Strokenoff

As promised, a blurred phonecam picture of what could actually be any band in the world, but is, I assure you, The Strokes. The first thing you notice when attending a performance by a superduper cool New York band - one who stormed onto the scene with a thrilling debut, cooled a bit with their difficult second album, but have now engineered a glorious return to form with their new material - is the top toff totty who frequent their gigs. Shallow I know, but there it is. Admittedly, the last gig I went to was ZZ Top, who attract a slightly more mature audience, but even at Supergrass or The Kings of Leon, or Muse even, you didn't get quite such a sophisticated sprinkling of ladeeez. Without being overly lecherous, Tom and I insinuated ourselves amongst the seething flesh, our plastic pints firmly gripped, our paunches desperately sucked in. Hammond Jnr et al, pranced on eventually and the crowd gave an expensively scented punch in the air as the distinctive bass throb of 'Juicebox' juddered through the Marshalls. So it went for two and a bit hours, the five songs I knew were played with marginal enthusiasm and Julesy Casablancas (for it is he) , demonstrated the sort of elocution techniques they teach you at the Pete Doherty school of Incoherent Rock Mumbling. 'Thangew Lunnunn, your beuwdafuhl, thiswahniscawled, blahurggblgrble.' Then they were gone. Now this is where I get pissed off, encores. One day I'd like to empty an auditorium completely, just to see the smug grins melt off their faces as they stroll back on stage, only to discover everyone has buggered off. I hate encores, I'd almost prefer it if they said 'we're going back stage now for a bit to mop down/snort something/swill Moet/ shag a badger, then we'll come back and finish the set... talk amongst yourselves.' All this sycophantic pleading for them to come back and do their job really burns my arse. There now, I've regressed to Rhodie-isms, that's how much it gets to me. When they do eventually deign to return, they play that new track that sounds disturbingly like Barry Manilow's 'Mandy'- assure us yet again that they 'lurve' us and finally leave the building. I'm glad I went, as I like Tom very much and did want to hang out with him, but The Strokes? New York can 'ave 'em.