Not as slutty as The Libertines, not as polished as Franz, and not quite as hyped as Jesus Christ himself, Sheffield's own Trashcan Sinatras are just about the only thing in the way of the inherent boredom about to take hold of this whole fucking place. It's not that they're a great band, or that their Gang of Four lite is better than anyone else's. No, with the Arctic Monkeys you have the rare case of the dude late to the party who is so excited that the only way for the night to continue in any form is to either give in and keep the shit going, or just nail him square in the jaw.