In an interview with Spin magazine after the Strokes were named band of the year on pure residual fame off their debut the previous year, lead singer and principal songwriter Julian Casablancas admitted he wrote his best songs while drunk. In retrospect, it was probably more complicated than that. Two albums and seven years later, Casablancas is in a precarious position, forced to battle for legitimacy on his long-anticipated solo debut, Phrazes for the Young.
Whether or not it was ever intentional, the Strokes were especially relevant for their aesthetic appeal. Their oily hair and ratty clothing were directly symptomatic of their most alluring trait: The Strokes had incredible swagger.
By the time Is This It? climbed its way atop college radio stations, they existed above the plane of society, and you'd better believe they knew it. Despite wholehearted efforts by the Killers and Kings of Leon, nobody has synthesized their own prominence like the Strokes, primarily because they didn't care to. Fame or no fame, they knew they were better than the rest of us. Their indifference liberated them from expectations, ultimately creating the selfless combination that allowed each of them to flourish in the shadows.
But then something happened. The Strokes were finally putting forth the effort, experimenting with electronic sounds and more classical productions, but after a lukewarm reception to their follow-up record and an indifferent response to a lackluster third effort, the world stopped listening.
Casablancas isn't the only Strokes member to embark on a side project since they bottomed out, but as principle songwriter he was the best hope for another truly landmark album. Unfortunately, he's going to have to try again.
A paltry eight songs long, Phrazes is an especially disjointed record. Its influences encompass jazz, classical and post-punk, but it fails to fuse any of them together in a progressive way. Where they do coexist they usually butt heads, each vying for the lead hook.
Casablancas' looser, unhinged compositions are more explosive musically, but also more combustible, and they create a disconnect between sonic and aesthetic value. However, it's possible that by valuing his earlier accomplishments we're doing him a disservice.
We get the clearest idea of Casablancas' current self-perception on ""Out of the Blue"" when he sings, ""I know I'm going to hell in a leather jacket / But at least I'll be in another world when you're pissing on my casket."" He's trying to become the new Elvis, the post-modern James Dean.
However, the same song's introduction details his path from hopefulness to anger, and it's this kind of apologetic remorse that dooms Phrazes from the start. He scatters melodies gratuitously like he's working in a soup kitchen, lacking the heart to exclude anyone for the sake of a coherent song. He's trying really hard but afraid to show it and jeopardize his façade of disinterest.
On ""Ludlow Street,"" Casablancas outlines his love/hate relationship with drinking, condemning it for his faults while simultaneously heralding it as his only reprieve. It's a catch-22 that he's apparently lost in. The narrative weaves a cornucopia of nationalities and non sequiturs with about as much coherence as a man toppling from a barstool. What I'm suggesting is that Casablancas' successful songwriting had nothing to do with being drunk; rather, he wrote good songs when he didn't care enough not to drink.
Despite Phrazes' inconsistencies, ""11th Dimension"" is the beacon of what a post-electronica Casablancas can become and an incredibly fulfilling glimmer of hope toward what a reunited Strokes could accomplish. It marks the only time he commits to one groove and delegates the rest to back-up duty, benefiting the whole like classic Strokes songs used to. The chords swell around each other without bumping elbows, creating a cohesive statement throughout the entire song.
Phrazes could be a catalyst to a paradigmatic shift, but even if so, it's nothing beyond a stepping stone. It's entirely reasonable to accept an alteration in style, and even a postmodern James Dean can adapt, but the frenzy of chords and tumultuously disjointed thematic content need to be honed down before any type of image can come into focus.
