Anyone searching for evidence of how meteoric the Strokes' rise has been need only glance at the merchandising stall in the foyer of the Brixton Academy. Barely a year ago, the New York quintet were playing their debut London gigs in the back room of a Camden pub. Tonight they're flogging Strokes cigarette lighters and Strokes combined keyring-and-bottle-openers, perfect for bringing some surly Lower East Side attitude to your nightly Old Peculiar. The Strokes have availed themselves of all the accoutrements of a major rock band. They have the tacky merchandise; there are scurrilous rumours circulating about their lifestyles; they have the celebrity girlfriends - guitarist Nick Valensi squires Amanda De Cadenet, a rare window of opportunity missed by Patsy Kensit. "We're not fuckin' stars," mumbles singer Julian Casablancas from the stage, but it certainly looks that way.
No rock band in recent memory has achieved so much so quickly. Tonight, however, the downside of such a speedy ascent becomes troublingly visible. The Strokes have an enviable reputation for kinetic rock'n'roll mayhem. Yet before their biggest audience to date, they seem paralysed. They stand, rooted to the spot, churning out songs as if anxiously awaiting a verdict. On record, The Modern Age is a propulsive, thrilling clatter. Tonight, they play like a band whose batteries are running flat: the song inches painfully along, struggling to its conclusion.
In fairness, the venue extends them no favours. The sound booms around the Academy's cavernous interior, murky and blurred. The provocative, tinny attack of their records is nowhere to be heard. On this tour, they are performing two new songs, a fact that has warranted shocked and excited headlines in the music press. Running a news story because a rock band has written some songs is akin to running a news story because a toilet cleaner has cleaned some toilets, but such is the frenzied level of expectation around The Strokes. Inevitably, the reality is underwhelming. The PA renders virtually everything an indistinct soup. It is impossible to tell whether the new songs are any good.
Occasionally, however, the band flickers tentatively into life. New York City Cops barrels along, its sneer intact. Barely Legal's guitar riff bursts through the gloom. During the closing Take It Or Leave It, the band begins to project something other than stifling nervousness. Guitarist Albert Hammond Jr flings himself around the stage during his solo, bassist Nikolai Fraiture ends the song by casually throwing his guitar at the drumkit. It's a glimpse, at least, of what all the fuss is about.
