At long last, after two years of waiting, we hold in our hot little hands the new Strokes record, the cryptically titled Room On Fire. After the supreme worry of the thankfully aborted Nigel Godrich sessions (The Strokes as imagined by Radiohead boy - no thanks), the boys got back together with Gordon Raphael, producer of their incendiary debut, 2001’s Is This It. The results are exactly what we hoped for: a scuzzy collection of songs that shows both a kinship to and a marked development from the first outing.

Things kick off with "What Ever Happened?", a song whose opening line sets the tone for most of the album; "I wanna be forgotten/ And I don’t wanna be reminded." For the next half- hour, lead singer Julian Casablancas seems to be addressing the world from the periphery, the corner of our collective eye. Indeed, the whole band seems to be coming from a darker place than where they were last time around. The guitars are harder, fuzzier; the drums both calculating and frenzied. Along with the band’s typical chaotic brilliance, there’s an underlying tone of desperate anger throughout the album’s eleven tracks, conveyed both lyrically and musically. "Reptilia" sees Casablancas self-flagellating, "Now every time that I look at myself/ I thought I told you, this world is not for ya." Other times he’s venomously lashing out; "I said, ‘Wait, I’m not gonna give you a break,’/ I’m not your friend, I never was, no," on the excellent reggae flavored "Automatic Stop," and, "I never needed anybody, I never needed nobody," on "Between Love and Hate." His vitriol is particularly evident on the rockin’ "The Way It Is" when he spits, "I’m sick of you, and that’s the way it is."

There are a few more upbeat, happy tunes here as well. "12:51" is a New Wave nugget in this vein where a guitar perfectly mimics a keyboard, while the lyrics evoke the innocent debauchery of high school days; "We could go and get forties/ Then we’d go to some party/ Oh really, your folks are away now? / Alright I’m comin’." The musical surprise of the year comes with "Under Control," a mellow, slow-paced number (remember this is The Strokes, now) that’s so damn good it’s scary.

In the face of the sophomore slump, The Strokes have delivered under pressure, big time. Through eleven songs, none of which exceeds 3:41, they hold the listener hostage, rapt to their seedy charms. They’ve also created and fully realized their own sound, rendering comparisons irrelevant; where once a mention of the Strokes initiated a name-the-influences pissing contest (Television! The Velvet Underground! Stooges!), now it’s all about The Strokes. We can only hope their output picks up a bit - two years between releases is too long. Those with hopefully biased ears are given some encouragement for this changing at the very end of Room On Fire, on "I Can’t Win," when Casablancas drawls, "Hold on/ Yes, I’ll be right back"
God willing.