“Hard to Explain” by The Strokes—off their 2001 debut album "Is this It"—is one of the best rock songs of all time. No fooling.
Musical perfection fuzzed up and delicately marred by a garage band, first-take aesthetic. Those rare intervals that border on flat or cacophonous add punk to this glittery pop/rock/disco/glam hybrid. (Who’s willing to bet each band member has a low-key side project of the kind favored by preternaturally hip director Sofia Coppola and erstwhile rock video darling Winona Ryder?)
It lets you know you’re not listening to a group whose manager is a metronome. You’re listening to one that eschews “nuclear options” to win airplay like auto tune and overproduction. If Skrillex or Major Lazer are in the room, it’s just to share a doob and hang out with some creative dudes.
The coolness factor of this band is also off the charts. I’ll never wear white-framed sunglasses and get invited to a party with guys like this. But should I ever have a shindig ( I like ‘em 3 people at most because of introversion and stuff) I would consider playing The Strokes at this hypothetical social gathering. (You haven’t won yet, Covid. I don’t wear a mask in my dreams.)
Back to my love for the Strokes, “Hard to Explain” presents a dynamic slow-build of musical threads and passages. So sophisticated I should be wearing a Katherine Hepburn-style lounge set, sitting in an egg chair for perfect music focus and stereosonic sound and drinking some sophisticated new cocktail making the rounds like a Michelada martini.
The end of the song has a moment in which the disaffection is positively cheerful in tone. And yet, there’s a mystery. The Strokes are not here to wrap things up in a neat bow.
They have stepped into a dimension two meters to the left of us prosaic Costco shoppers. It’s a mirage of a place, one of missing coordinates and zip codes, a place tolerant of cigarette butts and empty glasses but not of uncouth hangups like self-doubt. It’s a place where a lazy, ambivalent observation is more affective than courtly attentions.
This particular tune, "Hard to Explain," includes, bought at auction, the forgotten bus stop station in “Ghost World.” Dig on this lyrical ambiguity:
“I say the right things
But act the wrong way
I like it right here
But I cannot stay
I watched the TV
Forget what I'm told
I am too young
And they are too old
I'll make it you see
I'm ever so pleased
Pretend to be nice
So I can be mean
I missed the last bus
I'll take the next train
I try, but you see. . . “
The question isn’t what does it mean but instead, how does it make you feel?
At the end of it all, we don’t know where that elusive bus is going. We know, however, that it’s a one-way trip, the ticket is non-refundable and the driver is making good time.
It’s hard to explain, but one listen tells you all you need to know about why this tune is a snack-sized masterpiece—a song that will feel fresh in 27 and four score years.
Jah was good when he nudged this talented group of musicians to temper life's chaos with ennui and a scoche of controlled debauchery. The Strokes are that drunken conversation with your mates or with a smart girl nursing a beer and a crush.
I’ll admit, I’ve let my rabid fangirl aspect out of the cat carrier where I usually keep it kenneled. Because the end, it is enthusiasm that will carry us through. Did not Seal warn us that we will never ever ever survive unless we go “a little crazy?”
I have a bit of advice I like to dispense: if you’re feeling depressed, fangirl harder. Boys and men (Boys 2 Men?), do the same. Cowboy up and share what makes you happy. What are you into? Don’t act blasé—that’s so 2003.
What song have you been listening to on repeat? Post a pic of your collection, because every man has one, from bobble head dolls to records, from air-soft rifles to commemorative coins, from the full collection of Die Hard movies to a jumbled jungle of houseplants. What video game has become nearly a second life for you?
Are you hitting the gym or preparing for your inevitable appearance on Forged in Fire?
Do you still find your wife beautiful or are you suddenly struck with a crush—one doomed by diametrically opposing political views—on golden-haired Trump press secretary Kayleigh McEnany. If you’re single, are you pondering swiping right, proposing to someone or getting a Corgi?
And most importantly, are you willing learn the lyrics to "Is This It"—my song of the day on Battlestar Eclectica—so you can prompt me during karaoke?
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