The Strokes

Ah, the Dealing With Fame record. The Strokes -- biblically stylish NYC bar-rockers 4 life -- mingle indifference (My feelings are more important than yours) with critical indignation (They love you or they hate you but they will never let you be) and apathy (I've got nothing to say) on their third missive, wherein front man and mastermind Julian Casablancas does a great deal of screaming about lousy parties, lousy scenes, lousy spotlights, and his lousy generation. His vitriol is fantastic on "Juicebox," a magnificently unhinged actress-baiting rant that renders the rest of First Impressions of Earth impotent by comparison. A few catchy guitar symphonies ("Razorblade," "Electricityscape") fight for space with tuneful but meandering odes to insomnia and capitalism; it's not surprising that a band whose debut was titled Is This It could get so artfully jaded so fast, but these guys would be utterly fantastic if they ever considered your feelings, forgot about mine, and honestly revealed theirs.


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