How very sad. For a kid of 19 who grew up in the suburbs of Philadelphia but fancied himself quite the hip urban(e) young fop because he used to hang out at The T.L.A. on South Street and such, moving to New York City was quite the smack upside the head.
I fell in love with the Voice immediately. Literally my first week in NYC, in August 1981. I bought it religiously until it went free in 1996.
I cannot even fathom the list of very important things I learned, or thought, or was prompted to Go and DO because I read it in The Voice.
Amy Taubin? Check. ( And a special side thanks for being my Film Theory and Criticism teacher at S.V.A. Man, your presentations of films and the things you made me question were just so upsetting. And vital. And in case you’re a Doper, you’re a gifted filmmaker. )
Nat Hentoff? Check.
Robert Christgau? Check.
Wayne Barrett? Check.
Michael Musto? A glorious glammy sparkling check. A Czec !
Damn. It was bad enough that the Stalinist Purge of 2005 gutted the publication. I still read it, limping along, most of the writing not nearly up to the par of past decades.
Thank you, Village Voice. Thank you for introducing me to Canal Jean Co. Thank you for Pearl Paint. Thank you for Film Forum, and The Kitchen. Thank you for making me angry and making me sad and disgusted and delighted and excited and …making me think.
Come and share a favorite writer or memory regarding The Village Voice.