The Strokes: First Impressions Of Earth

THE STROKES: FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF EARTH (2006)

1) You Only Live Once; 2) Juicebox; 3) Heart In A Cage; 4) Razorblade; 5) On The Other Side; 6) Vision Of Division; 7) Ask Me Anything; 8) Electricityscape; 9) Killing Lies; 10) Fear Of Sleep; 11) 15 Minutes; 12) Ize Of The World; 13) Evening Sun; 14) Red Light.

General verdict: It is mildly impressive to see Julian and the boys last for over 50 minutes, but whereʼs the goddamn money shot?

I suppose that the first thing to cross many Strokes fansʼ minds when they saw the title of this album was — «wait, are the guys going psychedelic or something? this looks like a frickinʼ Eloy title or something!» (disclaimer: I fully acknowledge that not many Strokes fans probably know anything about Eloy, and that they are much better off that way). The second thing, then, would be to note the running length of the album — 52 minutes? Oh boy, deep shit coming on... what exactly happened to that perfect 35-minute limit?

Well, let me tell you this — had the Strokes gone all progressive and pretentious on our asses, it might have been an artistic disaster, but at least it would have made the album into a glorious disaster, rather than leaving it in this state of boggy slump. In reality, nothing much has changed, other than the bandʼs producer (David Kahne stepping in for Gordon Raphael) and the fact that the ever-lengthening stretches in between recording sessions gave Julian more opportunities for songwriting, and we now have 14 of his songs instead of the usual 11–12. Unfortunately, each of these songs is still about 1–1½ minutes longer than it should be, because the Strokes have never bothered to learn the art of dynamic expansion: you learn everything there is to be learned about each of the songs in 30–60 seconds, and then itʼs just repetition of ideas, very few of which deserve to be repeated without development.

The album was announced with a bit of deception: ʽJuiceboxʼ, the first single, is faster, tighter, and rockier than just about any other song on here, starting out with a bona fide ʽPeter Gunnʼ style bassline and quickly transforming into a grungy screamer in which Julian berates his lover for not wishing to join him over for the dubious delights of big city life. It is hard to resist a crunchy ʽPeter Gunnʼ rip-off, but the song does become fairly generic pop-punk in its screechy "why wonʼt you come over here?" bridge part, and the "youʼre so cold, youʼre so cold" chorus fails at delivering a properly desperate vibe either musically or vocally.

The second single, ʽHeart In A Cageʼ, was both more indicative of the overall pulse of the album (slower, poppier, darker) and more musically enjoyable in general, maybe because of Nick Valensiʼs loud, thick, in-yer-face glammy lead guitar lines echoing past heroes like Mick Ronson. Its only problem is that, like everything else here, it delivers one hundred percent of its punch in the opening sixty seconds — thereʼs a tension-relieving bridge section on which Casablancas goes for a tender Ray Davies-like approach, but it doesnʼt fit in all that well with the rest of the song and its melody goes absolutely nowhere. As Casablancas confesses himself within the opening verse of the song, "I donʼt write better when Iʼm stuck in the ground", and there are quite a few moments on this album when he almost literally is stuck in the ground.

The monolithic production style and the bandʼs noble, but sometimes wearying devotion to the same vocal and instrumental tones actually makes it very hard to distinguish between respectable and lazy songwriting when you have 50 minutes of this shit. ʽRazorbladeʼ strikes me as a good example of the former, with its unusual 5/4 tempo and dialog between a folksy, college-rockish, densely strummed rhythm guitar and highly melodic electric lead — but the production kind of eats away at both these parts, muffling them and making them secondary to Julianʼs post-punk nasal drawl. On the other hand, ʽVision Of Divisionʼ is a confusing mess of everything — I know I have complained about the lack of dynamics, and this song has plenty of it, but when you start out all grungy like Nirvana and then follow it up with an AC/DC-esque ʽThundrestruckʼ-style lead guitar, itʼs just... incoherent.

Maybe the worst thing about it all is that over the course of three albums, Julian Casablancas has still not managed to convince me that I should really truly care about himself, his girl problems, or his difficulties in coping with the complicated urban lifestyle with which he has this love-hate relationship. As the album begins its long crawl towards the finish line, it seems to become more and more personal, with superficially panic-stricken songs like ʽFear Of Sleepʼ inviting you to identify with their concerns — but the tune offers nothing to me other than a jumbled mess of distorted guitar and vocal noise, and I do not feel any real panic behind the mess. Maybe itʼs because of this sanitized production: I keep thinking about how, say, the Birthday Party would have recorded this song in the early Eighties, and against those memories the Strokes do not stand a chance. Basically, the deeper and more psychological Casablancas wants to go, the less he is liable to make a real impression.

Throw in a really unsatisfying conclusion — the album closer ʽRed Lightʼ sounds like a mildly passable monotonous pop-rocker that should have legitimately occupied a filler position in the middle — and it is not easy to understand why First Impressions Of Earth did not make much of an impression on most of Earthʼs critics. It is not a bad album: it is an album that tries very hard to transcend the inherent limitations of the artists, like a great 100-yard dasher betting on a 200-yard dash despite the doctorʼs wise advice. Cut out half of the songs, trim down the other half, invest a bit more in the arrangements, slightly de-sanitize the production, replace the annoying lyrics with simple boy-loves-girl stuff, and you have here the potential for an excellent modern pop-rock EP. As it is — another filler city for an already filler-choked century.