The History Of The Strokes

The History of The Strokes: From City Streets to Rock Royalty

Part 1: The Genesis

Before the Sound

Before the world knew The Strokes and their iconic album Is This It, before leather jackets and Converse became uniforms of cool, there were five boys scattered across the globe, each growing up in wildly different households—unaware that fate was quietly arranging their meeting.

The Early Days and The Band’s Origins

Julian Casablancas (born August 23, 1978) grew up in Manhattan, the son of two icons of the fashion world: John Casablancas, founder of Elite Model Management, and Jeanette Christiansen, a former model. His parents’ divorce left him shuttling between continents—New York, Copenhagen, Paris—but New York was always the anchor. At age 11, his mother remarried painter Sam Adoquei, who introduced him to The Doors’ Greatest Hits. Julian later said it was like discovering a map to another world. From that moment, Jim Morrison became a ghostly mentor.

Albert Hammond Jr. (born April 9, 1980) grew up in Los Angeles, shadowed by the fame of his father, Albert Hammond Sr., who wrote “It Never Rains in Southern California.” Albert Jr. loved photography as much as guitar, and he carried both like talismans. At age 13, his family sent him to Le Rosey in Switzerland, the most expensive boarding school in the world. There, among princes and heirs, he met a lanky New Yorker with restless energy: Julian Casablancas. The two bonded instantly, outsiders among the elite, trading mixtapes and dreams of music while the Alps loomed outside their dorm window.

Nick Valensi (born January 16, 1981) was pure Manhattan grit. Raised on the Upper East Side by a widowed mother after his father’s death, Nick found solace in guitar. He was barely 13 when he started sneaking into downtown clubs to watch bands play. His idols weren’t distant rock gods—they were Television, The Velvet Underground, and Blondie, ghosts of New York’s past still echoing through CBGB’s. By 15, Nick’s guitar work was already sharp enough to turn heads.

Nikolai Fraiture (born November 13, 1978) came from a French-American family in New York. His childhood leaned toward books and sketchpads until, one day, he picked up a bass to fill in for a friend’s band. He never put it down. Soft-spoken and introspective, Nikolai often sketched the band’s ideas in notebooks before they became songs. He and Julian were close since grade school, forming the bedrock of what would later become the famous band, The Strokes.

Fabrizio Moretti (born June 2, 1980) was born in Rio de Janeiro before moving to Manhattan at age five. His Brazilian roots gave him a natural sense of rhythm; his mother gifted him his first drum kit as a child. At school, Fab was the class clown—charming, unpredictable, but always sketching or drumming on desks. His artistic energy spilled across everything: painting, music, humor. If Julian was the band’s mind, Fab would become its heartbeat.

By the mid-’90s, each was searching for something—an escape, a voice, a way to bend chaos into music. The seeds of destiny were scattered, waiting to converge.

The Unlikely Meeting

1998: New York was buzzing with Y2K anxiety and the underground stirrings of a new scene. By then, Julian had returned from Le Rosey and briefly studied music at Dwight-Englewood in New Jersey, where he reconnected with Nikolai and Fabrizio. But fate wasn’t finished weaving threads.

Albert Hammond Jr., by then studying film at NYU, bumped into Julian on the street. The connection rekindled instantly, and soon Julian invited Albert to join the fledgling lineup. Around the same time, Nick Valensi—already a teenage prodigy with his Gibson hollow-body—was introduced through mutual friends. Suddenly, the circle was complete.

Julian became the nucleus, pulling his childhood and teenage alliances together into one unit. “The Strokes” was the name, and with it came a mission: to revive the dangerous, seductive spirit of rock ’n’ roll in a city that had nearly forgotten it.

First Chords, First Show

Their first rehearsals were nothing glamorous: dim Manhattan basements, instruments buzzing through half-broken amps, and neighbors pounding on the walls. But in those echoing rooms, something new was being born. Julian barked orders like a director, shaping songs into short, sharp bursts. Albert’s clean melodic leads danced over Nick’s jagged riffs, Nikolai’s bass grounded it, and Fab’s drumming stitched it all together.

In 1999, they played their first gig at The Spiral in the East Village. Friends packed the tiny venue, unsure what to expect. The moment they launched into their set, the room erupted. The band wasn’t polished—but they were electric. It was raw, alive, dangerous. People left the club whispering, “This feels important.”

Unbeknownst to them, that night was the first ripple of a wave that would soon crash over the entire music world.

Part 2: The Breakthrough

A New Sound for a New Millennium

July 30, 2001—The Strokes‘ debut album, Is This It, was released in the UK, and the world tilted on its axis.

In a year when TRL pop idols and nu-metal acts ruled MTV, The Strokes appeared like ghosts from another age, wearing torn leather jackets and guitars slung low. Their sound was at once familiar and alien—sharp, angular riffs echoing the late-’70s CBGB scene, yet urgent, modern, and unapologetically New York.

Recorded at Transporterraum in Manhattan with producer Gordon Raphael, the sessions were a study in minimalism. Julian demanded everything stripped to the bone: no solos for the sake of solos, no unnecessary polish. The album was tracked on 8-track tape machines—ancient even by 2001 standards. “We wanted it to sound like a band playing in your living room,” Raphael later said. And that’s exactly what it did.

The title track was cut from the U.S. release after 9/11, replaced by “When It Started.” But even in altered form, Is This It captured the disillusionment of a generation stumbling into adulthood at the dawn of a strange millennium. It was the sound of fluorescent-lit parties at 3 a.m., of cigarette smoke in basements, of city kids chasing something bigger.

The Rise to Stardom

Almost overnight, the whispers turned to shouts. British music press crowned them “the saviors of rock ’n’ roll.” NME put them on the cover before the album even dropped. By late 2001, they were touring Europe, headlining festivals they’d once dreamed of sneaking into.

Julian, often stoic, admitted the whirlwind was surreal. “We went from playing for 20 people to playing music festivals in, like, two months,” he recalled. The band found themselves sharing bills with The White Stripes and Radiohead, hailed as leaders of a “garage rock revival.”

Their fashion sense became cultural shorthand: thrift-store blazers, Converse sneakers, skinny ties. Fans of The Strokes weren’t just listening to them—they were becoming them.

But success had its shadows. Julian, wary of hype, refused to let the band be swallowed by press narratives. He shunned interviews, often letting his bandmates field questions. “We wanted the music to speak, not the circus around it,” Nikolai said years later.

Beyond the Hype

By 2002, Is This It was already mythologized, landing on “Best Album of the Decade” lists even as the decade had barely begun. With praise came pressure. Could they possibly top what critics were calling a generational masterpiece?

The band retreated into the studio in 2003, tensions brewing under the surface. Julian felt the burden of being the de facto leader. Albert, often described as the band’s ray of light, wanted to push the sound forward. Nick, quiet but fiercely opinionated, insisted on preserving their rawness. Fab and Nikolai tried to keep the peace.

The result was Room on Fire (October 28, 2003). Some critics accused them of repeating themselves; others praised the refinement of their style. Singles like “Reptilia” and “12:51” proved The Strokes were more than a fluke—they were a force.

But the whispers of doubt had begun: Could a band born in downtown dive bars survive under the glare of global fame?

Part 3: Evolution and Exploration

Breaking the Mold

By late 2003, Room on Fire had cemented The Strokes as kings of the underground who’d broken into the mainstream. But if their first two albums were snapshots of New York cool, the question looming over them was brutal: What’s next?

The band entered 2005 restless. Julian, increasingly reclusive, was drinking heavily and carrying the weight of the band’s direction like a millstone. In the studio, he often arrived with songs nearly complete, dictating parts to each member. It created friction. Albert, once the band’s melodic soul, felt sidelined. Nick, usually quiet, pushed back harder on creative decisions. Nikolai and Fab tried to smooth tensions, but the atmosphere was thick.

Out of this storm came First Impressions of Earth (released January 3, 2006). Longer, darker, and more chaotic, it was their attempt to expand beyond the short, sharp bursts of their earlier work. Songs like “Juicebox” snarled with aggression, while “Ask Me Anything” floated with eerie vulnerability (“I’ve got nothing to say”—Julian’s most honest lyric to date).

Critics were split. Some hailed it as bold; others dismissed it as indulgent. Fans, too, were divided. But in hindsight, the album was a revelation of where they truly were: fractured, brilliant, and human.

The Weight of Expectation

Behind the scenes, the cracks widened. Albert’s substance abuse worsened, leading to erratic behavior and absences. Fab, once the buoyant heartbeat, was battling heartbreak after his high-profile breakup with Drew Barrymore, which had made him a reluctant tabloid figure. Julian withdrew further into himself, often communicating with the band through intermediaries rather than face-to-face.

By 2007, The Strokes were burnt out. After nearly a decade of constant touring, recording, and being hailed as “saviors of rock,” they stepped away. Officially, it was a hiatus. Unofficially, nobody knew if they’d ever come back.

The silence birthed side projects:

Albert Hammond Jr. released Yours to Keep (2006) and ¿Cómo Te Llama? (2008), showcasing his melodic songwriting chops.
Julian Casablancas eventually recorded Phrazes for the Young (2009), a synth-heavy experiment that proved his restless ambition.
Nikolai Fraiture unveiled Nickel Eye in 2009, a surprisingly poetic solo venture.
Fabrizio Moretti formed Little Joy in 2008, a sunny, Brazilian-influenced band that revealed his softer, romantic side.
Nick Valensi, though quieter, was deeply involved in songwriting and production work before forming CRX years later.

For fans, this period was like wandering through a maze: the myth of The Strokes was alive, but the band itself felt like a ghost.

A New Direction

Then, out of the shadows, came a signal: Angles (released March 18, 2011). But even its creation was shrouded in conflict. Julian recorded many of his vocals separately, emailing tracks instead of showing up in the studio. The rest of the band pieced together arrangements without him, creating a patchwork album that sounded, at times, like five solo artists stitched together. And yet—tracks like “Under Cover of Darkness” and “Machu Picchu” reminded fans of The Strokes that the spark was still there.

Two years later, Comedown Machine (March 26, 2013) arrived almost unannounced, with no tour to support it. The cover looked like a vintage RCA demo tape, as if to say: “Don’t take this too seriously.” Critics were baffled, but over time, its synth-heavy experimentation has earned cult appreciation.

For nearly a decade, The Strokes seemed like a memory. Rumors of breakups swirled, but every now and then, they’d reemerge for surprise shows—as if to remind the world they still held the keys to the kingdom.

And then, after years of silence, came the twist nobody expected.

Part 4: Legacy and Lasting Impact

The Return of the Kings

For nearly a decade, The Strokes were more rumor than reality. They surfaced for festival sets, whispered of new songs, then vanished again into the night. Fans whispered about fights, fallouts, and unfinished albums. Some wondered if Is This It would be their eternal last word.

Then, on April 10, 2020, as the world locked down in pandemic silence, The Strokes returned with The New Abnormal. Produced by Rick Rubin at Malibu’s Shangri-La studio, it was their most deliberate, mature record yet. The timing was eerie—a global crisis outside, and inside, The Strokes offering a soundtrack that felt like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

Songs like “At the Door” showcased Julian at his most vulnerable, a minimalist dirge that sounded more like a confession than a rock anthem. “Bad Decisions” leaned into new wave nostalgia, proof they could bend time itself and make it sound fresh. And “The Adults Are Talking”—with its wiry guitars and effortless cool—reminded the world why The Strokes had mattered in the first place.

The comeback wasn’t just successful; it was triumphant. Critics hailed it as their best work since Room on Fire. Fans, old and new, clung to the record as if it were proof that some things—the important things—survive every storm.

An Enduring Influence

By 2020, The Strokes’ children—not literal, but musical—were everywhere. Arctic Monkeys had built a career on wiry riffs and witty detachment; The Killers had borrowed their post-punk polish; Kings of Leon, Franz Ferdinand, Interpol, and even modern acts like The 1975 owed debts to the blueprint.

But influence runs deeper than sound. The Strokes redefined how bands looked, how they carried themselves. They proved that scrappy New York kids could topple a bloated industry with nothing more than sharp songs, thrift-store jackets, and attitude. They reminded a world drowning in overproduction that rock could still be raw, immediate, and dangerous.

Their songs are still passed like secret codes—from Guitar Hero consoles in suburban bedrooms, to headphones on late-night subway rides, to TikTok clips fueling a new generation of fandom. Each decade rediscovers them, as if their catalog is an eternal time capsule buried in the streets of Manhattan.

The Final Note (So Far)

Now, in 2025, The Strokes stand as both legends and living men. They are no longer the scrappy kids from basement rehearsals, nor the reluctant kings of early-2000s hype. They are survivors—of addiction, of fame’s corrosion, of the near-collapse of their own friendships.

And yet, when they step onto a stage, the air still changes. The same five figures—Julian, Albert, Nick, Nikolai, Fab—lock into place, and for a moment, the years disappear. The songs still cut like they did in 2001: sharp, short, eternal.

What comes next is unknowable. Another album? Another long silence? Perhaps both. But their band history, unfinished though it may be, has already carved itself into stone.

The Strokes were not just a band—they were a reckoning, a reset button, a spark that lit up the dark corners of a new millennium. And if history has taught us anything, it’s this: legends never really end. They echo.

And The Strokes are still echoing.