Strokes
Is This It
[RCA; 2001]
Rating: 9.1
Hype. It's a bitch. Ascending mediocre bands to heights of unwarranted
popularity, and smacking the truly great down to "critics' pet" status, hype
has become a plague on any band hoping to achieve unbridled adoration among
music elitists. When the media hounds smell success and respond with their
annual cry of "saviors of rock and roll," disappointment is inevitable. So
it goes with the Strokes, a band that's seen enough publicity in 2001 to make
bin Laden jealous.
Touted by the press as "the forefathers of a bold new era in rock," "the
greatest rock band since the Rolling Stones" and "the second coming of the
Velvet Underground," the Strokes have nowhere to go but out of style. And the
album only came out last week! So why all the fanfare? Are they really that
good? Of fucking course not. There is no bold new era in rock; the Rolling
Stones have yet to be contended with; and if there ever is a second coming of
the Velvet Underground, they won't be doing second-rate imitations of Lou Reed.
The Strokes are not deities. Nor are they "brilliant," "awe-inspiring," or
"genius." They're a rock band, plain and simple. And if you go into this
record expecting nothing more than that, you'll probably be pretty pleased.
See, while I can't agree with the Strokes' messianic treatment, I'd be lying
if I said I thought Is This It was anything other than a great rock
record.
What's refreshing to me about the Strokes is that, in a musical climate where
even the dirtiest garage bands can create the illusion of million-dollar studio
techniques through sound filters on mom's Packard-Bell, the Strokes prefer to
rock in the classic vein: no laser sounds, no ethereal reverb, no pre-programmed
Aphex beats. Their influences are so firmly rooted in the post-punk tradition
that it's as if the last two decades had never occurred. The same names are
always dropped: the Velvet Underground, Television, the Stooges. And while
the Velvets are obviously a major source of inspiration, the Strokes' only
similarity to Television and the Stooges is the confidence with which they
play.
Frontman Julian Casablancas' vocals bear more than a passing resemblance to
early Lou Reed, but where Reed seemed to accidentally dispense life-changing
lyrics through a drugged drawl, Julian sings about the simple trivialities of
big-city life with stark lucidity. These songs revolve around frustrated
relationships, never coming near to approaching anything that might resemble
insight. Yet, with Casablancas' self-assured, conversational delivery, and the
almost primal energy of the four guys backing him, attention shifts from the
simply present lyrics to the raging wall of melody these guys bang out like
it's their lifeblood.
There's a hint of Britain's post-punk 70s in the Strokes' frenetic furor. Bands
like the Buzzcocks and Wire subscribed to a similar less-is-more production
aesthetic, and seemed naturally adept at scribbling out instantly approachable
melodies. And like Singles Going Steady (and, to a lesser extent, Pink
Flag), there's something in the Strokes' melodies that few other bands
possess: they're immediate without pandering, relying on the instant gratification
of solid, driving rhythms while maintaining strong but simple hooks that seem
somehow familiar, yet wholly original.
Their production is stripped raw, and not terribly divergent from that of their
band-of-the-moment contemporaries, the White Stripes. But the difference between
the two bands lies in their degrees of skill: the Stripes have an air of
amateurishness that belies songwriter Jack White's obvious talents; the Strokes,
even on their debut album, sound like experienced professionals for whom
mastering the form seems only an album away.
"The Modern Age" stomps like a renegade elephant with bashed kickdrums and
turbulent guitar riffs while Casablancas passionately reels off, "Work hard and
say it's easy/ Do it just to please me/ Tomorrow will be different/ So this is
why I'm leaving," in an unsteady sing-speak that invokes all the right elements
of a great rock leadman. "Last Nite" quakes with growled vocals and bluesy,
blustery distortion. "Hard to Explain" eerily recalls the blissful pop of the
Wrens' Secaucus with an unforgettable hook, distorted drumkits and
fuzzed-out ride cymbals.
Of course, none of this changes the fact that Is This It lacks the
creativity and unconventionality inherent in any of the all-time great rock
bands they're so impulsively compared to. Still, the Strokes have struck an
incredible balance between the two extremes of rock music: sentimentality and
listlessness. Any sentimentality in these songs' lyrics is countered by
Casablancas' self-reliant indifference, and his listless delivery is offset by
the band's fervid attack. Beyond that, it's hard to pinpoint what exactly it
is about the Strokes that keeps me listening. All I know is that it's not easy
to come by, and I like it. A lot.
-Ryan Schreiber, October 15th, 2001