Book Review – 'Talkin' Greenwich Village: The Heady Rise and Slow Fall of America's Bohemian Music Capital'
The musicians, the movement, and the making of a generation
The mystery encompassing David Browne’s Talkin’ Greenwich Village is not so much the artists and musicians that inhabited the community there. It’s more the history of how a section of New York City was birthed by jazz, folk, and rock and the pivotal moments that came to shape its mystical realm.
While the musicians who came to be heard could carry weight just by their presence – Odetta, Pete Seeger, and Ramblin’ Jack Elliott – it was the dedication of the, until now, smaller players who helped to establish the cafés, bars, dank basement joints and the underground speakeasies that were the building blocks in the creation of ‘the Village.’
One of the most colorful, polarizing, and left-of-center figures was Dave Van Ronk. A character among characters, Van Ronk rose from the ideation and aspirational visions of being a musician to one that was more often than not, a torch carrier for everybody else who had the talent and the gumption to step forward. Not that Van Ronk dampened down his talents. On the contrary, he pushed himself to be heard in genres that might not have been acceptable, but he nonetheless made an indelible impact (as Browne expertly weaves his story throughout) on the collective at large.
Browne gives valuable insight into the people – such as Van Ronk – who are not necessarily household names, yet heavily influenced the Village social scene's look, feel, and sound. This happened to include local politicians and law enforcement who would raid the cafés if so much as a drop of alcohol was being served or the patrons were of questionable character (read: gay).
Required permits, the razing of buildings, and threats of highway overpasses were not uncommon factors in uniting the neighborhood, even with strong diverse opinions. The music offerings and the fellowship were the glue that kept everyone connected.
If anyone was going to open the door for wider acceptance, it certainly wouldn’t have been a kid with a pudgy face and a mop of hair, as Browne writes. As a wannabe folk singer, Bob Dylan entered New York City in January 1961 as someone who tagged along for a ride. After connecting with an acquaintance in Madison, Wisconsin, a small group piled into a Pontiac and headed east, Dylan among them.
Another ‘outsider’ who gravitated to the burgeoning scene was a Colorado native with piercing blue eyes, who decided to come into the Village from Connecticut. Judy Collins felt an instant kinship, even in a world dominated by men.
Judy Collins & Pete Seeger – Turn! Turn! Turn!/℗©Melody Trails Inc. C/o The Richmond Organizat, Melody Trails Inc/YouTube
Meanwhile, the push to shut down Washington Square Park to the beatniks and ad hoc musicians and grant permits to only “bona fide artistic groups” was coming to a head in April 1961. The situation turned riotous after the NYPD showed up in force during a loud protest, but a month later Mayor Robert Wagner, looking at a re-election bid, went over his parks’ commissioner head and, for well and good, sent a message: the cultural influence of folk music would be heard, loud and clear.
Dylan had been making himself at home, getting notices among the veterans, but was still looked upon as just a kid wearing army surplus clothes and singing Woody Guthrie covers. Not much above finagling a way to get a gig, he was nonetheless not a standout, even being booked at the Gaslight on a Saturday night, as Browne amusingly notes, to “clear the house for another crowd.”
Granted, it’s hard to picture Dylan as a start-up, with no original voice. But in the fall of 1961, as Noel Stookey emceed at The Gaslight, he offered up Dylan. And to boot, put in a good word for the singer to one Albert Grossman, a Chicago transplant and a bear of a figure who managed musicians, and quite soon as it turned out, the instigator for the coming together of Peter Yarrow, Stookey (now using his middle name Paul) and Mary Travers.
Browne begins the trek that showcased the up-and-coming venues – Cafe Wha?, The Bitter End and Folk City – to the outside world. Dylan flew into the inner circle of influential producer John Hammond by proxy and signed a one-album deal with Columbia that turned into his self-titled debut in March 1962. It didn’t light the world (or charts) on fire, even if Billboard gave it a ‘Special Merit’ award. No, he would hit his first benchmark with his second release in May 1963 with The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, complemented by his then-girlfriend Suzy Rotolo, but who, as Browne cites, “began to harbor doubts about his connection to the truth and sensed that his growing cult might overwhelm her.”
Bob Dylan – Masters of War (Official Audio)/℗©Universal Music Publishing Group/YouTube
Browne observes that Dylan’s boosted stature as a songwriter, not just a troubadour who recycled Dust Bowl-era laments, kickstarted others, including Collins and singer Tom Paxton. The incoming elevation of the Civil Rights movement with calls for desegregation, ending discrimination, and amplifying the disenfranchised had already been put forth by public-facing figures including Medgar Evers, Stokely Carmichael, Julian Bond, and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and would serve as the background for songs such as Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the Wind.”
These ongoing events triggered artists who were as passionate about protesting in song as Dylan, even more so, including Phil Ochs and an outlier named Ritchie Havens. The Black artists who traveled to the Village – Havens, Bruce Langhorne, Bill Lee (the father of filmmaker Spike Lee), and Len Chandler – were accepted in the open-minded community, but it was not an easy one, as someone like Chandler was rebuffed for hailing a cab and decided to run after the driver, reach in and start slapping him.
As Browne continues to chronicle the developments on the horizon after the assassination of President Kennedy, one event eventually becomes the catalyst. The Village scene, along with the rest of America, were polarized on February 9, 1964, when four young men from Liverpool, England debuted on The Ed Sullivan Show. “The Beatles scuttled all of us,” recalled Canadian folk singer Sylvia Tyson. Everything was about to change.
❦
Browne’s forensic narrative is served well, as he details the shifts from storytelling poets to stardom-seeking musicians hell-bent on getting to the audience that had gone wild over The Beatles. Among them, John Sebastian, Cass Elliot, and Danny Kalb, all of it culminating in March 1965 with Dylan’s Bringing It All Back Home heralded in the next phase of what would become ‘folk-rock.’
Bob Dylan - Subterranean Homesick Blues (Official HD Video)/℗©1965 by Warner Bros. Inc.; renewed 1993 by Special Rider Music/YouTube
As Dylan’s stature caused skirmishes – most notably with Ochs – it was the preponderance of jazz greats – John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Charlie Mingus, and Thelonious Monk – driving business back into the Village. Their experimental and improvisational gigs may have set the traditionalists into a spin, but they bolstered the confidence of the folk-rock crowd, who saw something deeper and freeing with the unknown landscape laid out before them.
❦
The summer of 1967 has been and will remain for many reasons, groundbreaking. It was no different in the Village. As artists became electrified, both in songwriting and instrumentation, the Cafe Au Go Go would host The Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, and Cream. While Dylan was up in Woodstock, Joni Mitchell had arrived to much shock and awe. But the scene was somewhere between comfort zone and curiosity sideshow. Bands were disintegrating, artists moving to Los Angeles or London, fraying the close-knit fibers that had brought them to this spot. The question was, what would the future bring for them?
More and more, as Browne recounts, the artists who came would alter the thinking and presentation of how their message would be transmitted. Janis Ian, The Roche Sisters, Louden Wainwright III, and yes, Dylan (who moved back to the city) were seeing the tide turn to bigger venues like Bill Graham’s Fillmore East, as the Village was becoming increasingly sparse or worse, sparsely attended. Other avenues were opening eyes, as Van Ronk was witness to the Stonewall Riots in June 1969. This far-reaching event brought in an even larger subset of performers, like David Johansen with a burgeoning frontman’s taste for glam rock in the style of Mick Jagger and David Bowie, which he transformed into The New York Dolls.
Personality Crisis - New York Dolls | The Midnight Special/℗©WB Music Corp., Lipstick Killers Publishing Inc., Seldak Music Corporation, Daksel LLC (BMI)/YouTube
Most appreciative as the book moves along, are the anecdotal narratives that on the surface, might not mean anything, but as history shows, had a profound influence as the ‘70s wound on: future Spinal Tap and Saturday Night Live alum Christopher Guest was at the Folklore Center and spotted Dylan but was too scared to approach him. Maggie and Terre Roche returned from the harrowing consequences of going to California and ended up on Paul Simon’s There Goes Rhymin’ Simon. As comics began their paths to recognition, Guest soon found himself with National Lampoon’s Lemmings as an ad-hoc musician, along with Chevy Chase and John Belushi.
❦
Summertime in New York City in 1975 had vibes that were uneasily odoriferous. As sanitation workers went on strike, trash piled up and residents were warned to stay off the street. But one club showed signs of interest in music at a larger, upscale venue. The Bottom Line had opened the previous year intent on “injecting the big-money, high-living rock world of the ‘70s into the Village,” as Browne put forth. With a stage that was further off the ground than most, The Bottom Line began to attract the talent that seemed unreachable and could place them on the metaphorical pedestal that would have them be deemed royalty. When Bruce Springsteen received his “coronation,” as Browne comments, it was during a five-night bash there in August. Even Dylan was back musically, having released Blood on the Tracks, checking out the new venue The Other End, taking in Patti Smith, and sitting in with Muddy Waters.
As the ‘70s soldiered on, there was a succession of trends that could brew hot (the ascension of disco via The Village People) and keep the fires burning with new clubs opening, like Kenny’s Castaways, an anomaly in the club scene with no cover charge and a used soundboard from The Who. There were signings of artists who could owe a debt of gratitude to the eclectic, somewhat forgiving surroundings and still gain notice. The Roches (now a trio with sister Suzzy) had caught the ear of a transplanted Robert Fripp. He gathered the women together at The Hit Factory and proceeded to let them do their thing, which resulted in their eponymous debut in April 1979. Browne further chronicles the trio’s still defiant attitudes about industry acceptance which, in today’s MeToo era, is still as relevant as ever.
❦
The follow-up for the Roche Sisters – Nurds – was not to be a triumph. And as Browne describes the falling away of the vanguard, venues such as the Speak Easy propped up new voices, courtesy of the DIY compilation Fast Folk Musical Magazine, which in a 1984 edition, housed Suzanne Vega’s “Tom’s Diner.” But it was the now-known autobiographical “Luka” that got Vega noticed and catapulted her to places far outside the Village. Folk City was hosting "Music for Dozens” that showcased sets by The Minutemen, Sonic Youth and the Violent Femmes. At Kenny’s Castaways and The Other End, New Jersey natives The Smithereens were developing a following. But Folk City, like many venues caught between a rock and a hard place in the ‘90s and then in the new millennium, saw their rent space triple. Plans fell through with the promise of a new location and the dream faded away.
Van Ronk continued to be a formidable, if slower, version of himself. After a diagnosis of colon cancer, he continued to record, perform, and began writing a history of the Village’s folk era. However, as 2002 began, his health turned downward further still, and he succumbed to cardio-pulmonary failure on February 10 at age 65.
The Bottom Line shuttered in 2004, CBGB in 2006, and Kenny’s Castaways in 2012. But one figure stands remembered: at West Washington Place between Barrow Street and Grove Street is this sign.
Talkin’ Greenwich Village: The Heady Rise and Slow Fall of America's Bohemian Music Capital by David Browne is available for pre-order from Hachette Books, Amazon, Target, Barnes & Noble, and other outlets.
Browne will be in conversation with Liz Thomson, Co-Founder and Executive Producer of The Village Trip on September 17 at La Lanterna di Vittorio in NYC. Tickets for the event can be purchased here.
Loved the Village and all it still had in the 80's, wishing I had discovered it much sooner, mirroring much of what happened in London in the 70's.... poetry dives in Earl's Court, amazing poetry stuff and plays at the Royal Upstairs Theatre from Heathcote Williams, my hero friend from the Windsor Free Festival. Bob Dylan was a definite pulse in Ireland and the UK back then. His Art is amazing! I remember drawing a life-size portrait of him on the back of my mothers left-over sheets of wallpaper. I gave it to a friend who insisted paying me half a crown for it because he actually looked like him. His sister married Henry Macullogh (Spooky Tooth, The Grease Band and Wings... Paul used to play football with him), and then had my own little industry doing life-size portraits on the rest of the rolls of wallpaper. Someone somewhere has Herman's Hermits and Joe Cocker and David Macallum, (Man from Uncle), one or other of the Beatles and Bee Gees and anyone requested at the time. I definitely earned my dinner money! Love reading your great articles, Amy! xxx