When it comes to The Strokes, I was admittedly late to the party. Born just 22 days before their critically acclaimed debut album Is This It, my first experience taking in the vocally distorted, garage rock masterpiece (barring the occasional accidental listen via car radios, pub jukeboxes, and conveniently opened living room windows) came when I was already well into my twenties, sitting in a dingey university accommodation in South Manchester.
Amongst the all-too-familiar greyscape of our living room at the time, I sat with my flatmate on the tobacco-covered sofa and played the full album through a JBL speaker, drinking bottles of Becks, and trying not to miss the precariously positioned ashtray that balanced between us. It was glorious, perfectly encapsulating a raw, angsty energy that had been missing from my musical lexicon.
Fast-forward a few years, I am in my mid-twenties, an avid gig-goer, and a huge fan of various ‘indie’ bands that my nineteen-year-old self would laugh off as “shite”.
But bollocks to all that. It’s not why you’re here. You want to know if the seventh studio album by the New York-founded five-piece is any good, or simply another far-too-common example of a breakout band from twenty-ish years ago milking the money machine dry.
Well, if I had to sum it up in one word, I’d say it’s different.
Hard to Explain
The Strokes’ music catalogue can be defined by two distinct periods. Their first three albums (Is This It, Room On Fire, First Impressions of Earth) offer the gritty, rocky, almost punky experience that made listeners globally fall in love with the band. These three albums are defined by shoutable choruses, wailing guitars, and a sense of optimism which is thinly veiled behind occasionally nihilistic lyrics about the failings and fragility of youthful relationships.
Following FIOE, the band took a five-year break. Upon returning in 2011, their style had significantly softened. Rumbling guitar riffs and gritty vocals had been largely replaced by plucked melodies and more considered ensembles. This happens – bands change style, and anyone expecting the same early twenties garage rock format of their prior albums would be almost entirely disappointed.
Those people who can roll with the times and dismiss pre-imagined expectations garnered from albums gone by, firstly, congratulations! Secondly, would be able to find pockets of joy throughout these albums, as the band’s ‘collaborative’ approach to writing songs in this period produced some incredible melancholic masterpieces – such as 2020’s Ode To The Mets and Selfless – both personal favourites of mine.
Fast forward another six years and we arrive at Reality Awaits. But what awaits you in this nine-track-having, forty-two-minute-lasting, future-wondering, past-appreciating, Rick Rubin-produced love letter to the tortured artist’s inner monologue?
Is This It?
The album opens to the slow repetitive riff of Psycho Shit. Impatient listeners will be forced to wait almost a full unbearable minute before hearing the first new lyrics uttered by Casablancas, which turn out to be “like a bird of prey”. Cheers Julian, I appreciate the simile – much to think about.
This song doesn’t do a great deal for me. I’m all for artistic expression and poetic licence in your lyrics, but it’s just a bit too emo-y for my taste. It’s slow, dull, a complete overuse of autotune, and transcends into lines like “you have no honour / or no balls / we’re all dead”. Again, cheers Julian.
Track two is more hopeful. Dine N’Dash begins with the familiar hallmarks of classic Strokes anthems in years gone by. It feels hopeful and offers a stark but needed contrast to its previous number. Granted, once the chorus comes, you’ll have no doubt which era of the band you find yourself in, but it’s undoubtedly catchy and gives off a pungent fragrance of optimism that is hard to get away from.
I’m not a massive fan of the mission control-sounding narrator asking for “permission to launch” and “permission to die” – but I do think it works well enough within the song to be viable. And, realistically, for a band that’s been in the public eye for 25 years, it’s completely unsurprising that this album includes some experimental endeavours.
At the end of Dine N’Dash, there is a voice telling us “that’s the minimum soft” that the band can go. Seconds later, as we’re thrust into the belting opening riff of Lonely in the Future, that point seems to have been immediately proved. Although it doesn’t last long. Within ten seconds, the gritty riff is replaced by melodic electric guitars and a catchy, pop-y chorus.
One thing I do like, which simultaneously proves my point about this album and makes me look like a dickhead for giving it so much stick, is that Casablancas is essentially saying to everyone, “those songs you love, I did them twenty fucking years ago, I’ve moved on, you can too – if you want.”
It’s also a definite contender for most inconspicuous diss track of the year. Worth a listen, I’d say.
Falling Out of Love begins with a sweeping guitar accompanied by four-four drums. It is the kind of chord you can imagine guitarist Nick Valensi lackadaisically hitting whenever he can find the time to stop weeping about the song’s sad subject matter. The track stays at the same tempo throughout, and is a slow, poetic march through the warm memories of lost love – my only issue is the incessant use of autotune. Pointless.
Track five, Going to Babble On, is centred around an uplifting beat, exciting tempo, and typical characteristics of The Strokes – lyrics that, while echoing a sad story, conceal optimism, hope, and the promise of a fresh start beneath them. I like this song; it’s definitely my favourite on the album.
And while that might be like recommending someone your favourite flavour of urinal cake to eat, the smell of piss is replaced so vibrantly by strawberries that you briefly forget you’re in a toilet at all.
The Modern Age
Track six is lead single Going Shopping. It’s upbeat, full of autotune, and the lyrics are written with such artistic licence that even Salvador Dalí would probably say, “alright lads, you’ve had your fun, time to pack it in now”.
I am not a fan of the song. Sure, it’s fun and cute, but it has no real substance. The lyrics are an attempt to scorn the modern luxuries and lifestyles perpetrated by most of Middle America and beyond. But if you’re going to do that – do it loud – don’t hide your critiques behind pop-y beats and a chorus about wanting to be a “7-foot starfish”.
Track seven, Liar’s Remorse, starts with a more melancholic and slower riff, as well as a significant lack of autotune (thank fuck, finally). This is a slow, organ-fuelled, painful crusade into turmoil. It lasts just under five minutes, and I’m not sure if that was deliberately done to expose the listener to the same anguish that Julian is clearly experiencing here, but five minutes is about twice as long as it should be.
The main takeaway from the song states that “you don’t have love ’cause you don’t want pain / you don’t want pain ’cause you don’t want trust / (and) you don’t have trust so you don’t have love”. So love, pain, and trust are in a triangle? Revo-fucking-lutionary, guys. Well done.
Track eight mercifully begins, and we are cradled by the rhythmic chords of The Fruits of Conquest. This offering continues the revolutionary theme, telling us “they won’t obey so we won’t obey”. I do wonder how much of the recent Strokes rhetoric of anti-establishment-ism is born from a desire for Casablancas to distance himself from his Epstein-helping, barely-legal-sex-having father? Probably none, I’m sure…
The song itself is alright, but at this point, I’m just waiting for the album to end. Listen to it if you are the sort of person that thinks revolution is a nice idea but can’t be arsed to do anything about it.
The last track is here, and, uh oh! It’s got a wacky name! Tyrants of the Mellow Moon has a nice enough riff, beat, and general feel to it. That is, until the piercing vocal autotune is ricocheted into the soundscape. I know The Strokes have a history with autotune, and I am by no means in favour of a blanket ban on it. But the way it’s been utilised throughout this album does them no favours at all.
This is an okay endeavour. It’s a symbolic commentary on failed relationships, the state of the world, and just how brave you are by simply being here throughout it all. Perhaps even they’re surprised anyone has listened till the end?
Take It or Leave It
I am by no means a fan of this album, but for all the shit I’ve given them, I still love The Strokes, and I’m still happy they’re releasing music. Like I say, Going to Babble On is a decent enough track, so there’s that. The rest is largely underwhelming, even when approaching the project as open-mindedly as possible.
But that’s the risk you take listening to recently released records by artists you have nostalgia-filtered perceptions of. The new will always be compared to the old, regardless of how hard you try not to.
Will The Strokes ever release a record that hits the heights of their early years?
Hopefully. Some.
