Over the past 2 years, so much ink has been spilled over The Strokes that it's hard to imagine there is still ink left in the world to write about anyone else; and rightfully so. Cumulatively, they are the classification of cool; the 5 member boy band from New York's Lower East Side that brought rock n' roll back home.

We're eternally grateful.

But what we're most-grateful for is that on October 29 & 30 of 2003, at The Theater at Madison Square Garden, The Strokes did rock n' roll an even greater service by bringing to the forefront a mostly unknown, unsigned singer songwriter by the name of Regina Spektor. And for that, everything is about to change.

That night,
I took the #1 train up from Houston Street for the second of 2 shows at MSG. Through a thick cloud of pretzel smoke, I could see the bright lights on 7th Avenue read "THE STROKES with KINGS OF LEON and REGINA SPEKTOR." And through an even thicker chatter of street scalpers peddling Ranger hockey tickets, I looked up at the clock to make sure I hadn't missed the opener scheduled to start promptly at 8:00. The clock read 7:31.

A 13-year old girl with tattoos and metal sticking out of her face asked politely for some spare change, and I politely said "No." A Brooklyn accented man with a thick black comb under his nose asked if I needed Ranger tickets; and, again, my response was a standard, "No."

Rock n' roll fans and hockey fans sharing a space, together?

(Talk about an odd lot).

The Theater @ MSG -- which was once called the Felt Forum -- is where I saw wrestling for the first time as a kid; it's a modest 5600 seat arena, and with the day-before release of the new Strokes CD "Room on Fire," not-so-ironically, the event is sold out.

As I made my way to the door I could see a crowd around the t-shirt booth, Spektor CDs for $12; tight black w/ white lettered "Strokes" briefs for only $15. (I did say briefs).

So I headed to the bar for a tall $3 cranberry juice on ice: and then directly to the stage.

10 minutes till show time,
The large arena, with the low lit ceilings and rugs on the floors, was only at about 20% capacity by 7:50, and as a crowd of 200 or so had already pushed forward to the stage, I took a position somewhere in the middle of the pit.

The stage was set with simple electric piano and microphone. Behind it you could see 2 drum sets tucked away to the back, and a wall of guitar amps. Stage right, a longhaired kid twisted strings on a guitar, and the Gothic-drone ballad "Give me a reason," echoed over the thus far empty remaining seats.

Directly in front of the stage, 19 year old girls with painful-pointy shoes and dressed like their favorite Stroke chattered on cell phones, jockeyed for position in the crowd, and made last minute checks on their eye make up.

The lights go down promptly at 8:00,
A loudish roar fills the room. A small smiling girl in a thigh high dress and black tie hanging below her navel walks out and takes a seat at the piano. By herself, she starts banging a beat with a drumstick, and plays along with her left hand, and sings.

Born in Moscow, CCCP, Regina Spektor came to the Bronx when she was 9. She started classical piano lessons at age 6, and from 1998 to 2001, she attended the conservatory of music at SUNY Purchase. She later made her way to New York City's Lower Eastside where she made the antifolk scene her home, and subsequently, made a friend somewhere in The Strokes camp. By combining poetry and music -- as she claims on her website -- she found "A back door into music."

She has 3 full length CDs to date.

The 6-song set was short and sweet -- only 17 minutes in length -- but it was breath taking. Diehard Strokes fans tried their dandiest to block her out, and throughout the first song you could hear yelps of, "Strokes, Strokes." After the second song, all of that was gone, and her applause grew louder and louder. She gave thanks to The Strokes for the privilege of being part of the event, and apologized for having a cold; Strokes frontman Julian Casablancas later apologized for having the same cold. Were they smooching?

Her voice seemed unaffected by the scant bug. It was simple and beautiful.

I recall watching The White Stripes open for The Strokes at Irving Plaza, and couldn't help draw comparisons to the raw single-handed talent of Jack White to that of Regina Spektor. Visions of Jewel, Tori Amos and Susanne Vega flooded my mind as I watched her play songs that, to be quite honest, I had never heard before. The only one I recognized was a song from her "Songs" CD called "Samson." I heard her play it once in a small East Village venue, and never forgot it. The tune begins with the line, "If I'm my sweetest downfall, I loved you first, I loved you first," and as she declares it in a shyish pristine vocal that moves effortlessly to angelic-falsetto, you really believe her; that is, at that very moment you believe she really means every word of it. Lines like "And the history books forgot about us, and the bible didn't mention us, and the bible didn't mention us, not even once…" play poetic games with your mind.

Spektor's words and music reminds us why sometimes we listen to music in the first place: to get relief from a sometimes-unjust existence, or to simply escape the rudiments of daily living. To find sanctuary in a world where music, poetry and life coexist. And as I watched the faces of the people who had never seen this artist before transform into believers, I knew I wasn't alone in what I was seeing and hearing; that a bright new talent had emerged: right here -- right now.

8:25, rock on…
A Kings of Leon roadie hits the stage to make a few minor adjustments; you could tell it was one of their roadies by his regulation hip-attire and the fact that his buttcrack stuck out when he went down to fix a plug. How appropriate.

I tapped the earplugs in my pocket to make sure they where in place.

It was a 35-minute set in all played to near capacity crowd; most seemed to enjoy it. But they seemed most happy when the young Peter Frampton looking singer from the south announced, "this will be our last song." The crowd went wild.

Kings of Leon singer, with his redneck pitcher's mustache and his drummer dressed in his Jerry Garcia best just didn't seem cool enough for such a cool event. I could think of 10 acts that would have made for a better bill, and this just wasn't one of them. Even the two moppy-hair boys, stage left and right playing regulation Gibson guitars and supporting the theory that the tighter fitting the blue jeans, the better the music couldn't make a believer out of me. By the third song I resorted to a full earplug insertion.

But at least they're cute!

9:05, lights on,
The Cure's "Boys Don't Cry" echoes across the arena. A girl from Ohio chews Skoal mental and spits into her cup; her boyfriend joins her moments later and they drink beer, and make out.

A Strokes drum roadie -- the one who looks like drummer Fabrizio Moretti -- hits the stage and draws the usual yelps from teen girls who always mistake him for the real Fabrizio. A bass roadie looks awkward tweaking bassist Nikolai Fraiture's bass that's strapped way to high for him, and a bottle of white wine on ice is positioned stage left on the drum riser. That appears to be slated for guitarist Nick Valensi's consumption. Equipment is moved around, and Albert Hammond's white Fender guitars are set in final position for the long anticipated return of America's # 1 rock band.

9:45,
The Strokes hit the stage for a 55-minute power set; ponytail girls with thick frames scream frantically, everyone rises to their feet, and the place goes wild for the entire set…

Elvis has entered the building.

Encore,
The evening ends with Spektor joining Strokes singer Julian Casablancas for a duet.

The song is good, but Spektor's vocal gets buried beneath the loud mix of guitars and drums. The sharp contrast between the plain-and-simple Spektor and the electric boy-charm and polishedness of the most exciting band in rock n' roll is obvious. Spektor seems small and awkward surrounded by such coolness -- like a fish out of water -- but she enjoys the company -- especially Julian's.

The Strokes prove beyond doubt that rock n' roll is alive and well, and that they clearly have what it takes to maintain rock n' roll's torchbearer status. Like The Rolling Stones and The Who of the 1960s, it's hard to imagine a greater force in rock music right now than The Strokes. They have it all; tight poppy songs, signature presence and sound, and, well, at least one of them dates a very well known celebrity.

But the reason I attended this event was not for the big band with the big songs whom I have ions of respect for, but to witness the little girl with the big smile tell her folk story; to tell a crowd of high-end rockers that you don't have to be on the cover of every teen magazine in the free world to be cool; and to see if she could get away with that proclamation.

She did.

Her message appeared to be simple: "All you need is great music, and a good story to tell."

She had both.

We wish Regina Spektor well on her trip to the big leagues as that is where this artist is undoubtedly heading. We hope the snake-pit-of-a-music-industry judges her fairly, and that she maintains her pure and simple approach throughout.

Anything short of that would be scandalous.