The biggest, blackest cloud ever witnessed in the universe’s long history of big, black clouds has amassed overhead, threatening a downpour of biblical proportions. All of a sudden, the stage is swathed in blue light and the New York City boys are there looking sharp, with Casablancas dressed – as ever – in black leather and shades. With no time for chat, they launch into ‘Taken For A Fool’ and ‘Reptilia’, during which the rain starts to beat down without mercy and for a moment it feels like only the Goretexed or sufficiently inebriated will survive. Being neither, Hot Press looks to the stage for salvation from the elements (there are, after all, few things good rock ‘n’ roll won’t cure) but a lethargic rendition of ‘Is This It?’ does not do the job. Thankfully ‘NYC Cops’ is bringing up the rear, proving emphatically that the highlights from The Strokes’ ten year-old debut are still to be reckoned with. Casablancas knows this but, rigid as a peg, looks even less charismatic than usual as he clings to the microphone stand. His voice sounds like it’s being played through a gramophone broadcast on the radio, recorded on an old cassette and played back on the car stereo (quite an impressive feat, you’ll agree) and, combined with the tightness of the band, ensures that everything sounds record-perfect.
The Strokes have never been into doing anything other than exactly what they do – no improvisation, no experiments, no apologies, and this gig is no exception. The songs do the talking, and with tracks like ‘Hard To Explain’ and ‘Last Night’, we won’t be complaining. Nonetheless, a bit of pizaz on stage wouldn’t go astray. Maybe they could get lessons from Hooky?