First impressions of ‘First Impressions…’ aren’t great. Sorry. But that’s not to say ‘First Impressions…’ actually isn’t, in the end. Just that it’s hard to accept that it might be, sometimes. Truth be told, we’ve been bickering like a battle-weary married couple for the three weeks since we met. We were friends, The Strokes and us, some time ago. We were floored by their impossibly impeccable cool, they were the Fonz of post-post-punk no less, if you didn’t like them at all you were probably a tiny bit dead inside. But the same joke the second time round without context or reason is just words, isn’t it, and it started to feel something like a holiday romance best left behind.
But there was a moment, sometime last autumn (which for argument’s sake we’ll call ‘Juicebox’, for want of a better name) that stopped us in our tracks. Eyes met once more, words were exchanged, they had a new line, which was a good start, and they left a noticeable trail of sparks. We were mesmerised all over again. Which is, as is often the case, where the issues begin.
There was no immediate second night of magic on ‘First Impressions Of Earth’. You could relive the first over and over with no degradation in appreciation, but after the heavy-duty runaway night-train devil-at-the-crossroads carnival rhythms of ‘Juicebox’ everything just sounded like The Strokes. Which was kind of like waking up next to a photocopied picture of Billy from Eastenders. But differences are there to be conquered, just because expectations were driven up so high doesn’t make a lower reality invalid. And to take things from another angle, namely ‘Room On Fire’, things would have to get really very bad for this to be a disappointment. Which it isn’t.
Once it’s bedded down, saying it sounds like The Strokes doesn’t seem so bad. Far from it. There is a lot to take comfort from. Their almost kinky grasp of repetition and formula, the wired bitesize riffs that surge in and out of view like fireflies surfing a severed electric cable, the drums that really do nothing other than allow you to tap your feet (and it is nice to have something to do while you’re listening to music) and even the dirty, uncommitted rasp of Julian Casablancas’ vocals every time they lurch into frame. Not that he earns any more respect than that, mind. While his band were busying themselves with a new, more infectious and expanded outlook, he was seemingly checking his fringe in the mirror. You can apparently never be too prepared for the next photoshoot. Fare dodger? Well, he certainly isn’t driving.
Thankfully, collectively, they treat their tested formula as a starting point this time, rather than a hastily reached finish line. ‘Ask Me Anything’ is probably the most unusual three minutes, a hauntingly hand-wound synthesiser slowly smothering Casablancas’ insipid Lou Reed drug tones, woozy and hypnotic. ‘Vision of Darkness’ meanwhile lurches between dainty-nice and the sound of an Indian snake-charmer fed hallucinogens. ‘Electricityscape’ is an awesomely fuzzy bulls-eye shot of all we presume them to be, and ‘Ize Of the World’ is a terrific helter-skelter ride around a belting riff, gaining momentum all the way. And that’s really where they should have left it. ’15 Minutes’, ‘Evening Sun’ and ‘On The Other Side’ are surplus at best and come close to tainting an otherwise tight and relatively adventurous album.
This isn’t about first impressions at all, it’s about second chances. Good for them this one won’t be about goodbyes, creatively or commercially. Though they should probably take comfort in the fact that the latter will be a bitch to smother out, no matter what.