Album Cover art featuring Bird on Money (1981) by Jean-Michel Basquiat/©RCA Records April 2020. I remember that morning clearly. I didn’t get out of bed. I wasn’t sad, just… blank. Everything felt heavy. Everything felt suspended, fragile. A pandemic had devoured the world. And in that strange stillness, two things were new. I had just started talking to someone who would later become the first love of my life, and that same day, The Strokes released their new album, The New Abnormal. Before that, I didn’t even like The Strokes. I tried listening to them back in 2017 and couldn’t connect. Maybe I was too young. But in 2019, I heard Bad Decisions, and it got stuck in my head for weeks. It was catchy, a little nostalgic, and a little sad. That song made me curious about what was coming next, so I waited for the album. And that morning, for some reason, I decided to give it a try. The opening track, The Adults Are Talking, cracked me open. That opening riff, Julian’s voice… an...
Before that, I didn’t even like The Strokes. I tried listening to them back in 2017 and couldn’t connect. Maybe I was too young. But in 2019, I heard Bad Decisions, and it got stuck in my head for weeks. It was catchy, a little nostalgic, and a little sad. That song made me curious about what was coming next, so I waited for the album. And that morning, for some reason, I decided to give it a try.
The opening track, The Adults Are Talking, cracked me open. That opening riff, Julian’s voice… and then that falsetto. The song felt like an anthem of uncertainty; it felt like something inside me was breaking, as if a thread held together everything around me and it could get torn any minute. So I played it again and again. I felt so much that I’d never have words for it.
Then came Selfless. Selfless!!
This song would go on to define my relationship. I still dedicate it to her. It has this soft, pleading energy. Like an aching obsession, a craving to be loved without really saying it, or a confession I’m not sure will be heard. It was raw and somewhat messy; I don’t know how else to describe it.
Brooklyn Bridge to Chorus caught me off guard. It sounded like a fun track, with all those shiny synths and catchy hooks, but it took two or three listens before it really hit me. Eternal Summer sounded exactly like April 2020. Julian practically chanted “I can’t believe it” over and over, like a man trying to stay calm while the world burnt around him. At The Door felt like a song for moments when there were no exits left, only the quiet acceptance of whatever fate brings, good or bad.
And then there was Why Are Sundays So Depressing? There was something lazy and hopeless in the melody. If you've ever spent a Sunday afternoon listening to songs lying on your bed, you’d understand the feeling of this song. It didn’t try to fix anything; it just sat there to mess with me.
Not the Same Anymore wasn’t a breakup song. It was a self-breakdown song. It felt like a cold wind slipping under my warm blanket on a winter night. I lay still, staring out the window. Albert’s guitar had already made me numb. I wasn’t moving. Julian’s voice made me feel like something was slipping through my fingers, and even if I tried hard, it was beyond my emotional strength to hold on to it. The room felt like it was closing in, ready to swallow me whole before the song even ended.
And then the last track. Ode To The Mets. The aftertaste.
This was my anthem of vulnerability in 2020–21. It carried a heavy sense of regret through its apologetic and negative tone. The opening guitar alone felt like the perfect song for my funeral! There was an overwhelming sadness in Julian’s voice, the kind that made me feel like I’d been waiting for something that was never coming back. It crept into me, note by note, like waves pulling me underwater. It sounded like being locked in a room and breaking every part inside to feel alive again. It was raw and quietly violent, the kind that doesn’t scream but still leaves a scar.
The New Abnormal made me fall in love with The Strokes. It became the soundtrack to my days, months, and years ahead. Looking back, it feels almost poetic how both the album and my relationship began at the same time. It was the first time I was falling in love, so every emotion that comes with it — love, hope, happiness, fear, uncertainty, vulnerability — hit me while listening to this album. It wasn’t a romantic album, and it wasn’t entirely a heartbreak album either. To this day, it still feels like something pre-planned, like it was recorded during a dream.
I still don’t know why I wanted to listen to that album, especially when I didn’t even like The Strokes back then. Maybe some music waits for you to grow into it. Or perhaps it waits for you to feel certain things before it really hits you. That album stayed with me through a strange kind of peace that only comes when nothing is in your control anymore.
I’m glad I decided to listen to this album that morning.
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