Time keeps moving on, but we don’t seem to ever fully move on with it.
See, I was nowhere near the city of New York, or planet Earth for that matter, when fashionable socialites of Manhattan and every surrounding borough, waited in lines–sometimes only to be humiliated and turned away–all to get into the Studio 54. They showed up every night, to dance elbow to elbow with Grace Jones, or maybe to get their own minute of fame, to express their sexuality, creativity, to experience the freedom. To each their own.
Nor have I ever experienced the raves at CBGB. But thinking of Blondie and Talking Heads performing live, makes me jealous to death.
Life was never that level of exciting for me growing up, but it didn’t stop me from daydreaming about being among those crowds, full of celebrity artists and punk idols, swaying in motion with the hot heads until bottles start flying above us, or maybe police raid the venue.
The 1970’s in New York were a glorious time. A dangerous time, too. To be completely honest, more dangerous than glorious. A very quick Google search will make any romantic like myself question the credibility of ancient New York legends. It makes you wonder if art and devastation have to coexist for the former to leave a real mark on the culture.
While we’re attempting to answer this rhetorical question, let’s throw on a pair of tight, leather boot-cut trousers, some very big sunnies, or denim overalls, and just imagine that we’re going to get our dance on at Studio 54 and CBGB.