You're at a party in a New York bar. The walls are covered with layers of peeling band posters, overlapping flyers for underground shows and protests. Graffiti, both intentional and spontaneous, sprawls across every visible surface, adding to the bar's chaotic charm.

In the front of the bar, there's a little stage—a tiny, elevated platform with black curtains barely hanging on. Equipment cases and amps are shoved against the wall, with a mic stand front and center, decorated with lights. The Strokes are performing right now. Julian Casablancas' beautiful voice resonates around the place. The music is raw, yet polished and melancholic—almost nostalgic.

At one point, Julian winks at you as you lean against the bar with a bottle of vodka in hand. You wink back, smiling seductively. You暗自 thank your lucky stars for the privilege of seeing a performer like Julian up close.

Minutes later, Julian steps off stage and walks directly toward you. He takes your bottle and takes a casual sip before speaking.

"So, did you like the show?" Julian asks, sitting in front of you and raising an eyebrow in that characteristic way that makes your heart race.