Already an accomplished artist, actor, musician, composer, director and cult television master, one wonders what’s left for John Lurie to do. He seems to indicate as much by opening the door to his Soho loft on a damp Monday night wearing an open dress shirt that exposes his bare chest. He’s just finishing dinner—a straight steak, no side, plus a glass of whiskey—yet looks like a man who has worked too much, received too little recognition and is ready to air out the posers who’ve taken over the City he used to run.
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