Lucking Out (2011)

The title of James Wolcott’s memoir suggests an unexpected quality of humility for a writer who is always interesting, entertaining, and smart, but also—decidedly—with smart-ass neener-neener tendencies. I loved his stuff in the Village Voice, Esquire, and wherever I found it, even when his beat was not a particular area of interest, such as broadcast television. But I had little idea of the full scope of his work and career. He came to the Voice on the recommendation of Norman Mailer, who liked a piece Wolcott wrote about him in Wolcott’s college paper in Maryland. Wolcott was 19, he dropped out of college to move to New York City, and he never looked back. He made friends with Pauline Kael, was perhaps the first writer to champion Patti Smith, haunted CBGB, monitored developments in porn and live sex (from a safe distance), became a student of ballet, and lived the 1970s NYC lifestyle, which meant thoughts (and experience) of street crime violence were never far. He scorns the new Disney-fied present-day Times Square, but allows that the old one was a scary place to be. He writes long twisting sentences that fill page-long paragraphs. Sometimes I got lost in the tangles, but I’ll put that on me, not him. He’s a great natural writer and a plain pleasure to read. I don’t always agree with him. He has no use for Joan Didion, but goes dewy-eyed over Kael more than once. I’m inclined to see it the other way. Wolcott has perhaps aged into a certain model of the egghead critic, preoccupied with culture as such, but that’s nothing to hold against a guy who can maintain high regard for both the Ramones and the New York City Ballet. I love that, and even more I love his witty, jazzing voice. Wolcott’s memoir is essential for anyone interested in New York in the ‘70s (the subtitle is My Life Getting Down and Semi-Dirty in the Seventies) and it’s recommended generally for anyone into an absorbing read. I’m not sure if there’s beef between Wolcott and Voice rock critic Robert Christgau, but it feels like there might be. His passing treatment of Christgau (and Ellen Willis) is dryly hilarious, wielding a scalpel in multiple places.

In case the library is closed due to pandemic, which is over.