In Lizzy Goodman’s Meet Me in the Bathroom, an oral history of the NYC rock scene in the aughts, Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ then-manager Asif Ahmed recalls that for a while the band were getting a rep as the “No No Nos.” They were saying no to Saturday Night Live, no to the Vanity Fair music issue, no to [insert brand here]. But "no" isn’t always an indicator of an erratic artistic temperament, or an expression of disagreement. It can also be a succinct word for self-preservation.

Possibly the most important "no" came from singer Karen O in August 2002, eight months before the release of their debut album Fever to Tell. At the time she was overwhelmed—the attention, particularly over in the UK, was blinding, the pressure immense. The band hadn’t finished the record and were scheduled to play a hyped slot at Reading Festival, plus a slew of shows around it. But Karen said no. She canceled all of it, much to drummer Brian Chase and guitarist Nick Zinner’s initial chagrin. She was thinking of her health in part, but she also felt they needed to focus on making the album exactly as they envisioned it: A record that would dish their passion and fury and fun; a record that they could stand behind.

This week marks the 15-year anniversary of Fever to Tell. At 37 near-perfect minutes it still bleeds both hedonism and heart. It’s also a record that boldly left off every track from their self-titled 2001 EP, the microphone-fellating, DIY-punk collection that sparked it all. In its wake, Fever to Tell exceeded expectations while silencing the sceptics at the back who sniffed that Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ beer-slick, lawless live shows served as a mere smoke-screen for style over substance. “It's our time, sweet babe / To break on through / It's the year to be hated,” sings Karen on that debut EP’s closing track. Prophetic perhaps, but ultimately it was a triumphant taunt.

Like all the emerging American bands of 2001-2003—The Strokes, The White Stripes, Interpol, followed by The Killers and Kings of Leon et al—Yeah Yeah Yeahs were seized upon outside New York in the UK first. It’s hard to pinpoint why, exactly, but the UK mainstream always had an affinity for indie rock. Perhaps it was—is—because the country thrives on party culture, and this sweat-drenched wave slotted right into that. Or perhaps the UK is just always willing to hop on what’s new, as championed by music mags and papers like NME and the now-defunct Melody Maker. Either way, at the turn of 2000, the days of pogoing in clubs to Britpop were a cider-blurred memory. America was now importing pop as suspiciously shiny as Kraft cheese slices and the UK’s new, homegrown guitar acts—Starsailor, Travis, Coldplay—were rendered diabolically dull in the wake of what NME crowned the New Rock Revolution. But while Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ history will always entwine with their imported peers, they were outsiders in the midst.