By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
I went on vacation three weeks ago. It was a spontaneous trip. My best friend, Kevin, was about to head off to England for a year, so on a Friday morning I decided to hop a plane to Southern California, take the following week off and go climb a mountain with him. I've done this kind of thing before, the spontaneous vacation thing. It involves packing quickly, often inadequately; driving yourself mad trying to tie up all the loose ends; and, as far as music is concerned, grabbing whatever CDs are on your desk without giving it much thought.
That's how Kevin and I ended up motoring toward the eastern Sierra Nevada mountains, listening to records by the Killers and Scissor Sisters, two bands that I had thus far tried to avoid, because the Killers and Scissor Sisters are fashion bands, and I generally hate fashion bands. But the last few weeks of listening to these records--as well as attending Franz Ferdinand's recent show and devouring my review copy of the latest from Interpol, whose suit-wearing tendencies helped kick off this whole nouveau fashion-rock thing--have me reconsidering my attitude.
Music that you listen to on a road trip tends to leave a lasting impression. Inevitably, after about two hours of driving, when it's pitch black outside and you've run out of things to say, you and your buddy just sit there, listening, staring into the night. It was under these circumstances that we put on the latest from Las Vegas' hot-rock phenoms the Killers. The band may be ripping off the Cure, Blondie and half a dozen other '80s hit-makers, but when their shtick works, it works. Then there are the Scissor Sisters from New York. Here is an act so self-consciously gay/cool they make Avril Lavigne look legitimately punk. Featuring band members with names like Jake Shears and Babydaddy, everything about the band seems calculated to the point of being offensive, which doesn't mean the songs suck; far from it, in fact. Tunes like "Take Your Mama" and "Laura" are irresistible. It's just that enjoying them is like eating an entire bowl of brownie mix.
Still, as we drove, Kevin and I found ourselves bouncing and grooving, nodding our heads and singing along. The experience raised a question for me about what's going on with alternative music. Namely: What's it going to mean to the current alt-rock moment to have such obviously calculating groups crash the party? The Killers and Scissor Sisters are among the handful of "It" bands defining the sound of 2004; the former recently sold out the Great American Music Hall; the latter recently headlined the Fillmore. The third new act in this trio of cool is Franz Ferdinand, and it was with the above question in mind that I attended the band's recent show.
If there was any doubt that Franz Ferdinand is the reigning champ of fashionable, hook-heavy dance rock, the group's show laid it to rest. The place was packed to the gills with 16- to 24-year-olds dressed to the nines. Guys with two-hours-to-get-it-this-messy hair and attractive girls with hoop earrings dangling from their ears and hot-pink blouses hanging off one shoulder, Molly Ringwald-style. It was Sixteen Candlesall over again.
When Franz Ferdinand launched into their ubiquitous "Take Me Out," the crowd exploded like a henhouse full of chickens into which someone had dropped a fox.
It was a great show.
Driving home after the gig, it seemed all too appropriate to put on the new Interpol record, Antics. Interpol is like the older brother to the three above bands, the one who tipped his siblings off to "cool music." It is the band that, two years ago, reintroduced the moody, melancholic post-punk sound of the early '80s to today's modern rock radio. If the Strokes are Pearl Jam, Interpol is Nirvana, the band that crystallized not just the sound of a genre but also the tone--in this case, detached, deliberate and dapper. Antics is the follow-up to Interpol's love letter to urban ennui, 2002's Turn on the Bright Lights, and it's one of the most anticipated albums this year.
Would you believe that it's pretty damn good?
Antics is cleverly cosmopolitan, polished and regal, yet filthy, the soundtrack to illicit love affairs that take place between midnight and sunrise. Shimmering, icy guitars once again color the record, dancing and chiming throughout Paul Banks' verses then bursting like flashbulbs during his choruses. Unlike the Strokes, whose sophomore effort sounded like a collection of outtakes from their debut, Interpol has matured on Antics, if ever so slightly. It's mainly in the arrangements, in the way a song like "Narc" seductively wiggles through escalating verses, through offbeat guitars and fluttering drums, its momentum building like sex, steady and sweet at first but ultimately devolving into an urgent chorus: "You should be in my space/You should be in my life."
An amazing album--but probably one of the last of its kind. Why? Well, here's my theory: Back in 2000, the Strokes and the White Stripes broke into the mainstream and changed the face of alternative rock. At that time, popular music was defined by plasticity. You had the overproduced bubblegum pop divas like Britney and Christina, the overproduced emo-grunge of bands like Creed and Live, the overproduced rap-rock of bands like Limp Bizkit and Kid Rock. People were hankering for something "real," and the dirty guitars and sullen stares of the Strokes and the White Stripes were just the ticket. Finally, music could be "authentic" again.