Ripitup2

The Rip it Up one continued...

Julian F. Casablancas. Nikolai Fraiture. Fabrizio Moretti. Nicky Valensi. Albert Hammond Jnr. The Strokes have got cool names. "I guess we just had cool parents who chose our names," chimes Fab. "My mom was like: (mock Italian accent) 'I think this boy will be a rocking roll star'."
The table then descends into chaos and spilt pints as they discuss the finer moments of Mrs. Moretti's experience. "But," adds Fab soberly, "she didn't know I was only going to be a drummer... she was too extravagant."
They take themselves seriously, oh yes. The album Is This It?, took them one month to record... 30days. It is the product of their "salad days" gigging around Manhattan and Philadelphia.
"That's why it works so well," says Fab, "we've had a really really long time to perfect the album outside the studio... an album that's who we are as The Strokes."
Who they are is a piece of carefully crafted art that will move you from the groin on out. A record to be cherished for its ability to make you smile and get up. Surely this is the wonder of Is This It? It's rock'n'roll that makes you wanna move.
After experimenting with a different producer, namely Gil Norton of Husker Du and Pixies fame, the boys went back to their old friend Gordon Raphael who originally produced their three song EP Modern Age. They wanted to cut back on production, as Albert says, "To keep it true to the live set."
They all agree that Norton was great, but not for them. "Doing things professionally doesn't fit with our style," the lax and by now pissed voice of Julian crawls across the table. "If we stay raw it sounds, like... great."
Talk about understated. On the track Take It Or Leave It you can hear this man's tonsils crying out for mercy, you can smell the blood on Albert's shirt sleeves. This ain't no Radiohead mate.
They just wanna rock, and drink. Which has to be admired.
They're so un-phased by the media's insistence on linking them to The Velvet underground, The Stooges, The Ramones and any number of late 70s New York punk they care to mention. Is This It? isn't going to shatter anyone's illusions about what these boys want to sound like.
"What a cool band to be compared to," admits Julian about The Velvet Underground. He means a band that's beloved and credible, different and weird... not to mention fucking good. "It's sorta a subconscious goal to have music that cool, but actually make it popular... a cool way to make popular music more interesting."
Rip It Up demands an explanation for so suddenly signing to majorinos RCA then. A chorus of oohs and ahhs goes up around the table before the earnest protestations that RCA are the best of a bad bunch. They do look slightly... defensive? Albert pipes up: "It's like being bisexual. Yeah, you get the best of both worlds."
The rest of the band agrees. "They just give us money and stay out of our way," says Nicky, flicking his hair out of his eyes.
Are they unrepentant about signing to a major? "I had the fucking head of RCA on the phone 4 o'clock in the morning," states Julian, "telling me how much he loved the album." Yes indeed.

Why is this not sickening? Why are the credibility censors not in overdrive? Because this is a band pure and simple. Mates who saw the spark reflected in each other. And they ain't that pretty, or well dressed. OK they are, but the point is, they just are. The Strokes were always going to happen thank Christ. a wake-up call for the apathetic. No slouching unless you mean it.
Julian says: "I wanted to make the music sound like it was from 30 years ago, but being heard now. With everything that entails. Do you understand?" If he means pared down and honest to the point of embarrassing, then yes. "Of the other way, like music from the future heard now."
True, Is This It?, sounds a lot like it's something you dug out of your dad's wardrobe where the band on the cover are all wearing winkle pickers, whatever they are. There's more though, it's an understanding and knowledge that blasts the naïveté of 60s garage out into space.
Julian's descriptive powers and the knowledge aside, aren't they worried they'll lose this edge? Money, girls and power have wrecked havoc with better men than them. "But who cares as long as it sounds like we want," mutters a very distracted Nicky, only putting his head up occasionally from his magazine. "I mean, rawness, maybe we will want it more produced if that's what we like."
And herein lies the rub. In a perfect world RCA would not through money at these kids. RCA would ignore them no matter how good they actually were, no matter how much they want the cotton wool cosseting of the Big League. The band would have to work, creating themselves every step of the way. Paying their dues and becoming in the end a band utterly worthy of the 'great white hope' tag that has been hung carelessly on their coat hanger shoulders.
Will hype drown the creative spark? The worry is that in six months time no one's going to give a fig about Fab's broken hand, and Julian's dad, anymore than they'll care about any second album.

A few days later we bump into The Strokes lending moral support to fellow New York City space cadets, the Moldy Peaches, at their first London gig. The boys are high as heaven having come straight from the BBC where they recorded three songs for the legendary Top of the Pops. "Man," wails Julian, resplendent in pink silk tie and shiny grey suit jacket. "It was so fucking cool. It fuckin' rocked."
Fab is more sedate. "I can't believe we did it, but I fucked it up." Surely not? "I was so nervous I kept making mistakes. I sucked." But watching their performance on the show later it is easy to see that this is a band still on the rise, perfectionism aside, they control the stage, the cameras and above all, the hearts and souls of an audience more accustomed to shaggy and Nelly Furtado. The fact that their on TOTP's at all (their single Hard To Explain entered the UK charts in the top 20 on a wave of passion and media hype) speaks volumes about the music buying public's desire for some Goddamn grunt.
At their epoch marking, celebrity studded, sold out show at Heaven in London, tickets are changing hands for £150 (NZ$500). The after party - the place is in a frenzy. The boys can barely move for the cameras clicking., autographs to be signed and girls hanging off every thread of their thrift store suits.
"I've been trying to get to the other side of the room for the last hour," Julian says incredulously. He's separated from his mates as they are accosted from all sides.
Nicky is posing in a photograph for a fan. Nikolai is signing a CD. Albert is being followed and literally clawed by a young female. It is as if she senses this is her only chance before he gets blasted into the rock pantheon. Fabrizio escapes the seething mass, broken hand in a sling (sadly replaced temporarily half way through their UK and Australian tour with Strokes friend Matt Romano), opting to talk to people outside the guest pass zone.
They have made it, with all that this entails. Young, talented,beautiful, cool and full of charisma, it seems that the rock and roll glitterati is at their blessed rock'n'roll feet. Hype and fashion aside, the music stands for itself. This is what we've been waiting for.