He is supposed to arrive at 9pm. When he shows up, it is well after midnight. But he will make up for it by spending the next seven hours and 45 minutes with me. Not because he likes me or doesn't like me. Just because that is what he does.
His name is Julian Casablancas. The lead singer of the Strokes, New York's finest purveyors of coolly detached retro-rock boogie, is blessed with the ability to talk shit. He can hold forth all night, run around in verbal circles for 15 minutes, lose his place and then start all over again.
He doesn't seem to have anywhere to be. He is in the moment. He doesn't even own a cell phone, a computer or a watch. But his intentions are the noblest. Casablancas's cautionary monologue lasts 20 rambling, heartfelt minutes, slurred with his lips two inches away from his friend's.
He is wearing a green work shirt with the words "US garbage company" over the pocket, and faded black trousers. The shirt is the property of his roommate, Strokes guitarist Albert Hammond Jr.
On his wrist, there are three fraying coloured wristbands that he has not bothered to remove - one from a Kings of Leon concert a week ago, another from a Stooges show two weeks ago, and a third from a Vines show from who knows when. I will see Casablancas nearly every day for the next week: his clothes and bracelets will not change, though he claims his underwear and socks do.
