Sometime not too long ago, the Fab Five were like mythical beings, enjoying Heineken and Camels in the bars of NYC, adored by their fans and leading a modern wave of rock ’n’ roll artists into the new millennium. But the next year’s class pushed the Strokes out of their spotlight, and less than five years later the boys are nearly a nostalgia act in the eyes of hipsters and consumers everywhere — wrongly convinced that the Strokes are all about style.

On their third album, the instruments sound tighter than ever, with guitar, bass and drums flexing newly inflated muscles while still locked in the sonic jigsaw that is the Strokes’ trademark. This time, Julian Casablancas croons for the first time with soulful candor, channeling a Rat Pack Lou Reed, but rising to a whiskey-inspired howl in sudden bursts of manic emotion. His lyrical pleas to a spoiled, hardly interested lady friend act as a thinly veiled reference to a public that has moved on to the next big thing, leaving the poor boys stuck in “Remember the ’00s?” episodes.

However, Casablancas seems assured of his fate, admitting, “We could drag it out, but that’s for other bands to do/ I’ve got nothing to say.” The combination of his slack nihilism and the band’s taut electricity make for an addictive listen, but Casablancas doesn’t quite live up to his word, dragging the album out with at least four unnecessarily bad tracks (a Strokes first), indicating that perhaps his less-than-interested lady friend was right all along.