Throwing Fits at The Strokes Flushing Meadows Queens Show
One way to know what you like, what you actually give a shit about, is to go back to what you liked when you weren’t paid to write about it. Better yet, when you were lowkey kind of bullied for liking it. Like when I loved The Strokes in my tiny Beaufort, South Carolina high school when everyone else liked country and rap, and I thought this one kid was hot cause he had that whole devil-may-care greasy vintage look that to me was giving “Last Nite” music video, but turns out his family could only afford to shop at Goodwill.
Anyway, the point is that back then, I loved a letterman jacket, a bowling jacket, unkempt hair, The OC, The Killers, The Strokes, and typing stream-of-consciousness posts (like this one) on my Xanga blog. Sometimes, like right now, when I’m writing for the internet, about my taste that hasn’t wandered much, I remember just how cool she must think it is, how sick 16-year-old me must be to hear that we saw The Strokes this weekend as part of her job. Hell, how even 2018 me, the one that got hooked on the oral history book Meet Me In The Bathroom and decided to blow her life up and move to NYC to be a music journalist and nobody else in my life at the time thought that was a great idea, but I did, and on my best days I think I was right; I bet she’d think this is cool too. I bet she wouldn’t complain about the freak rainstorm that happened after TV on the Radio and before Beach House. I bet she’d be happy to text people about access and tickets and lists.
So yes, we lost the film camera for this story during the great exodus from Flushing Meadows. And also yes, thanks to the steamy heat, then rain, then waiting for an Uber for two hours, my hair is like five textures now, but none of that matters.
What matters is that for some reason The Strokes … or maybe Beach House or Fcukers or TV on the Radio, have a disproportionate amount of attractive fans. I, being a musically inclined millennial, was not qualified to fully trust my fashion instincts (see: me wearing the same pre-canceled American Apparel red bodysuit I’ve been rocking since the 2010s). So, I entrusted my friend Jules Wettreich, stylist to the stars (she would never describe herself that way, but first of all it’s true and second of all she’s not proofreading this so I’m sneaking it in), to decide who we snapped for this story, who threw the best fits at The Strokes show, if you will. After each snap, we tried to articulate what made each of these beacons of style stand out. What we landed on wasn’t a trend or a particular way of styling, but innate taste. They seem to know what they like. It drew you in. They have this visceral authenticity. They have taste.
Another thing that matters is that The Strokes, in an era when bringing up politics, war, or calling out injustices can get you blacklisted from a venue or shut out of opportunities, have never felt the need to shut up and just play. Which is why Julian Casablancas moderated a panel (S.O.S. – EARTH IS A MESS Panel) with political strategist Maya Rupert, labor organizer Chris Smalls, and comedian Lee Camp before the lineup started. It’s also why AOC and Bernie Sanders welcomed The Strokes to the stage. Because even if you just want to sway with your friends to “Ode To The Mets” (and don’t worry, I did), you still need to wake it up. What’s the point of having a point of view, having taste, or caring about something if you do nothing with it?
So, ask questions. Vote in November. Push for change. Why? Because I know you’re exhausted, but the system is made to keep you jaded. It’s so overwhelming. What do you like? What draws you in? Do you have taste? Is it your own? Can you trust yourself?
