The Strokes review, London Roundhouse: Still effortlessly cool

All of them are gloriously unphased, not breaking a sweat. And Casablancas remains as engaging as ever, all melted-chocolate crooning and waltzing with the mic stand

Julian Casablancas at The Roundhouse, London, 19 February 2020 (Rex)

“My teenage dreams are coming true,” someone in the row behind me is yelling to their friend, as The Strokes take to the stage for a sold-out show at the Roundhouse.

It’s impossible to escape the nostalgia of seeing The Strokes play live. This is the band who, back in 2001, “saved” rock (depending on what UK music press you read), and – while their more recent full-length offerings may not have won critical favour – their first two albums are still evocative of youthful exuberance and, well, coolness. There’s understandably something thrilling about seeing such a behemoth group play those songs in a relatively small venue. The crowd is immediately full of rapturous energy, with pints flying in the air from the opening chords of their first song, “Someday”.

But beyond that nostalgia, the question of whether The Strokes are relevant in 2020 hangs in the air. They’ve just announced their next album, The New Abnormal, and the singles so far have had an affable reception, continuing a trend of melding polished Eighties sonics with their signature melodic guitar hooks. Their involvement in the Bernie Sanders campaign has leant them the kind of political vitality they arguably lacked before.

For some, however, the quintessential NYC band stopped being of interest after 2006 and their third album, First Impressions of Earth. It’s a narrative that the band seem to have internalised to an extent, with the set tonight going heavy on their first two records. “One Way Trigger”, from their largely disregarded fifth LP Comedown Machine, gets a surprisingly raucous reception, with Julian Casablancas hitting those high notes with striking ease.

“I am having a selfishly good time,” laughs Casablancas in the second half of the show, behind those eternally nonchalant sunglasses. “What about you? Are you having a good time?”

He has become an increasingly curious frontman. Tonight, he’s full of dry quips, poking fun of what is expected of audience interaction and how unnatural it is to keep reeling off platitudes about how much they love the city they’re playing in (though to his credit, he has some great lines about “sharp British minds” and this nation’s great cuisine – Indian food).

There are a couple of clunky, mumbly moments where he seems not to know the words (“I promise I’ll learn the new songs soon”), or when the pace slows for a deeper cut (“Ize of the World” becomes a drinks break for many), but when The Strokes are good, they are – for lack of a non-cliched descriptor – a well-oiled machine.

For tracks such as “Automatic Stop”, “Juicebox” and “Reptilia”, Nikolai Fraiture’s arm whirrs in a frenzy over his bass, guitarists Nick Valensi and Albert Hammond Jr pour out near-perfect solos, and Fabrizio Moretti, dressed in a baby-pink suit, skitters effortlessly on his drum kit.

All of them are gloriously unphased, not breaking a sweat. And Casablancas remains as engaging as ever, all melted-chocolate crooning, waltzing with the mic stand, and reclining in a decidedly “paint me like one of your French girls” pose during new single “Bad Decisions” – to the bemusement of Hammond.

The selfishness Casablancas alludes to perhaps comes at the expense of his band – his rapport with them seems a little off (not least when he confuses them by walking offstage at the end of “Last Nite”, seemingly signalling the end of the set pre-encore). “I was just acting out the line, ‘I’ll walk out that door’ – it’s theatre,” he explains.

The Strokes’ legacy for this decade remains to be seen – certainly, indie bands are not exactly en vogue in 2020. Nonetheless, their set tonight proves that, at its best, their sound remains thrilling, and relevant or not, they’re still effortlessly cool.