Gone is the acerbic tension that marked the Strokes as forefathers of the East Coast rock resurgence; in its place is a shrugging weariness that feels like the band stopped caring three years ago.

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To quote George Burns via Bart Simpson: “Show business is a hideous bitch goddess.”

Said siren’s call has proven to be far too much for the fine fellas in the Strokes, if First Impressions of Earth is any indication. A mostly solemn, slick affair, this third album is sonically ambitious but lyrically, frontman Julian Casablancas is so diffident and disengaged that the ennui feels a little too precise, too calculated.

The real lesson here? You can’t be the life of the party forever.

When that realization hits the majority of rock stars, the results are either intriguing or damned depressing; in the Strokes’ case, this revelation is met, true to form, with the aforementioned casual indifference.

Indeed, Casablancas’ mortality appears to be weighing heavily upon him these days. While pondering a topic of that magnitude is certainly admirable, the members of the Strokes come across as so colossally (and typically) uninterested that any insight gained is squashed beneath 52 minutes of reliably low-key and vocally de-fuzzed rock. Producer David Kahne’s glossy knob-twiddling and Andy Wallace’s sure hand at the mixing board may make fans of Gordon Raphael’s gritty, street-smart production work wistful.

Room on Fire was Is This It? all over again, which met with critical favor but did nothing to advance the band creatively. First Impressions of Earth introduces some subtle new colors to the musical palette (most notably in “Ask Me Anything” and “15 Minutes”), but the pervasive sense of inert boredom, which has been noted as a strength in the past, is difficult to shake.

Even more frustrating, glimpses of what could’ve been appear often enough (“You Only Live Once,” “Electricityscape”) to make the whole experience exasperating. Gone is the acerbic tension that marked the Strokes as forefathers of the East Coast rock resurgence; in its place is a shrugging weariness that feels, on this third record, like the band stopped caring three years ago.

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