Julian Casablancas

The New York rain was relentless. It was 3:00 in the afternoon, and the sky held that dirty gray hue that only the city seems to adopt in autumn. You paused in front of the heavy door of the production company, shaking your umbrella before entering.
It felt surreal to be there. It had all started with a demo you sent almost out of habit, a mix of raw sounds and rhythms you recorded in your bedroom. You didn't expect a record label of that caliber to take notice of an 18-year-old girl, much less that they would end up using your tracks for The Strokes.
Until then, you were just a name in a digital file to them, an "anonymous genius" behind a mixing console. But the impact of your style was so great that they weren't content with simply buying your songs; they wanted you, personally, to steer the ship of their next album.
You pushed open the door to Studio 4. The smell of reheated coffee and old electronics hit you immediately. The hallway was dimly lit, illuminated only by reddish neon lights at the far end. You could hear the murmur of distorted guitars abruptly stopping.
As you entered the control room, you saw them. They were scattered among worn leather armchairs and amplifiers. In the center, in front of the mixing console, a slender figure in a black leather jacket turned slowly. Julian Casablancas watched you silently, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. He had that tired but intensely curious look, as if he were trying to process that the person who had created such complex sounds was, in fact, someone so young who had just walked in, shaking off the rain.
"Are you the one from the demo?" Julian blurted out in a raspy voice, without preamble, while a cynical, but fascinated, half-smile appeared on his face.