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The
Strokes
Room
on Fire (RCA)
For lack of a better idea, our favorite NYC fan-boys are riding
out their wave a little bit longer. By copping the biz’s common
answer for following up a hit record, the Strokes exacted
a near-clone of their debut, 2001’s Is This It, repackaging
the goods with everything fans already went gaga over the
first time.
Everything you remember about the Strokes is still true: angular
guitar chimes punctuated by a stuttered, new wavey bass shuffle;
unsyncopated rhythms rigidly jerking to and fro, not quite
danceable but seemingly so; the coarse, baritone croon of
singer-songwriter Julian Casablancas, who, for better or worse,
still believes that a good hook provides enough to build an
entire song around. Perceivable yet modest improvements include
fuller, more condensed production, and more confident playing
from guitarists Albert Hammond Jr. and Nick Valensi (the former
also having managed to turn his guitar into the Cars’ keyboard
on “12:51” and “The End Has No End”).
Room
on Fire succeeds as a follow-up to what the Strokes are:
a catchy, mid-talent band with a handful of good songs, given
enough A&R push to slip into mainstream consciousness.
But their claim for importance—musically and culturally—is
ultimately what fails them, making Room on Fire their
best possible effort given a tethered creative range.
No matter how deserving the Strokes view their popularity,
this album suggests they want to be taken seriously, with
lines like “I don’t want to waste your time” or “I want to
be forgotten” to their no-joke, stone-sober attitude that
persists throughout all 11 tracks. Their declared ambition
to sound as if “the Velvet Underground were popular” (one
of the most serious art bands in history) has not only confined
their songwriting flexibility, but still reeks of the same
greed for arty cool, riches and fame that’s plagued them since
their inception. In sound and spirit, the Strokes are about
as inventively punk rock as a CBGB’s T-shirt from the Gap.
The Strokes haven’t advanced any of rock’s forms, nor have
they revived any essential element of it. They betray the
spontaneity one hopes for with their apparent lack of ownership
or confidence in their art. Casablancas and Is This It
producer Gordon Raphael would reportedly spend weeks constructing
their songs, scrupulously writing a song piece by piece as
the band simultaneously recorded it. Not that there’s anything
inherently wrong with overattending one’s art, but in this
case it’s clear that the goal wasn’t merely to make a good
record, but to be resolute that every recorded moment perfectly
resembled the Strokes “sound.” (That said, it’s beyond maddening
that the Strokes frequently champion Guided by Voices as a
band they’d like to end up like, given GBV’s hyperprolific
outpouring from frontman Bob Pollard—along with his compulsion
to release mostly all of it.)
Catchy and energetic, sure; but the Strokes will require a
lot more growth before their next album if they are to convince
us of any reason why they should still exist.
—John
Suvannavejh
Kelis
Tasty
(Arista)
Talk about getting no respect at home: The Cleveland Plain-Dealer
recently referred to Kelis as a “British soul diva” whose
new album, Tasty, was a first collaboration with hotter-than-hot
producers the Neptunes.
Ouch. Kelis was born and raised in the Harlem, and her first
two albums were produced by the duo of Pharrell Williams
and Chad Hugo. Her 1999 debut, Kaleidoscope, yielded
only a minor U.S. hit (“Caught out There,” with its ear-shattering,
screamed refrain “I hate you so much right now!”), but was
a European smash. Her follow-up, the more adventurous Wanderland—which
included collaborations with an assortment of rappers and
rockers—wasn’t even released stateside. Well, she’s back in
a big way with Tasty, which is getting a major-label
push. And only five of the songs are produced by the Neptunes.
Kelis stands out because she’s genuinely eclectic. The album
starts with the reggae-inflected “Trick Me” (featuring the
amusingly droll line “Freedom to you has always been/Whoever
landed on your dick”), then lurches into the outer-space dance
track “Milkshake.” Then there’s the early-Beastie Boys-sounding,
rock-guitar propelled “Keep It Down,” and the sexually charged,
slinky “In Public,” featuring her sig other, Nas, and a drum
sample (or soundalike rhythm track) anyone alive in the ’80s
would recognize. Tasty proves that Kelis is fine without
the Neptunes, as there are great songs produced by Andre 3000
(the catchy, Prince-esque “Millionaire”), Raphael Saadiq,
and Dallas Austin. (There’s even one tune, “Flashback,” thriftily
recycled from Wanderland.) The approach is eclectic,
but not scattershot or incoherent—it still comes out sounding
like hiphop.
She also has the musical persona of someone who just doesn’t
give a damn. Kelis doesn’t wallow in pain or joy; she exorcises
emotions with fury and humor. With her unusual taste and unadorned
vocal style, Kelis just might become an R&B “alt-diva.”
—Shawn
Stone
Robert
Wyatt
Cuckooland
(Rykodisc)
Robert Wyatt is unmoved by pressures of the marketplace, creating
music on his own terms and in his own time. He has been a
gentle yet forceful presence ever since his band Soft Machine
appeared with flourish and fanfare in the mid-’60s. His solo
works, beginning with Rock Bottom in 1974, are some
of the most singularly distinct sounds to have come out of
the rock era.
Cuckooland
is Wyatt’s first new album in six years. It’s full of the
magic that’s been a hallmark of his writing and arranging
sensibilities, combined with a voice that exudes a naturalism
that makes each listener feel like they’re in his private
company. As with his previous release, Shleep, this
one was recorded at Phil Manzanera’s studio and calls upon
some of his regular cohorts. Additionally, Wyatt plays three
songs composed by Karen Mantler, who also appears, singing
and playing harmonica. The album’s longest track, “Forest,”
which was written by Wyatt and his wife Alfreda Benge, sounds
too beautiful to have not been in existence for centuries.
Embracing the poetics of human emotion, the song memorializes
lost lives more effectively than any overt political song
ever could.
—David
Greenberger
The
Darkness
Permission
to Land (Atlantic)
The Darkness—Britain’s best export since Mad Cow Disease—have
a unique way of employing irony without letting on that they
know what they’re doing is ironic. However, it would be a
shame to hastily tag these guys as a Spinal Tappian hair-metal
takeoff, because their debut LP, Permission to Land,
is one of the most visceral, fist-pumping rock-&-fucking-roll
albums to hit our shores in years. The drums are cavernous
and the guitars crank, with riffs lifted from such greats
as AC/DC, Aerosmith and Thin Lizzy. These chaps have a very
specific concept of what rock & roll is supposed to be,
and they aspire to those lofty heights with every note they
play and every outfit they wear. Singer-guitarist Justin Hawkins,
in all his spandex-and leather-clad glory, is the definitive
frontman, looking like a young Peter Frampton and sounding
like the love child of Freddie Mercury and Bruce Dickinson
(his oft-employed falsetto can melt paint). His lyrics run
the gamut from vaguely medieval (“Black Shuck”) to outright
nonsensical (“Love on the Rocks With No Ice”), covering such
classic subject matter as jackin’ off and shootin’ up, schoolboy
crushes and STDs. This is unsubtle, unapologetic, tongue-in-cheek,
hand-in-trousers cock-rock that will make you emphatically
throw the goats and bang your head—if you can control your
laughter, that is.
—John
Brodeur
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