The Strokes, Or A Year in the Life of Our 'New Abnormal'
"They got the remedy / But they won't let it happen."
“Did The Strokes know?”
I found myself asking that question quite a bit over the last year. Back in January of 2020 I bought tickets to see The Strokes at the WaMu Theater in Seattle. Due to a confluence of bad timing, festival set conflicts, and geographical limitations, I’d somehow never managed to see the New York rockers before. Oddly, I’d caught the group’s guitarist Albert Hammond Jr. on two different occasions, but even Julian Casablancas and his band the Voidz proved elusive.
As someone who regularly blasted First Impressions Of Earth as loud as the crappy speakers in my ‘94 Ford Escort would allow, while shuttling between High School and my job slinging Blizzards at Dairy Queen back in the day, I was pretty stoked to finally cross the Strokes off my concert bucket list. By February, the plot thickened. The band officially announced that their next album, The New Abnormal, was scheduled to drop in just a couple month’s time, in April. It was their first, full-length release in seven years; an unexpectedly long comedown from 2013’s Comedown Machine. They even got Rick Rubin to produce, which is typically a pretty good sign.
The Stokes unveiled a vivid new single titled “At The Door,” that accompanied the good news. A two word review: It ruled. I was even more stoked than before. “Maybe they’ll preview a couple of new tracks from the record,” I wistfully hoped as the date on the calendar, March 9th, drew closer and closer.
But then something unexpected happened. Around the end of February, we started hearing local reports that a new virus had made its way to Washington State. On the 28th, a student at a High School in Mill Creek was confirmed to have the disease. The next day, the first U.S. death from COVID-19 was announced; a man in his late ‘50s from Kirkland.
The grim news certainly put me on edge. The grocery stores around town quickly started emptying out as folks stocked up on things like canned goods, toilet paper and Lysol wipes. By the time March 9th rolled around, I had zero appetite for being around other people in public. While I trumpeted the seriousness of the virus to friends and loved-one’s in Chicago, D.C., Idaho, and beyond, the atmosphere locally was pretty grim. Almost all of the tech workers in the city were sent home, and Seattle itself resembled something like a shiny, ultra-modern ghost town.
The Strokes ultimately went ahead and performed that concert at WaMu Theater, but I wasn’t there. With all of the uncertainty, misinformation, and mania swirling around in the air, I decided it was best just to stay home. Two weeks later, the Governor announced the first stay-at-home order in the State. No one would be going anywhere, anytime soon. Suddenly, all of us had a very new abnormal to adjust to.
My 2020 and the early portions of 2021 did not unfold as I expected. I had worked for several years writing a biography of Chris Cornell, and had planned on visiting a few book and record stores around the country for some in-person events. That idea went out the window almost immediately. My wife and I also had big plans to finally visit Alaska and check out some of the mountains and glaciers up there. That got put on an indefinite hold. Oh, and that Rage Against The Machine reunion tour? Better luck in 2022…maybe? Please?
In the meantime, I did what almost every one else on Planet Earth did. I stayed home. I learned how to Zoom. I attempted — but never solved — a 1,000 piece puzzle featuring an image of Mount Rainier. We cooked…a lot, and mastered several new dishes along the way, including a Tostada that I’m pretty sure I’d choose for my death row meal at this point. You gotta try it with the tomatillo salsa.
I also listened to music. A lot of it. Like…A LOT of it. With not much else to do, I’d leash up my dog, Page, and we’d wander around abandoned Seattle, down to Lake Union or around to Myrtle Edwards Park with an electric range of artists blasting through my headphones. Terry Callier. David Berman. Led Zeppelin. Jeff Rosenstock. Bob Dylan. Tame Impala. Waxahatchee. Miles Davis. Run The Jewels. Destroyer. Pearl Jam. Kamasi Washington. Sturgill Simpson. Haim. Neil Young. Dua Lipa. Japandroids. Al Green.
And yes, The Strokes.
April eventually arrived, and with it, The New Abnormal. Over the next few weeks I whisked past playgrounds covered in caution tape, restaurants with “CLOSED” signs that would never flip to “OPEN,” and all sorts of Dr. Fauci-inspired graffiti. Meanwhile, Julian Casablancas flooded my ears drolly singing about bridges in Brooklyn and the New York Mets.
The songs that resonated the most however were the one’s that seemed to presage our present predicament. “Selfless,” a song about how life is too short, along with the pain of waiting around “for a century” took on new meaning. “Bad Decisions” advised us to “Pick up your gun / Put up those gloves / Save us from harm / Safe or alone.” Then you had “Eternal Summer,” which seemingly spoke of our own impending eternal summer that “won’t go away. But don’t worry, because, “They got the remedy / But they won't let it happen.” I can’t begin to tell you how many Sundays I spent, locked down listening to “Why Are Sundays So Depressing” while the world flipped and turned upside down.
I don’t wanna turn this whole thing into a Radiohead’s Kid A predicted 9/11 type of thing, because that’s absolutely insane. The Strokes never saw all of this coming. Hardly anyone did. Nevertheless, few albums released over the last year caused me to actually consider my present circumstance in the moment more than The New Abnormal. The timing of its release, combined with some of the uncanny thoughts and feelings expressed by the Strokes was almost too much at times. It wasn’t quite my favorite record of 2020, but I know with almost 100% certainty that when I think back on this unprecedented period of turmoil, it’s one of the first pieces of art that will spring to mind for decades to come.
Earlier this week, the Grammy’s hosted their 63rd Annual Ceremony. As an organization, they have a hilariously long, loooooong history of bungling the nomination process, and ultimately picking winners seemingly designed to piss off the greatest number of people possible. Thankfully, this year seemed different. Many of the awards went to artists who truly deserved them, including The Strokes who took home the prize for Best Rock Album. In the Grammy-iest, Grammy’s twist of all however, it was somehow their first-ever nomination.
The recognition was long overdue, though I’m especially glad they won for this record. My only regret is that the Grammy’s elected to announce the prize before the televised event went on air itself. I guess that speaks a bit to the cultural relevancy of Rock at the present moment, but who’s in this shit for golden gramophones in the first place? I suppose maybe Kanye West, but even then…
Actually, Casablancas spoke to rock’s present status to Rolling Stone shortly after receiving their award. Turns out, he’s an optimist.
“I think people who say things are ‘dead,’ I feel like it means their imagination possibly has died. There’s room for so many genres of music; not necessarily blues rock, please no more of that…All kinds of genres of music can blend in so many ways. Keys themselves, or singing styles or different bending of notes. You can sing an Arabic song with a country twang or vice versa, there’s so much room for stuff.”
I’m sure for years to come, a narrative will eventually coalesce around The New Abnormal as the Strokes’ comeback record. It’s a fair argument, to be honest. Especially after a couple of weird interviews Casablancas gave in the years preceding the release of The New Abnormal, many seemed primed to dunk on this record before it appeared on Spotify and in stores. It speaks to the quality and power of the music, that The New Abnormal managed to evade that fate, and is now considered among the band’s finest work by many; myself included.
The present moment feels so incredibly nebulous. All of us seem to be caught in this weird holding pattern with one foot fixed in the present abnormal, the other bracing to take that next step into an entirely different and maybe more familiar abnormal to come. People are already starting to get their vaccines. Restaurants and schools are reopening. Everywhere you look, the signs of renewal are obvious. Someday soon we’ll all be able to finally take those long-planned excursions, and hell, maybe even catch a concert or two.
All I know is that after the last year, all of us are “Not The Same Anymore.”