… a dapper young man, thin and handsome in tweed … whiskey so dry it drifts over your tongue like smoke, disappearing before it reaches your throat, fucking you up … 10:30 PM, when the inescapable dampness of summer turns from smothering blanket to sweaty embrace and night things get started in earnest … pub doors swinging open, swallowing the sidewalk’s stink and puffing out warm reverberations – beer bottles, laughter, rock and roll … plunging necklines and tousled hair, serious full-lipped people sweaty from dancing … not caring who sees. That’s right. Scotland is sexy. This is Franz Ferdinand.
What’s more, Franz Ferdinand doesn’t really care about you. That too, as any girl with a bad-boy phase in her past can tell you, is sexy. Actually I’m sure they do care, but it wouldn’t show until after they accidentally knocked you over on the sidewalk while strutting to beat Jagger, at which point they would stop politely to help you up and make sure you’re okay before pressing onward as if nothing had happened. And who can blame them. They’ve got places to go. You didn’t recognize them at the time, but honestly you’re so lucky - can I touch you?
The appeal of this record is its bone fide rock’n’roll swagger, the kind most bands don’t find until a third or forth outing, assuming they’re lucky enough to last beyond the sophomore slump. The songs, in their very least, blend earnest, straight-faced song writing, four-on-the-floor dance pop, and dueling guitar hooks. At their best, as heard on “Take Me Out,” “The Dark of the Matinee,” and “This Fire,” they completely rock with pogo-inducing rhythms and sing-along chorus’ that keep one finger glued to the replay button for another instant spin. What’s better is that while these instantly danceable hits keep you coming back their other songs wait there smoldering, ready to tug your ear and steam up your glasses when you need it most.
So what’s their secret? Ask the last great saviors of rock, The Strokes, they might know. Like last year’s favorite NYC mods, Franz Ferdinand specialize in driven, feverish playing and a vocal delivery wrapped in an of-the-moment urban blasé that should make Interpol, etc. sit a little straighter in their haute leather chairs. Unlike The Strokes, who seem to have found a bottomless if narrow well from which to quote in late 70s / early 80s proto-punk (The Velvet Underground, The Clash), Franz Ferdinand has picked up these bits as well as the best offerings of T.Rex-glam, the Pixies zealous guitar worship and their darkly danceable pop contemporaries Pulp. The real weight of influence falls on well-dressed, stern faced 80s fare, but where The Talking Heads were gangly and political or The Pet Shop Boys longing and gay, Franz Ferdinand comes across as smart, serious, self assured and ever so sexy.
It’s as if these guys just paid better attention in rock-band school than the rest of us. While we were busy trying to decide what to stencil on our leather jackets these guys were acing Ennui 101 and snaking our best girls. This is an absolute must-hear, and the only thing to dethrone The Shins “Chutes Too Narrow” as the best new music playing at my house, and that’s saying something.
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