February 9, 2004 by A.S. Van Dorston

Sometimes an indie band has got to be tempted to just become a shitty, noodly mainstream band like Dave Matthews and make easy millions. Franz Ferdinand takes one small element from CBGB-era New York bands (Television’s clean dual-guitar tones and Robert Quine’s staccato rhythms), and they’re accused of copping from The Strokes. For the modest living they’re eeking out, is it worth putting up with this bitching? Never mind that they managed to write a whole album full of catchy songs that don’t steal any chords or melodies from anyone, which is more than you can say for Elastica. You might be able to find broken bits of a Blondie, Blur, Gang of Four or The Jam, but only fleetingly. By and large this Scottish band has emerged from art school fully formed, and despite people’s suspicions, they are great.

Witness the timeless intro to “Jacqueline.” The nearly a capella intro kicks off into a popping bass line, and the band is immediately lathered into a spastic frenzy, rocking harder than any of the current bands they’re supposed to be ripping off. The lyrics are typically meaningless (“It’s always better on holiday”), but they’re just warming up, a call to arms, revising Richard Hell’s famous request to “please kill me” with “I don’t mind if you kill me/Come on you gutless/I’m alive/I’m alive…and how I know it.” “Take Me Out” is their fabulous single, cleverly referring to the assassination of the Archduke that inspired the band’s name with a double entendre, another invitation for homicide (“I’m just a cross-hair/Just a shot away from here”) or a night of decadence. The way they bridge the rote chugging into a spanking dancefloor rocker is a simple pleasure, but that’s the thrill of good rock.

Skipping sentiment and romance “The Dark Of The Matinee” is nearly as great, cutting to the chase with pervy flirtation (“You take your white finger/slide the nail under the top and bottom buttons”). “Auf Asche” is slightly more mannered, with a disco beat, but manages to introduce enough changes to keep the boys fluffed with punk-spiked guitars, and girls attentive with a sexy groove (or vice-versa). “Darts Of Pleasure” is another highlight, originally released last year as the band’s first single. Here, Alexander Kapranos gets almost too campy, crossing Bryan Ferry with Falco when he smarmily croons, “You can feel my lips undress your eyes…/Words of love and words so leisured/Words are poisoned darts of pleasure.” The shouted German refrain is an ingenious ending, bringing to mind The Coral’s fresh interpretations of sixties psychedelia. “Michael” tackles homoeroticism more boldly and blatantly than anything by Suede or Morrissey, who shied away from gender-specific lyrics.

Just to show what the band has in store for the future, they flex a little more musical muscle on the last two cuts. “Come On Home” features a brilliantly arranged chorus that sounds nearly epic with its harmonies, crescendo and perfectly succinct organ solo. “40’” slows things down, toys with the rhythm, and artfully adds a melodica to sweeten the farewell just so you’re left wanting more. I certainly am. Judging from the several new songs already introduced to their live set, Franz Ferdinand are poised to be as prolific as they are precocious. And as it turns out, the charts have revealed that persevering despite the whiny naysayers is paying off in a big way. Hoobastank and Jet be warned, your days are numbered.

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