Pressure On Julian

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Two years ago it seemed like New York was the centre of the world. One of the most terminally hip cities of the late 20^th century, it seemed to be putting in an early bid to hang onto the title well into the new millennium. Of course, there were obvious results: art collectives and fashionistas all followed the movements of New York trend-setters, and there were probably more ‘I Love NYC’ t-shirts sold in 2001 than there had been for years. And then there was the pop music. Electro revivalists gathered together under the electroclash banner, with the glam-punk-influenced Fischerspooner at the helm, whilst The Moldy Peaches’ faux-folk comedy pop and The Pattern’s rough’n’ready garage rock were high priority purchases for indie cognoscenti. And then, all of a sudden, on September 11^th, two planes crashed into the World Trade Centre, and the bubble burst. Pop music, art, fashion and t-shirts all somehow seemed inappropriate – they were luxuries that were simply unimportant in the wake of the tragedy. And as the fear of repeat attacks increased, the world slowly fell out of love with New York. It was now clear that these people we had held in high esteem as cool, untouchable super-beings were as frightened as the rest of us, and even after the dust settled, it was clear that the rest of the world had moved on.

Meanwhile, somewhere at the heart of all this was The Strokes.

“I forget what I’m told – well, I am too young, and they are too old.�

‘Hard To Explain’

It’s easy to forget the musical climate before The Strokes’ arrival, quite simply because no-one really wants to remember it. Limpbizkit, Korn and Eminem ruled the airwaves, and the world’s biggest bands all seemed to share three things: a tendency towards rapping (often badly, with repeated use of the word ‘fuck’), an insecurity complex, and a hollow ring in the middle of their vast bank accounts. Suddenly, At The Drive-In, Queens Of The Stone Age and ...Trail Of Dead arrived to remind us that rock could be intelligent as well, and in the ensuing search for the next big thing, Rough Trade Records unleashed a demo by an unknown youthful five-piece with a nice line in three minute trash-pop and cheekbones to die for. Legendary rock snapper Pennie Smith was already a big fan, and when ‘The Modern Age’ EP arrived in early 2001, it was an instant success.

Combining chiming, intricate guitar riffs with simplistic drum machine-esque staccato rhythms, their music was a breathless combination of Television’s wilful complexity and The Ramones’ ‘less-is-more’ pop sensibilities. Then there was vocalist Julian Casablancas’ louche, detached drawl, impossibly pitched somewhere between Mark E Smith’s ferocious drunkard bark and Neil Hannon’s gentle croon. It was perfect. Perhaps it required several listens to truly permeate the ‘what the fuck’ factor, but as in introduction to their wily charms, we couldn’t have asked for anything more. Naturally, it was an NME single of the week, and as the months went on their momentum gathered pace. In the summer, a second single followed, and lo and behold, it was even better. Despite initially flying in the face of fashion, The Strokes had somehow managed to become leaders of the pack, as their skinny-ties-and-Converse look was widely copied. At the tail-end of August, the NME successfully launched a campaign to have them moved from the tents of the Carling Weekend onto the main stage, and the resulting performance has surely gone down as one of the defining pop moments of the last decade. The following Monday, their debut album  â€˜Is This It’, hailed by rock hacks as a modern classic, was released and it eventually peaked at number two, just behind nu-metallers Slipknot’s ‘Iowa’.

Less than a fortnight later, September 11^th happened.

“Even though it was only one night, it was fucking strange…�

‘New York City Cops’

The Strokes have been one of two major successes for rock’n’roll at the start of the noughties (the other being Detroit’s finest, The White Stripes), but we should not underestimate the significance of the fact that they remain the only real survivors of the WTC tragedy. That they outlived the fickle interests of the rest of the world can only be attributed to their sheer brilliance, and the absolute quality of their tunes. So far, however, this remained the problem. They didn’t have enough.

Over 2002 they slowly came up with four new songs. The first, ‘When It Started’, emerged as a B-side to their ‘Last Nite’ single, and despite lacking the immediacy of the album tracks, it still managed to cram urgency, intrigue and a creeping funk to ensure that there was still much to be heard from them. A live premiere of ‘Ze Newie’ revealed a hitherto-disguised passion for ska, and after an encounter with Courtney Love resulted in the ex-Hole singer’s deliciously-titled ‘But Julian, I’m A Little Older Than You’, the skinny one responded with the killer anthem ‘Meet Me In The Bathroom’. They then proceeded to do bugger all but party with celebrities for several months. The obvious sort of rumours abounded: the band are gay (they aren’t)! Nick Valensi’s dating Amanda de Cadanet (he was)! This continued, until a career-defining headline slot at the Carling Weekend, which featured a smidgen of new material, and a guest appearance from Jack White. This was the last the world heard of The Strokes until recently.

“Is this it?�

‘Is This It’

Over the last year, the hype machine hasn’t ignored The Strokes at all. There’s still been the weekly reports on their progress from the NME, whose keenness to ensure they don’t become another Elastica should be applauded, but whose persistence in informing us everything they’ve been up to (even when they haven’t) has begun to grate. Dissent has grown amongst their legions of fans, expecting that ‘difficult second album’ to be nothing short of a disappointment.

Finally, however, a new single has arrived in the form of ‘12:51’. It’s surprisingly good. Like ‘The Modern Age’, it isn’t the best song in the world ever, and several listens are required before the tune really hits home, but nonetheless, it’s fucking good. A little more new wave than they’ve been in the past, perhaps. Most importantly, it serves as a timely reminder of just how good they were. Unfairly lumped in with the wave of useless garage rockers who followed them, The Strokes were always more careful, complicated and considered than those perceived as their peers. Likewise, their music is infinitely better as well. The soon-to-follow second album ‘Room On Fire’ may yet disappoint, but the buzz surrounding it is that it will be amongst the albums of the year. ’12:51’ itself, meanwhile, is a tinny-sounding record that doesn’t have a chorus, is laced with a robotic guitar line that sounds more like a keyboard and sounds like an unnatural hybrid of Weezer and, quelle surprise, The Fall. Clocking in at less than three minutes, it’s probably one of the shortest singles you’ll have heard all year. It’s also one of the best.

Not many bands can spawn a novelty tribute band based around a sitcom title and Casio-led instrumental interpretations of their songs. The Strokes are one such band. They’ve already managed to ignore, spawn and outlive several musical movements, and at a time when the future of rock could either be a whining emo-rock cliché or a joke hair metal band whose joke and hair are thinning fast, we need them more than ever. They have to deliver the goods. Ladies and gentlemen, The Strokes are back.