Hard to explain

From the lead of New York magazine's feature on Julian Casablancas this week:

Julian Casablancas is at an impasse. The front man of the Strokes ... is gently haggling with a hostess at Momofuku Noodle Bar. She is insistent that the New York native leave his electric guitar and silver suitcase full of stage props unattended at the front door. (Hostess: "We can keep an eye on it for you." Casablancas: "Uh, sorry, no.")

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The hostess reluctantly finds a corner for his stuff and a perch from which he can watch it, and Casablancas apologizes once again: "I’m sorry. I just didn't want to leave it there. It's New York."

Noted

From the Guardian UK's review of the new Julian Casablancas solo record:

[W]henever Casablancas strains for seriousness, the album loses focus. Ludlow Street is a schlep partly because the mock-country backing doesn't suit his voice, but mostly because a lecture on the yuppification of the Lower East Side is a bit hard to take from a bloke who has built a career selling a glossy version of late-70s CBGBs scuzz to a mass market.

Noted

Coming soon.