The Strokes

Isn’t it amazing what a bit of NME hype can do for a band? One minute, the Strokes are yet another New Yoirk-Ramones/Stooges throwback whose single is selling for 99p in the local Independent record store and after one article claiming them to be the hippest thing out of America since, well…the last hippest bright young things to come out of America and you see their tickets being sold by touts outside for £60 and you’re graced by the presence of such hip Mancunian scroungers as Damon Gough from Badly Drawn Boy and assorted members of Alfie.

To their credit, the Strokes are utterly deserving of the hype surrounding them. This is yet another of the dates on their sold-out tour and the air is buzzing with the gossip of the cool set of Manchester trying not to get themselves all over-excited and mess up their hair. Unfortunately, with the Mull Historical Society as their choice of first support band they do themselves no great credit. On record they sound endearing as yet another band with a soft-voiced sweet singer riding on the coat-tails of the Belle and Sebastian twee explosion. However, in practise, this voice becomes no more than a nasal whine dragged out to the point of hyperventilation too long by a singer who appears to be making up some of the words to his songs as he goes along. At the end of their set, they implore us to “Come and join the Mull Historical Society.” I don’t think that any of us will be making any donations to their funds just yet. They have nice background animations though, filled with computer graphics and monkeys. But after a while, these too become merely annoying as you watch the same thing grace the screen for the 18th time.

Salvation comes in the form of the Mouldy Peaches. With lyrics such as “I want you to rub my va-ge-nie,” and songs titles like “Downloading porn with Davo” they are merely concerned with the fundamental elements of life, such as sex, crack cocaine and dressing up in fancy dress costumes (tonight the boy is dressed as Peter Pan and the girl is a Cat with a blonde afro and a Thundercats T-shirt.) They sound like an Arab Strap for beginners with a dash of New York humour included. And we love them. By the time they play “Who’s got the crack?” the whole crowd is singing along to the chorus and dancing wildly. This only serves to make them hang their heads and thank the Strokes profusely for allowing them to play here tonight before they shuffle off to let the night’s real entertainment begin.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Rock and Roll lives. The Strokes are the embodiment of every rock and roll fantasy that you ever had. A mixture of the Ramones, the Stooges and a dash of the Velvet Underground, they look elegantly cool as they shimmy, jump and pout. Frontman Julian Casablancas lolls in a two-toned suit that any self-respecting member of the Jam would be proud to wear, smoking a fag and drinking Budweiser whilst sending the crowd into a fit of dancing frenzy with songs like “New York City Cops,” and new single “Hard to Explain.” He pauses once in a while to tell us to “give it up” to their support bands, throw beer and proclaim loudly, “You guys fucking ROCK!”
The beauty about The Strokes is that unlike many of the pre-packaged, sanitised bands gracing the music papers today, they don’t need to try and be something. They are just “it” and they know this. It is almost effortless. They leave without an encore and allow us to bask in the fact that what we have just seen won’t be happening again for a very long time.

Viva la Rock and Roll revolution. Don’t say you weren’t warned