By this point, everyone and their mother know about the Strokes and their breakthrough debut album Is This It. Since it's September 2001 release date, the Strokes fanbase has steadily grown from hipsters and the British press to eight-year-olds and Teen Beat girls. But how would this now-classic album translate into a live show in Midwestern America?
Intrepid Cardinal Arts Staffers ventured to the Eagles Ballroom in Milwaukee Saturday night to answer this query. Each represented a slightly different viewpoint, from fanboy to cynic. Here are the results, for your reading pleasure. Take it or leave it.
Seeing a great band in a venue such as the Eagles Ballroom is bittersweet. No matter who the band is, the acoustics in the giant concrete hall are abhorrent. The Strokes, however, put in a pretty good effort. Opening with \Is This It,"" the band came out with amazing presence, and learning that lead singer Julian Casablancas was sick led me to believe he wasn't completely wasted. ""New York City Cops"" was truly incredible, as was the previously unrecorded ""Meet Me in the Bathroom.""
Being a Bob Dylan man myself, if I could've had my way, I would have preferred they experimented with the arrangements a bit, which they didn't, at all. Nonetheless, the show was progressing close to perfectly, when they just stopped playing. No encore after 45 minutes of excellence was quite disappointing, even if Casablancas actually had the flu. They reportedly have written over 100 songs, so where were they? Unfortunately, since I paid for my ticket, I left only moderately satisfied.
Don't let anyone from the balcony tell you otherwise: The Strokes' set Saturday was pure audio dynamite, and if they didn't have a good time, it's their own fault for removing themselves from what should have been, unquestionably, a communal experience.
Down in front, it was a pure celebration of rock 'n' roll that crossed all cultural and generational lines, from 8-year-olds with their big brothers to severely inebriated Asian men to Sammy Hagar look-alikes with their hands on your girlfriend. Every one of us, simply, wanted to pay our respects to a band that had seduced all of us over the past year, rocked our tiny little hearts out over and over. We didn't want to hear different solos than the ones we loved; there was no way they could have been any more perfect. New songs? Yeah, they sounded great, but we'll get back to you in another year, after we've all had a chance to fall in and out of love and twist our ankles to them, when they really become ours. When the house lights came on, we were transformed boys and girls, glistening with sweat and as radiant as we've ever been.
Forty minutes not enough for you? Next time, jump in with us, and you'll see that 40 minutes is just about as long as you can go without your heart exploding from the beauty of it all. See you in the pit.
As the opening acts bore ill repute, we arrived at the Eagles Ballroom as the second band finished its set. At the bar, an ardent Casablancas fan and I vowed to reach the front row, at any cost.
Our first effort to rush the stage started poorly as we waited in the mid-back of the floor for the band to take stage. With the opening chords of ""Is This It,"" our group of four divided and I found myself only about four bodies back from Casablancas. Within the 50-minute show, give or take 10 minutes, thesoundtrack of the bumping and grinding late-high school to college-freshman crowd was some of the Strokes most single-worthy tracks in all their unadulterated glory.
It's worth a few bruises to see the band through a high school cheerleader's frizzy ponytail, but the disappointment of reaching the front in time for the encore increased exponentially with the consequential lack of said encore.
OK, so the music was great. But for a Saturday night show, I expected a little more.
Since we already knew that the openers would suck, we decided to show up casually late. By that time the floor was already packed and the balcony open. Instead of being a jerk and elbowing my way past fans who had lined up for hours to see their band, I opted for a vantage view point up top. I'd rather see the band than some bodypasser's ass. And for all the fanboys, a pit is something at a metal show, not a pop-rock concert.
There is no doubt that the show did indeed rock. Hearing the new track ""Meet Me in the Bathroom"" proved it's going to be worth the wait for their sophomore release and watching the fan confusion during ""New York City Cops"" was a highpoint. But isn't there a rule out there that a headlining band has to at least play for an hour? The Strokes still had one song from the album to play, not to mention new material and there is always the option for covers.
When you're a headlining act, an encore is expected if not obligated. Ending the show after the main set is unheard of and leaves fans disappointed. Most kids paid over 30 bucks for this show and paying almost a buck a minute is a bit much for anyone.
Choosing between loyalty to a band or the band's lead singer is nearly impossible when the band is the Strokes and the lead singer is Julian Casablancas. The band's music is undeniably sexy; Jules is even sexier. Rumors of a cocaine and alcohol binge and consequent weight gain in the past few months appeared to be unfounded'it's not possible for a coke addict to be that dreamy and baby-faced.
Barely moving from his spot at the front of the stage as the band rocked out, Jules upped his lovability by endearingly leaning on the microphone stand for all of the 40 minutes he was on stage. Even the way his hand gripped the microphone all night was hot. Did he pull a fan on stage to sing to and fulfill her one dream for the evening? Did he say more than 10 words to the audience in between songs? Did it matter? In a word, no. Despite no effort on his part, Jules managed to intensely connect to anyone within a 30-foot-radius of him. (The connection was enough to make a girl forget that sweaty guys without shirts on were body slamming her and a short, Sammy Hagar look alike was grabbing her ass.)
As for the band, accusations of being a one-hit-wonder were silenced after Saturday's show. Even if Julian never emanated too much energy (it's just part of his facade), the rest of the band was pumped about their new stuff. And the fans were even more into it.
But even if the future of the Strokes looks good, and the first release is wonderful, allegiance belongs to Jules. Leave it to the son of a modeling agency mogul to establish such a defined persona so early into his career. With his shaggy brown hair, his big, adorable eyes and his scratchy and amazingly attractive voice, Jules may be one of the most captivating lead singers of today's up-and-coming young bands.
They almost had me. But just when I thought I was in, they pulled me back out.
I like the Strokes as much as the next guy'probably more, actually, unless the next guy is a 14-year-old kid'but a number of factors left me reluctant to make the drive to Milwaukee. Expensive tickets, a lackluster venue and a band not known to be entirely dedicated to the live show all gave me pause. But I stumbled onto a free ticket and gave Julian Casablancas and company the benefit of the doubt.
For 45 minutes, they earned it. Julian mentioned after the first song that he ""had the flu, my voice is a little fucked up,"" but it didn't show. Live, they were fuller, more robust, combining the tight arrangements of the album with a more powerful sound. And then they were done.
Maybe it was the aforementioned flu, maybe it was common practice on the tour, but an encore was bypassed and sorely missed. A headlining 45-minute show, spirited though it was, displayed a certain lack of respect for the audience. The show, great while it lasted, fell victim to its abrupt end and left the drive home longer than the show.
