There is a point in Wayne’s World where the Stonerburbian protagonist asks his girlfriend if she’ll love him when he’s famous. When she replies with “yes,” he seeks to qualify her answer by asking if she’ll still love him when he’s really famous. When she replies with “yes” again, Wayne asks, “Will you still love me when I’m bloated, purple, dead on a toilet seat while young girls in white cotton panties run by?”

Though not quite “really famous” or even “famous” by conventional mainstream standards at this point (at least not in America), the Strokes have managed to bypass fame, fortune and selling out without collecting their $200 and have instead skipped straight to the requisite hedonism that accompanies rock ’n roll superstardom. In spite of their new-money pedigrees (lead singer Julian Casablancas’ father is the founder of the Elite model empire; guitarist Albert Hammond Jr.’s father wrote “It Never Rains in Southern California;” Casablancas, drummer Fabrizio Moretti and guitarist Nick Valensi all attended Dwight prep school in New York City) and publicists’ assertions that they are überhip (“they dress as if the 1970s and the 80s fell into the same laundry hamper”), the five young band members proceed with unpolished, unpretentious gusto that fans and critics can’t get enough of. The five college dropouts, all under the age of 23, have been hailed by NME as “the Saviours of Rock and Roll,” lauded by Rolling Stone and mobbed across the sea by a slew of British fans including the likes of Kate Moss and Thom Yorke. With a look more Welcome Back Kotter than laundry-hamper New Wave and a refreshing fuck-you nonchalance, the Strokes serve as a more-than-welcome respite from the onslaught of top-40 politically-correct cookie-cutter boy bands aimed at the screaming pre-teen set.

The fact that the Strokes behave like washed up rock stars despite being at their creative apex leads to a debut album that is energetic, damn catchy and innovative within its paradigm. Casablancas howls about sex, drugs and rock ’n roll in earnest, backed by a motley crew of influences ranging from 50s jangle pop to British Invasion rock to New Wave. The songs, save some masterful use of modulation showcased in tracks like “Soma,” are simplistic—no fancy drumming, straightforward guitar chords in a verse-chorus-verse matrix. Still, good, catchy music doesn’t have to be cerebral or complex—Is This It hits the listener on a gut level and gets under his skin until he’s bobbing his head, tapping his foot and wishing that he too were surrounded by young girls in white cotton panties. “Alone, Together” features the Strokes’ talent for creating seductive guitar hooks, while “Barely Legal” perfectly delivers the seemingly anthemic lines, “Well like my sister [I] don’t give a fuck / I wanna steal your innocence.” The album is also masterfully produced. Casablancas’ lo-fi crooning forms a fabulous contrast to the clear guitars in “Modern Age” and the precise, repetitive (so much so that it sounds like a skipping CD) background chorus strumming on “Last Nite.” The band also does a masterful job of perverting genres—“Someday” is a dirty Bill Haley and the Comets-type number, while “Take it or Leave it” evokes comparisons to the Velvet Underground. The only track that seems somewhat incongruous among the mix is “Trying Your Luck,” which replaced “NYC Cops” before the release date in respectful response to the tragic events of Sept. 11. An upbeat, New Wave-influenced track that was written on tour in Europe this summer, “Luck” fails to capture the grimy, self-effacing tone of the rest of the album.

The Strokes have a paradoxical charm—their songs are so masterfully written and delivered despite their musical simplicity that one is left with the impression that they are talented musicians; their influences, though obvious, are so out-of-touch with today’s top-40 list that one believes that they are creative by virtue of producing a sound for which many are nostalgic. One wonders where their sophomore album will take the listener—will mass appeal force them to take a more conventional creative route? Will they have to bathe, wear underwear and cut their hair? Will we still love them when they’re famous?

THE STROKES

Is This It

RCA