By David Sue

The Strokes' story is one so exhausted and parched by media babble that it's almost impossible to retell it with any decent degree of clarity.

The journey of the five implausibly good-looking Manhattan rich kids who formed a band, made a demo, got signed and took over the whole of England for a good year (with help from those kind souls at NME) has prompted that rarest of modern-day pop fairy tales - a riches to even bigger riches story.

A straightforward lesson in media power in itself, were it not for the fact that, in an unforeseen case of 'Next Big Thing' digression, The Strokes didn't simply record a capable debut album, but a GOOD one.

One, in Is This It, that didn't only translate hype into that elusive whirr of buzz, but turned the entire axis of Big-Short fixated US alt-rock on its head at the same time (Enter: The White Stripes, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club).

Brattish, defiant, yearning, almost effete in its Smithsian ennui, its only message being a big 'Go Away!' to innovation when filching from The Greats (Those being NY Dolls, Blondie, The Jam, The Smiths, The Velvets naturally) you can make guitar pop this heroically good.

That it was made by a bunch of curt, middle-class Manhattan rich kids in flea-ridden outfits pilfered from their dead grandparents' wardrobes only made them all the more frivolously enticing. And if this, by that reckoning, makes The Strokes the (suspend your laughter) 'Menswear for the noughties that it's ok to like', then so be it.

That concert promoter types were originally considering the M.E.N. Arena (really!!!) as a potential nest for The Strokes second only Manchester date after their rammed-to-bursting show at Hop & Grape last year should tell you everything you need to know about The Strokes' current peaking-too-soon holding. Which is all the more reason to cling onto a good thing while it lasts. Just don't forget that Oxfam suit.

The Strokes, Apollo, March 25.

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