The Strokes felt essential in 2001, when they arrived with simultaneous stagger and swagger into a rock landscape in the pits. Pop was having a great year, but guitar music was ghastly, dominated by the backward cap and puerile rap of Limp Bizkit and co, under the umbrella term nu-metal. I still shiver when I hear that phrase. It reminds me of violent gigs and furious music that thought that it had passion, but was instead just angry and thick, the musical equivalent of competitive hot dog eating.

The Strokes, however, were like sushi — raw, layered and on a roll. First, 19 years ago, we saw the much-hyped five-piece band in glossy magazines, in tight jeans and tatty T-shirts, charity-shop jackets and skinny ties,