief that this new, lounge bar direction is compelling enough to be viewed in its own right and not through the lens of what came before.
Ultimately, there were valid points that penetrated through my defence. Despite my passionate fandom, I can understand why Alex Turner’s vocal change might be grating, or the lyrical musings might have erred too far into the abstract. And, crucially, I thought I shared the same frustration in seeing Matt Helders’ drumming being “held back”, for want of a better term. But on further listen, I think that’s the Arctic Monkeys’ most interesting development.
Let’s go back an album and listen to the opening track of Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino. ‘Star Treatment’ was a deep plunge into this new lounge-club soundscape that the band adopted, and Helders was playing the drums like the house musician. Riding the hi-hat and dropping fills in like soft raindrops, this was a shocking transformation from the musician we once hailed “the agile beast”.
He had dexterity around the kit and receded into a more muted role of timekeeper. In essence, he was truly serving the song, rather than himself.
Was this new chapter completely out of the blue? To the untrained ear, sure, but not to those listening to each album closely. Despite ‘R U Mine?’, AM was a sultry exploration into the world of R&B and such, requiring a more laid-back approach, while Suck It and See saw Turner fully embrace the classic love song. So while he was musing over the dewy-eyed memories he had captured in his 20s, would a powerful back beat from Helders have been truly appropriate? Obviously not.
It was on ‘Piledriver Waltz’ in particular, where the penny slowly dropped for Helders. The track had previously been written for Turner’s Submarine soundtrack, and when he took it back into the studio for the rest of the Monkeys to mob, he was less concerned with turning into a raucous beast.
The patient melody remained, and Helders was offered what can now only be viewed as a valuable lesson. “It was probably the first time I had heard somebody who knew what they were talking about say that it’s harder to play slow, like how hard it is to play slow,” he explained to Drumeo, heralding this unknown guardian studio angel, who offered advice for the track.
He continued to explain the song in particular, stating, “There’s so much space to not fill, and something like that is another time where I had to learn the sense of restraint, and where to leave the gaps, and it still feel good.”
I agree, it’s easy to marvel at the sheer physicality of any powerful drummer and herald them as the next John Bonham for simply having the stamina to do something us mortals can’t. But that doesn’t mean the opposite has no merit. Carefully crafting drum beats to serve a wider, more complex melody is equally as brilliant, and Helders’ mastery of both makes him one of the all-time greats.
