Julian Casablancas, Phrazes for the Young -- Review

There is nothing subtle or understated about Phrazes for the Young, The Strokes frontman Julian Casablancas's debut solo album. Where his band has, for the most part, felt comfortably confined within three-and-a-half-minute punk-pop songs, on Phrazes Casablancas is afforded the opportunity to stretch his retro sensibilities into much longer compositions (the album's shortest track clocks in at just over four minutes, it's longest at just under six), and this proves to be a double-edged sword of welcomed artistic freedom and unsound decision making.

On The Strokes last effort, 2006's terrific First Impressions of Earth, the boys managed to silence those critics who, disappointed with the band's sophomore album, Room on Fire, labeled them one-trick post-punk p(h)onies, while at the same time frustrating a slew of other critics who wanted, simply, The Strokes, and not some group taking their influences outside of CBGB to include U2 and *gasp* Barry Manilow.

And here's where it gets paradoxically frustrating on my part; because however much I champion expansion*, if I listen to a Julian Casablancas album I want to hear some semblance of what made me like The Strokes to begin with. I don't want a vanity project; I want an album that can stand alongside the best of The Strokes' catalog. And, for the most part, Phrazes for the Young does just that. Album opener "Out of the Blue" starts things off perfectly with a paean to living life as a self-perceived asshole and caring very little about it. Strokes purists might bemoan the everything-and-the-kitchen-sink approach that producer Jason Lader takes, but it's effectively noisy while at the same time managing to remain enticingly melodic. Casablancas has a great voice, and it's a shame that it's taken so long for its range to be tested.

Track No. 2, "Left & Right in the Dark," further expands the limits of Casablanca's skill as a songwriter and vocalist. Synth guitars propel an upbeat song that is picturesque in its ostensible portrait of a morning drive after a long night of carousing, Casablancas switching between mumbled reverie and shouts of "Wake up, wake up!" This leads into the album's first single, "11th Dimension," a The Cars-inspired masterpiece that at first sounds sycophantic to an era until, after multiple listens, its underlying beauty is finally reached. "When cities come together to hate each other in the name of sport," Casablancas mumble-croons, and I realize what a shame it is that Outkast's "Hey Ya" spoiled it for the rest of the big fish playing in minimalist synthpop's small pond.

It is here we reach momentum-shifter "4 Chords of the Apocalypse," a church hymn by way of epileptic neo-funk, a schizophrenic oddity appreciated best, I imagine, while drunk and not capable of knowing any better, which I can only hazard to guess is what occurred during its recording process. "Ludlow St.," which follows, is only marginally better in it's execution, but both are testaments to the big-eyes-small-stomach phenomena prevalent whenever an artist's ego gets too big for the skull it encompasses**. What begins as a "Brian Eno second half of Low" curio quickly becomes a country and Western pastiche about gentrification and alcoholism churned through a meat grinder. And not in a good way.

Praise Odin, however, because thankfully the album arights itself before all is sunk. "River of Breaklights" is a revelation in its pace and its surprising homage to Radiohead, while penultimate track "Glass" is likely the closest thing to a mature rock ballad we'll hear from a New York-raised socialites' son. Someone's been listening to Graceland, and not in the bad, Vampire Weekend way.

Album closer "Tourist" sums things up best, though, in its two-faced approach. Casablancas wants to have his cake and eat it too; and it works here fantastically. What starts as a smarmy guitar lesson in attitude soon shapeshifts into truth: Casablancas wants to be edgy, but he can't hide the innocent smile lying underneath his feigned angst, and it's not long before harmony overtakes the procession. Tickle him when he's frowning and he'll elicit an immediate smile, I'll bet.

Only eight songs long, Phrazes for the Young attempts to compact too much into too little space, but "Tourist" sticks the landing. Minus "4 Chords of the Apocalypse" and "Ludlow St.," this is a phenomenal EP.

3.5/5 *_*


* outside of professional sports and border disputes

** been there (am there?)