Watching ‘THE DEUCE“ on HBO last week brought back memories from that time when 42nd Street intersected with dirty funky Broadway and seemingly everything around that corner was about sex, drugs or muggings.
New York’s music business offices were almost all located just north of Times Square. So it figured that a young, ambitious lad like myself would naturally gravitate toward the maze of booths, lap dance parlors, squeeze-through windows and whatever other location a horny guy might enjoy visiting after hustling his butt trying to place songs or get work.
Somewhere in all this process, I happened upon a kindred spirit in the form of a street life man of color who scratched out a meager subsistence selling promotional copies of new records he’d get from labels. Having convinced them that he was a meaningful DJ who wanted to play their product at his club, it wasn’t that difficult. I didn’t necessarily approve of his hustle. But the guy (though tone deaf) had a knack for coming up with song titles and quick verses which complemented the tracks I could produce. Continue Reading