Friday, November 2, 2001

Music review

From the New York underground scene, shouldering truly staggering amounts of hype, come The Strokes, the latest band anointed as the “Saviors of Rock n’ Roll.”

That’s a lot for anybody to live up to, much less five guys barely into their twenties who just want to prowl the streets at night and then write zippy, supercharged punk ditties about their experiences. Against all odds, the Strokes pull it off. The result is one of the best — and most exciting — albums of the year.

Clocking in at just over 30 minutes, “Is This It?” sounds like New York, circa 1977. The music’s resemblance to prehistoric punk, glam and indie rock are often uncanny. Like their forefathers, The Strokes show that they can move effortlessly from ambisexual teasing to outright primal fury at the drop of a hat (the brilliant final track, “Take It or Leave It,” being a perfect example).

Some of the album’s detractors have criticized the way in which The Strokes wear their influences on their sleeve, dismissing the band as a neo-nostalgic curio and nothing more. But The Strokes actually expand upon and transcend those influences. They’re like the Stooges without the self-destruction and like Television without the serpentine guitar solos. They have a well-developed ear for the pop melody, setting their streetwise tales of youthful abandon and relationships that both started and stopped to shaggy but undeniably catchy rock rhythms.

“The Modern Age” and “Hard to Explain” balance both grittiness and starry-eyed longing, anchored by the ace rhythm section of bassist Nikolai Fraiture and drummer Fabrizio Moretti. Guitarists Albert Hammond and Nick Valensi make the most of their short solos and play off each other flawlessly on old-fashioned jukebox-rattlers like “Last Nite” and “Someday.”

The band’s trump card is singer/songwriter Julian Casablancas who, in addition to having one of the best rock names ever (all The Strokes do, actually), is a vocal dead ringer for Iggy Pop. Although sometimes it’s difficult to separate him from the murk — much of the time he sounds as if he’s recording his vocals from a pay phone a couple of blocks away from the studio — this initially grating mix sinks in after a couple of listens, sounding almost fitting. Even more interesting is Casablancas’ ethos, that of the lovable but maddening rake who fears both inactivity and commitment, which comes through in his slinky lyrics.

“Life is unreal,” he muses to a companion in “Alone, Together,” then follows that observation with “Can we go back to your place?” And this entire album, blessedly, is just as flagrantly seductive as that terrific line.

— Jack Bullion