Lucking Out: My Life Getting Down and Semi-Dirty in the Seventies, by James Wolcott
“The Village Voice in the 1970s, Patti Smith and the punk scene, porno theaters in Times Square, Pauline Kael and her acolytes—New York City journalism at its gossipy best.”
Name a cultural movement still resonating today, and I bet you’ll see it’s roots in New York in the Seventies.
From the New York City Ballet to CBGBs, James Wolcott was sitting in the back of the room quietly observing the artistic revolution.
With his singularly evocative style, Wolcott takes you from his beginnings in obscurity, to blustering his way into a writing career, eventually ending up the cultural critic for Vanity Fair.
He may have been lucky by being at the right places and times, but his writing chops prove luck wasn’t all.
“Next door to the Latham hunkers another low-profile holdover, the Prince George, which, before the gold medallions and furry testicles of disco descended, was a popular layover for flight crews whose trim blue uniforms and clippy stride made everybody else on the sidewalk look like clumps.”
"Gold medallions and furry testicles of disco?"—Luck had nothing to do with it.