There’s perhaps nothing more satisfying than being let down by your musical heroes, and The Strokes have turned it into an ethos. They’ve coated their lameness in a gloss of careless cool — reflector shades, leather jackets, skuzzy afros, loud guitars: fetishes all, both distracting and empty. Their acclaimed lo-fi sound encapsulates all the charm of failure. Nothing speaks to the hipster’s heart like tape hiss; it’s like a lame lover’s last whisper, “Boy, you nearly missed out on something truly lame.”
This is one of the worst reviews I've read so far, not necessarily because I disagree (the album is kind of a mess), but because...what the hell is he talking about, honestly:
The Strokes - Angles | Music Review | Tiny Mix Tapes
...What? No, seriously, what?Some Guy Who Really said:Listening to Julian Casablancas is like standing in front of the Mona Lisa or the Sears Tower — you want to reach out and touch it, but you’re afraid it will only recede into the distance. It’s a pleasure, to be sure, but also a painful obsession.
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This voice fades away before it hits its mark, and so you're left stumbling along after it, listening too eagerly, too desperately, hitting repeat in order to miss it all over again. That makes it more like a fetish, I guess, in the Freudian sense — both powerful and empty. If I could, I’d wear Casablancas’ voice around my neck — on a leather string — to ward off the bad hipster spirits, even though I know it would only let me down.
i'm really loving "Games".
i'm really loving "Games".