from the baltimore city paper
Personality Crisis
Review By Bret McCabe
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Strokes
University of Maryland, Baltimore County Fieldhouse, Oct. 11
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If you caught the Strokes' fall 2001 tour after their summer media heat-streak through Europe and Australia, the professionally polished quintet at the UMBC Fieldhouse was a surprise. The messy knot of trebly guitars and nervous snare drums that barely held together for some 30 minutes (which was probably all the songs they knew at the time) has become better packaged and behaved, delivering a well-knit hourlong set liberally mixing its debut hits with songs from the upcoming Room on Fire. Live, the band now acts like it wants to grow into its hype; unfortunately, it makes for a concert almost as rocking as a really bitching dental exam.
Which is too bad, because while the Strokes haven't changed a thing for Fire, they've also become much better at it. They've pushed and pulled the pace away from the too-much-coffee jitters, creating a better dynamic. So while slower numbers like the Cars-esque pop of "What Ever Happened?" and the primitive decadence of concert opener "Under Control" aren't throat grabbers, the Strokes now also have certifiable bleacher shakers in the pulsating "Reptila" and the chugging "You Talk Way Too Much," and two nigh guitar anthems in "The Way It Is" and "The End Has No End." Older songs--the New York Dolls ska of "Last Nite," the Lower East Side Salinger of "NYC Cops," the sigh and pant of "Someday," and the excitable shrug of "Hard to Explain"--got the ample crowd hand-raising, but the band sounds more confident with the new ones, if only because they provide a better pocket for Julian Casablancas' distorted delivery and lethargic anti-presence.
Whether bad-posture stooped at the microphone or skulking around the stage as if it were a 24-hour Laundromat, Casablancas was a study in affected ambivalence, a silent scoff that hangs unnaturally on the young Stroke. It wouldn't look so ill-fitting if the entire band didn't echo it. Standing pretty much stock-still and silhouetted in red and blue light, the Strokes looked less like a rock band than the Bear Jamboree automatons going through the required motions--all, that is, save rhythm guitarist Albert Hammond Jr. Aside from sporting a look that is a living composite of Welcome Back, Kotter's Sweathogs and being suave enough to relish being the "other" guitarist, Hammond windmilled his right hand as if he was missing an elbow, shimmied in place like an overexcited puppy, and in general hit the stage like a man who realizes what this whole "rock star" thing is--and wants to enjoy the ride.
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