The Last Book I Read

Back when I was in high school I somehow stumbled upon the Village Voice, which might be considered the granddaddy of the alternative press in this country (probably not literally true-- but not too far off the mark either). Initially, I was mainly interested in the film reviews of Andrew Sarris and rock criticsim of Robert Christgau, but as I became at least a semi-regular reader I began to develop other favorites among their stable of writers in that period, including among them: Nat Hentoff (mostly on politics and civil rights, occasionally still on jazz), Alexander Cockburn (on politics and media), Jack Newfield (local politics), Geoffrey Stokes (who took over Cockburn's media beat and also wrote wonderfully on food as "Vladimir Estragon"), and James Wolcott on television and music. My conception of life in the Big Apple was largely shaped by what I read in the pages of the Voice in the late seventies (along with a slightly more romantic version built up from reading the complete works of O. Henry). When I was offered a job in NYC in the early eighties, I jumped at the chance more because of my desire to explore places like Greenwich Village than because of the career opportunity. I only wish my experiences had been as deep as those Wolcott writes about in this book, which recount his own arrival as a nineteen year old in the city (about a decade before me) and the various cultural scenes he participated in as he began his rise in the world of New York publishing (working not only at the Voice but also the New Yorker, Esquire and elsewhere). His glimpse behind the scenes at the Voice is fascinating, as are his lengthy remembrances of his friendship with film critic Pauline Kael, the emergence of punk at CBGB's on the Bowery, and how he fell in love with ballet. In all cases his distinctive voice is evident-- one that combines a fluid exposition dotted with allusions (seemingly picked at random but always relevant) with an obvious graciousness towards his subjects whether they be friends or foes (this is not a score settling tome in any way, though one gets the sense it could have been if Wolcott were the kind to hold a grudge). I guess the best thing I can say about the book is that, much like reading the Voice back in the seventies, it makes me want to go back to New York and discover it all over again (though I'm well aware it's no longer the same place). By the way, you can catch Wolcott's current writing (some of it at least) at his blog at the Vanity Fair site. It's definitely worth a regular visit.