Published on Mar 7, 2006
In 2001, the Strokes were it. Armed with indie cred
from a handful of singles that went gangbusters in the U.K., the
scenester approval of their native New York City and a hungry
audience of college-aged suburbanites raised on a strict diet of
faux R&B and Nirvana knock-offs, they were poised to create a
new monotony for “modern rock” radio.
The hit B-side “NYC Cops” was deemed inappropriate
for a post-9/11 stateside release of Is This It, which
featured a colorful Magellan-esque map of the new world, as opposed
the black and white seduction of the U.K. album art.
Even without the bare ass and velvet glove featured
on the original cover, the Strokes were legend before critics
poured on kudos by the pageful — Julian Casablancas, the
fashionably mysterious lead singer; Nick Valensi, Backstreet-worthy
rhythm guitarist; the unorthodox windmill-strumming technique of
fro-wearer Albert Hammond Jr.; a drummer named Fab; and the quiet
demeanor, but steady bass of Nikolai. So, why blow it with a
mundane, intensity-lacking third LP?
Now in their fifth year of success, The Strokes seem
to be missing the well-structured song craft of Room On Fire
and primal ferocity of Is This It. It’s not really
surprising to those who’ve witnessed the live show, or lack
thereof, where Casablancas is known to perch on an amp and mumble
for 45 minutes while the rest of the band — especially Nikolai —
seem equally sleepy.
First Impressions storms out the gate with the
80s-style stutter of “You Only Live Once” and the restless
“Juicebox,” which features a Jim Morrison-tinted “Why don’t you
come over here / We’ve got a city to love” chorus. “Heart In A
Cage” successfully finishes off a three-song recap of the first two
records, but then they head into aimless songstreams that waterlog
previous highlights with not-quite-there crescendos and weak
lyrics.
Casablancas is lacking the twenty-something sage of
“And now my fears / They come to me in threes” from “Someday” or
the roar of Room On Fire opener “Whatever Ever Happened?” Maybe the
band may is just missing the muse of producer Gordon Raphael, who
gave the first two Strokes chapters their trademark urgency but
only helms three throwaway tracks here.
The Strokes as a band are not dead, but the so-called
garage revival they helped usher in is over. The band’s legions of
wannabes have given fans of the Nuggets genre years of enjoyment
and a measuring stick to rate “rock radio” with. Perhaps now, the
band should maintain the barstool slump and leather-clad swagger
that initiated the allure and let their disciples do the
experimenting.
But, experimenting may be saying too much of the
hit-and-miss First Impressions, which merely struggles to
stick with the band’s enjoyable formula. At least a few cuts, like
the unfortunately named “Ize Of The World” and “Vision Of Division”
will make the “best of” roster when the time comes.
I’ll forever remember the mid-youth giddiness that
surrounded my first impressions of The Strokes, but in terms of
what I expect from them in 2006, this ain’t it.