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Blokes who remember Meat Is Murder (and former riot grrrls, for that matter) grumble and groan when asked about today’s “indie” scene. From the early 1980s to the mid-1990s, the term was a rallying cry not merely for music released on independent British record labels such as Creation, Factory and Rough Trade, but for a DIY ethos and an awkward, oppositional attitude. Fey outsiders from Morrissey to Belle and Sebastian’s Stuart Murdoch, and fierce autodidacts from Mark E Smith to the masked men of Clinic, could rule their own roosts and connect with like-minded souls. Indie was then a way of life; now the word is applied, willy-nilly, to any two-bit guitar band in skinny jeans. Thus, indie has become a marketing category, empty of meaning. Critics call the interchangeably ho-hum tunes of the Kooks, the View, the Wombats, the Pigeon Detectives and their ilk “landfill indie”. How grateful, therefore, were grumpy middle-youths for Sheffield’s Arctic Monkeys, who cussedly signed for an independent label, in Domino, write great songs and cock a snook at the Establishment. Yorkshire, indeed, is a bastion of “proper” indie values, with labels such as Dance to the Radio and bands including the Cribs and Wild Beasts.