From the first calypso-inflected notes of "Machu Picchu," it's clear that those five years apart did something to The Strokes. Gone is vocalist Julian Casablancas' trademark slurred delivery, replaced by cleaner, more polished elocution. Over a bouncing, almost-danceable guitar line, it's the opening salvo from a band that's barely recognizable in its new sonic clothes.
"Angles," the New York quintet's latest effort since 2006's "First Impressions of Earth," quite frankly comes out of nowhere. Even the solo releases of rhythm guitarist Albert Hammond, Jr., or Casablancas' own "Phrazes for the Young" (2009) hardly establish a precedent for the groove they've settled into here. It's what you might get if you filtered their old sound through a neo-psychedelic '80s pinball machine — that is to say, it's not much like their old sound at all.
The closest any of their previously recorded output comes to this album is a steroid-laced, guitar-centric romp through the lead single on "Phrazes," "11th Dimension." Rather than focus their efforts on recapturing the sound that made them famous and returning to familiar roots, they chose to dig up their roots and replant them somewhere else. They become resurrectors of the slippery, synthetic soundscapes that riffed off of technology before it was submerged beneath the hulking beasts of auto-tune and overproduction.
But far from being bogged down by this broader palette, The Strokes use it to self-administer a much-needed jolt of electricity, sounding more awake and alive than they have in their entire career. The sleepiness and bemused detachment of their albums "Room on Fire" (2003) and "Is This It" (2001) seem miles away from this new vivacity, so it's certifiably odd to catch those scattered moments linking the two styles.
What stands out most is the palpable sense of energy, prominent on lead single "Under Cover of Darkness." While the song was initially off-putting, there's a dynamism and constant shifting in the songwriting that's unexpectedly lively, almost jangly, as if the band found itself so brimming with new ideas that they all had to be stuffed into one song. Eventually it works, but it's a style that requires a bit of getting used to.
Beyond the strains of this second track, there's a clear branching off into two distinct territories with the remainder of the album. On cuts like "Two Kinds of Happiness" and the quirkily named "Gratisfaction," The Strokes are more shimmery and vibrant than they've ever been, with swirling guitars and swelling choruses anchoring an outlook that's practically sunny.
But then, on the darkly synthy "Games" and ruminative "Call Me Back," there's a pervading "last night on Earth" feeling, twisting that familiar Strokes standby of detachment and aloofness into spiraling loneliness and solemnity. Most impressive, perhaps, is that these sentiments carry through more strongly musically than they do lyrically.
There are moments of certifiable strangeness, too, and "You're So Right" gets credit for being, without a doubt, their most confounding track to date. At a scant two-and-a-half minutes, it's the shortest cut on the album but perhaps the most memorable. Penned by the silent, stolid Nikolai Fraiture, its shifting, fragmentary episodes prove jarring and unexpected on their way to something otherworldly.
Of course, ever self-aware as The Strokes are (see debut album title "Is This It"), things wouldn't quite be complete without a bit of reflexive songwriting. With a sly hint at their former sound in album closer "Life Is Simple in the Moonlight," the band seems to be offering the track's instant familiarity as something of a parting wink, a knowing nod to the band they used to be.
Largely freed from the pressures of hyper-focused media attention, but in a fashion subject to new skepticism because of the lengthy lead-up to the release of "Angles," The Strokes are finally beginning to cast some light on their considerable talents in composition and musicianship. It's hard to say just how things will evolve from here, but it's a safe bet that they won't be delivering anything the least bit predictable — and, for critics and fans alike, what could be more satisfying than that?
