New York in the 50s

Rating:
Summary: Lots of name dropping but little else...
Review: Although younger than Wakefield, I was around NYC, especially the Village, in the '50s & I was really looking forward to "looking back" at a unique time & place. This book was a real disappointment, unfortunately, with little more to offer than big (& not so big) names & parties. I found it very superficial & self-promoting, in effect light weight *gossip*, which in the end is very shrewd on the part of author & publisher, but oh so cynical.

Rating:
Summary: When the written word mattered...
Review: I found this book inspiring, funny, and beautifully written. It carried me to a time, before cell phones, the internet, dvds and instant communications, when the written word mattered, when books and magazines and letters were greeted with high anticipation and made a difference in people's lives. When books mattered, ideas mattered, friendships were the stuff of life, and art was not only a creative expression but an affirmation, a challenge to take the high road, to live life to the fullest. This book will put zest in your soul. I recommend it highly.

Rating:
Summary: When the written word mattered...
Review: There's a time-honored prerequisite for living the if-I-can-make-it-there life in NYC -- you, and your friends, and the 'hood/bars/restaurant/flats/local characters, etc. assume, by default, all the criteria for being a legitimate 'Scene' or 'Movement' save one: Time. But that one you can ignore because one of your mind's eyes has alreayd projected itself far into the future, so that it can look back and watch you watching yourself and your chums making glorious History!...

That said, I found the title of this book misleading... Wakefield has written an eminently personal memoir, not a history. The telling plods on and on in his cranky, cracked little voice, fusty-bachelor-to-the-core, praising the bygone zany antics of Westvillagers yet falling back (with a literary blush, no less) so repetitively on an unnecessary "but we were from the 50s, we didn't do that" mantra each time his narrative requires the mention of some "beatnik" act -- "free" love, pot, psilocybin, etc. -- so unsure of himself, so inextricably mired in that same narrow, embarrased, small-town midwestern ethos he spends most of the book trying to convince us he had escaped from in the headily free atmosphere of the Village, that he comes across like a stuttering prude. I was ultimately left unconvinced. Wakefield never quite seemed sure of what he wanted to say -- especially in the case of a character like Kerouac. He hems and haws and sidesteps the issue.

It's nice to read about those people, his friends, sure, but in the end, none of them came across as nearly as interesting as others (and other memoirs) from/of the same era. Another old fart jumping on the memoir bandwagon -- another memoir of 50s New York -- truly as innovative, as challenging and as necessary as another Rolling Stones album and/or tour. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Rating:
Summary: "bohemia" recounted by a prude...
Review: There's a time-honored prerequisite for living the if-I-can-make-it-there life in NYC -- you, and your friends, and the 'hood/bars/restaurant/flats/local characters, etc. assume, by default, all the criteria for being a legitimate 'Scene' or 'Movement' save one: Time. But that one you can ignore because one of your mind's eyes has alreayd projected itself far into the future, so that it can look back and watch you watching yourself and your chums making glorious History!...

That said, I found the title of this book misleading... Wakefield has written an eminently personal memoir, not a history. The telling plods on and on in his cranky, cracked little voice, fusty-bachelor-to-the-core, praising the bygone zany antics of Westvillagers yet falling back (with a literary blush, no less) so repetitively on an unnecessary "but we were from the 50s, we didn't do that" mantra each time his narrative requires the mention of some "beatnik" act -- "free" love, pot, psilocybin, etc. -- so unsure of himself, so inextricably mired in that same narrow, embarrased, small-town midwestern ethos he spends most of the book trying to convince us he had escaped from in the headily free atmosphere of the Village, that he comes across like a stuttering prude. I was ultimately left unconvinced. Wakefield never quite seemed sure of what he wanted to say -- especially in the case of a character like Kerouac. He hems and haws and sidesteps the issue.

It's nice to read about those people, his friends, sure, but in the end, none of them came across as nearly as interesting as others (and other memoirs) from/of the same era. Another old fart jumping on the memoir bandwagon -- another memoir of 50s New York -- truly as innovative, as challenging and as necessary as another Rolling Stones album and/or tour. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz