Watching this Cynthia Sley the lead singer of the Bush Tetras one of the quintessential New York post-punk groups, was dumbfounded.
‘Oh my God I didn’t know anybody who went into a band with that attitude’ she says.
‘That was so stupid.
It was more like ‘Let’s read some Rimbaud and talk about it while doing coke all night’.
For all of its shortcomings – that it’s little more than a parade of nifty period details in search of a story – the pungent cocktail of blow and testosterone that seemingly drives the entire narrative arc – its inability to draw a compelling or even convincing female character – Vinyl perhaps suffers from a more fatal flaw: it’s looking at the wrong era in New York’s musical history.
Sure through the fog of memory the 70s in New York were incredibly sexy.
At roughly the same time punk disco and hip-hop were invented in the Big Apple – perhaps forever defining everything that came after.
The city may have been falling apart but Studio 54 allowed even working-class kids from Queens (provided they had some style) the opportunity to snort coke off Truman Capote’s monocle or take Diane von Furstenberg for a whirl on the dance floor.
If Studio wasn’t your bag you could achieve another kind of celebrity by painting your name as big and brightly as possible on the 4 train or reinvent yourself in the shaggy glamor of the downtown demimonde revolving around Max’s Kansas City and CBGB.