FEELING THE VOIDZ

It is a horrifically humid September afternoon in Manhattan, the kind where the leaves falling from the trees seem more like suicide jumpers than a physical manifestation of the changing seasons. I find myself seated at a wooden table in the back corner of Lucien, an upscale French restaurant in the East Village that happens to be a frequent haunt of certain high-profile individuals including Bella Hadid, A$AP Rocky, and Julia Fox. The table is laid with a white silk tablecloth, upon which sits a small candle, its flame flickering desperately. Across from me, fidgeting with his coffee cup, is Julian Casablancas, frontman of the Strokes, a New York City band that was heralded as the saviors of rock ’n’ roll in the early aughts and widely credited with jump-starting a number of decade-defining cultural movements, among them the “post-punk revival” and the “indie sleaze aesthetic,” the latter of which centers on leather jackets, cigarettes, and skinny jeans, and which oh-so-many socialites would lead you to believe is experiencing a resurgence in certain low-lit corners of downtown Manhattan.