Manhattan in the 1970s - A Novel Reveals Another Side of the Story

Dirty Old 1970s New York City is a Facebook page that perfectly captures the city as it was in its bad old heyday - scary, rough, dirty but also spontaneous, authentic and brash in a way that was irresistible to the millions who lived and flocked here despite the danger. It's a page that celebrates the old New York that everyone recognizes and many of us miss.

A new novel invites you into a very different 1970s New York City - a hushed, elegant Manhattan that continued to thrive even in the middle of the mayhem that defined that era. A Very Good Life reminds you that there was more than one version of New York City in the 1970s. You could switch between them just by choosing to walk several blocks in one direction or by walking from one avenue to the next.

It's worth remembering that the New York you might catch a glimpse of while watching Tony Randall in The Odd Couple was the same city you watched Al Pacino move through in Serpico and Panic in Needle Park.

Stepping into Lynne Steward's debut novel, A Very Good Life, is much like walking into the legendary New York department store, B. Altman, in which so much of the story unfolds. It's classic, subdued and reveals its facets moment by moment. A Very Good Life isn't focused on the hard edges. Instead it sheds gentle light on the classic city.

Ms. Steward's novel takes the reader away from today's touchscreen existence back to a time in New York when telephones rang and typewriters clacked on cluttered desks. A time when stand-up ashtrays were part of office decor and dry martinis were ordered with each business lunch. A time when customers dressed up to visit New York's grandest store then shopped for hats, scarves, slippers, gloves and more - each category of item displayed reverently in its own dedicated department.

But there is nothing old fashioned about this novel. The characters in it navigate marriage, career and New York's stratified social scene in a way that resonates across the decades.

A Very Good Life invites you to revel in the New York of the recent past. If you are a native New Yorker it also allows you the satisfaction of recognizing the people, places and concerns that were the focus of Manhattan attention during those gritty yet glamorous years. But the characters are what linger with you long after you've finished the book. Lynne Steward brings them to life with spare, masterful strokes.

This is a New York story told in genuine New York style in voices that ring true. It's now been several weeks since I read A Very Good Life. (Ms. Steward shared her book with me after she read my post about my childhood memories of the great B. Altman department store) What is a bit funny is that I remember it not as a book that I read but as a movie I watched - the experience of reading it was like watching one of the great films of the 1970s, the ones that featured female leads that you immediately got caught up with and fell alongside them in their journey from the first scene - An Unmarried Woman comes to mind. The novel is available everywhere including online and in one of New York's leading independent bookstores,  St. Mark's Bookshop.

Photos: The subway and Park Avenue images above do not belong to me. If you are the copyright holder, please contact me so that I can add your copyright information and a link to your site or delete the images from this post. 

Back to School, NYC Part 2 - The Fun, Creepy, Cool 1970s

I ran into a friend on Columbus Avenue. We hadn't seen each other in over twenty years but we dropped into comfortable conversation after a few minutes the way people sometimes do when they have been linked through school, neighborhood and family for a lifetime. After catching up on each other's news he suggested I bring my family to Sunday mass at Blessed Sacrament. He would be reading the Liturgy. Afterwards he would take all of us on a tour of our old school.

For years I had walked by the catholic church on West 70th street without bothering to step inside. At first I was always in a hurry so I would put off visiting Blessed Sacrament the way I might postpone spending time with a relative who would forgive my neglect. Later, when business took me out of New York and often out of the U.S., a stop at Blessed Sacrament never seemed like a priority during Upper West Side visits. I had spent years marking every Sunday, holiday and special event in that church. A visit could wait another week, then another. Suddenly it was decades later and I was walking up the main steps of Blessed Sacrament for the first time since my eighth grade graduation. This time I was accompanied by my then 12 year-old son and his proud grandmother. My husband lingered over coffee and e-mails at a nearby cafe.

I'm almost certain the line of statues that stand to the left of the church steps (Philip Neri, Francis de Sales, John Vianney, John the Baptist de la Salle) shared a bemused glance with those that stand to the right (Alphonsus Ligouri, Francis of Assisi, Charles Borromeo and Vincent de Paul)when they saw this "bad Catholic" showing up at church for the first time in forever. Once inside, I'm pretty sure my old friends Thomas Aquinas and Catherine of Siena glanced my way with raised eyebrows. As a child I had gazed up at their stained glass images through many church services.

We walked down the center aisle toward our seats. The familiar creak of the pews, the thud of kneelers falling into place before mass, the scent of incense and warm canldewax and the glorious architecture that I had all but forgotten overwhelmed me with memories. Even as the service began I whispered to my son about these things but I stopped, remembering that at any moment, if this had been long ago, a nun would have stopped my rudeness with a poke on the shoulder and a glare that meant lunch detention. I straightened up, looked forward and let my mind drift just like in the old days.

I remember when we were children walking into Blessed Sacrament for mass each Wednesday morning. The rule had long been "no taps allowed" on shoes. The small metal pieces that mothers had attached to the soles of shoes to reduce wear were noisy and damaged floors but we loved the sound. The taps had come off only to be replaced by us children with flat, metal thumbtacks. The moment our shoes touched the terracotta tiles of the church each Wednesday we sounded like we were on our way to a tap class not confession. Teachers would stop lines of students to have them pull thumbtacks out of their soles. Most of them would find their way, face up, onto church pews instead.

Back at our desks we would take notes in class in the neat cursive of all Catholic school students while passing notes in graffitti-style bubble letters. "Do you like me? Yes. No." Despite being distracted, hormonal middle school-aged children, our teachers managed to suffuse our minds with ideas that mattered - about world history, classical literature, our roles in society. The undisputed heroes of that time were the ultimate teaching team, Mr. and Mrs. Gavila. They didn't lecture, they led discussions, brought passion to every lesson and encouraged informed debates about current events and politics. The respect they extended to us alerted us kids that we were on our way to adulthoods that could matter. We reciprocated their attention with worship.

But not all was serious study. There were bigger issues to contend with like what to wear to birthday parties and which sleepovers to attend. These events were always a little more special when classmates lived near celebrities. A sleepover on West 77th meant you might run into Henry "The Fonz" Winkler on his way in or out of his parent's building. A visit to a friend on West 73rd meant a possible brush with CHiPS star Erik Estrada. But the Holy Grail was an invitation to a playdate anywhere along West End Avenue in the West 60s - Robbie Benson territory!

Afternoon visits to a friend's apartment at The Dorilton on West 70th Street were memorable, even without celebrity sightings. Architecture historian Andrew Dolkart has described The Dorilton as possibly "the most flamboyant apartment house in New York" but I knew it then only as the best place in my neighborhood to play hide-and-seek. My friend was the daughter of a conductor who traveled with a symphony orchestra. The apartment where she lived was enormous - and it seemed so especially at the time. We would take turns hiding under heavy furniture in endless rooms. We counted to 10 draped in lace, crouched under a table that stretched the length of a formal dining room. We dressed up Barbies by towering windows that showcased the landmark building's "opulent Beaux-Arts style limestone and brick exterior, featuring monumental sculptures, richly balustraded balconies, and a three-story, copper and slate mansard roof." (Oh, if I'd only known then what I can Google now.) The Dorilton, with its elaborate decor and interiors thick with velvet and silence, impressed me only as peculiar.

The Dorilton may have been my favorite place to play hide-and-seek but The Danielle, a short building that shares a wall with Blessed Sacrament Church on West 70th Street, was my home-away-from-home. All of my best friends lived in The Danielle. We would thunder up and down its stairs and run through its hallways carrying board games and gossip between apartments. Our moms shared stories about child-rearing and rent control. The Danielle echoed with the sounds of families living their stories out loud in so many languages. Its architecture may not have left a mark on history but every one of its unremarkable details is etched in the memories of the children who grew up there during the 1970s.

The only time of year more thrilling than back to school at Blessed Sacrament was the week before summer break. We would bend over our books, foreheads moist with sweat, trying to focus on school work that already seemed too distant to matter. On the last day of school, West 70th street would come alive with the screeching of joyful children pouring out of the school for the last time that year. A final round of "Saluci!" might be played, one last run to Vinnie's Pizza for a slice might take place then the summer could begin.

That's as far as my memories went that day at mass. The church service was over quickly and soon our little group was on its way along the left side of the church toward the marble steps that lead into the school. On the way we passed an area where a statue of St. Lazarus used to stand. I remembered how one of its feet had been worn down by decades of reverent touch. An unblemished statue now stood in its place. That was the first sign that much of the Blessed Sacrament I was about to see would have changed but I had a feeling the original spirit of the school had endured.

Play On: The Naumburg Bandshell

If walls could talk, the Naumburg Bandshell would be New York City’s fiercest chatterbox. It’s been standing between Bethesda Terrace and Central Park’s famed, tree-lined Mall Promenade for almost 80 years, collecting memories while sharing music and words.

Visit the Bandshell early in the morning and you’ll find a brief moment of quiet and stillness.

Nauburg Bandshell Photo from Peterjr196's photostream

During the rest of the day, you’ll find actors rehearsing lines, couples posing for wedding photos, shy folks performing dreamy American Idol numbers for empty benches and, of course, every style of music. You might even find an Upper West Side old-timer recalling the bygone era when the Bandshell attracted wayward teenagers from all over the city like a magnet. All throughout the 70s, the Bandshell sheltered a burgeoning graffiti and skateboarding scene along its curved walls, shaded steps, and hidden corners. It was quite a change from the venue’s early days.

The Naumburg Bandshell was erected in 1923, but its purpose had been imagined long before then. A music-lover named Elkan Naumburg had fallen in love with classical music at the age of 15 when he could hardly afford the cost of concert tickets. Forty years later, as a successful banker, he dedicated a large portion of his hard-earned wealth to insure that New Yorkers would always have access to the city’s finest music.

Photo of Elkan Naumburg from ein Treuchtlinger in New York

Naumburg started hosting concerts in Central Park in 1905 on a wood and cast-iron pagoda-like structure that had been created by one of Central Park’s designers, Calvert Vaux. The concerts grew in popularity over the years, drawing crowds from all facets of New York society. The very wealthy would often arrive by carriage and stay there, enjoying performances from their lofty posts above those on foot. When it became more fashionable to walk to concerts, New Yorkers began mingling more freely, strolling along The Mall during performances, picnicking on the grass, and dancing after sunset.

Photo From the New York Public Library Collection

By 1912, free concerts were beginning to attract thousands of New Yorkers. Naumburg offered New York City $125,000 to build a larger, sturdier structure where operas and symphonies could be performed for the growing crowds. In 1923, a year before his death, plans for the Bandshell had been realized as a neo-classic half-dome carved out of Indiana limestone. Ten thousand people attended the dedication where Naumburg drew attention to the words he’d had inscribed on the building: “To the City of New York and its Music Lovers.”

Ever since then, music and spoken word have boomed from that the Bandshell almost without interruption. Irving Berlin, Benny Goodman, and Duke Ellington brought their performed there with their orchestras. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., E.B. White, and Fidel Castro addressed crowds from its stage. John Lennon’s eulogy was given there, the words carrying toward nearby Bethesda Terrace and Sheep Meadow.

Despite the Bandshell’s longstanding role within New York City’s cultural life, the structure almost faced the wrecking ball in 1992. Once the neo-classical dome became a congregating spot for New York City teens and assorted ‘Parkies’ during the 1970s the location began falling into disrepair. (Check out this SHORT FILM Sunshine Rebels: Gotham's Lost Tribe, about Central Park’s most unique denizens and the Bandshell at its bohemian peak.) By the 1990s, vandals, drug dealers, and homeless New Yorkers had steadily transformed Naumburg’s gift to the city into a building that New York’s Parks and Recreation Department described as “a maintenance nightmare.”

In July of 1993, efforts to tear down the damaged and neglected Bandshell were blocked by the New York State Court of Appeals citing a city law requiring protection of municipal gifts. The building was saved but remained in a state of “demolition by neglect” until 2003 when the Central Park Conservancy and other preservation groups raised more than $2 million to see the structure restored to its former glory. Today, music plays on at the Bandshell thanks to Elkan Naumburg’s descendants and generous support from the public.

Naumburg Bandshell Photo from nycgo.com

Click here to see the complete Naumburg Bandshell schedule of Summer 2012 events.



Upper Manhattan: The Other Upper West Side

New York instinct seems to draw almost everyone on the island of Manhattan to points south of 125th Street for dining, strolling, sightseeing and general fun. Tourist maps of New York City ignore areas to the north almost entirely, ending their detailed grid coverage of the island just past Central Park North. It's no wonder locals forget and tourists skip that stretch of Broadway that extends past Morningside Heights to Washington Heights and beyond.

But isn't anyone asking, "What's Uptown?"

If you aren't a New Yorker who lives in Hamilton Heights and you don't yet know your way around Washington Heights I invite you to join me on this rainy day walk in photos to Upper Manhattan, the other Upper West Side.

You've taken the IRT 1,2, or 3 train to 125th Street and Broadway. You begin walking under steel and rumble toward destinations unknown. Welcome to the neighborhood known on tourist maps as blank space.

Salsa and reggeton spill out of stores as you move past discount shops, beauty supply houses and bodegas. You fall in step with the rhythm of the street.

A cafecito espresso and a sweet from a Dominican bake shop brightens a gray day. Smile, you are twenty blocks in both directions from the nearest Starbucks. 

Broadway may be bleak for blocks at a stretch but look up, above the sad storefronts...

and look far, down the sidestreets. There you'll find proud architecture and whispers of old New York.

Trinity Church Cemetery and The Hispanic Society of America stand atop Manhattan's steepest hill bearing witness to Broadway's long memory. Walk a tombstone garden in one then visit hushed galleries in the other.

The tang of mineral in the air reminds you there's a river nearby. You veer west to gaze at the Hudson churning under the George Washington Bridge. A playground model of it, slick with drizzle, watches for a sunny day.

What's that in the distance? The George Washington Bridge Bus Station designed by Italian engineer, Pier Luigi Nervi, in 1963.

You left quiet streets behind twenty blocks ago by the time you reach 181st Street and Broadway.

Chain stores start to outnumber mom & pop shops but the flavor is still local.

There's much more to see. Art Deco and Dutch architecture on Bennet Avenue, Fort Tryon Park and its gardens, The Cloisters Museum and Bette Midler's parkside restaurant. But what's the rush? You'll be back now that you've discovered just how interesting the blank space on a map can be.