June 29, 2001

The Strokes : London Heaven

Louche, frazzled rock'n'roll that's strangely imperious...

The myth, hearsay, hype and bullshit surrounding The Strokes is colossal for a band who've only released two singles and have barely 40 minutes-worth of songs in their repertoire. It's kinda worked - 'Hard To Explain' is going to limp into the top ten on Sunday - but there's a feeling even this early that they're never gonna touch you in your heart because they're already imperious and distant; that they've been stolen from you before you even had a chance to fall in
love.

So let's cut through the crap. The Strokes are not that cute. Nick Valensi has this intense-eyes-and-enigmatic-pout thing going on, and a couple of the others have okay hair, but that's about it. In terms of their style, it's no great leap of genius to wear a pink satin tie with a pinstripe jacket, as Luella Bartley would have us believe. Maybe with a bit more colour, more angles, stripes, a bit more Vivienne Westwood and less dour Television, then yes. You can't go wrong with a black leather jacket, but remember kids, vintage
sux.

So after the interesting stuff, what about the songs? Actually, they have some great tunes. 'New York City Cops'rocks, all the ones off the 'Modern Age' EP have classic, spiky, ragged dynamics - this is not a band who stick to obvious melodies, these tunes are actually pretty complex, but beautifully frazzled and instant in their complexity.

They look bored though, aloof, and there's no real spark of emotion until Fabrizio Moretti - their drummer who broke his hand and had to sit out a couple of gigs - appears on stage to cheers and starts kissing his bandmates. It's sweet. You're pulled closer suddenly. They may be all cheekbones and NYC moues, but really The Strokes are a bunch of kids caught in a whirlwind. Catch them before they blow away. They may never come back.

Christian Ward