The Golden Years Are a Hard Act to Follow

New York City, 1970

Let me take you back to 1970, when New York City wasn’t just alive; it was a feral beast, snarling and snapping at the edges of existence. And me? I was in its belly, a willing hostage. By day, I was an NYU Film School student, immersing myself in the art of cinema, analyzing masters, and finding my voice as a filmmaker. By night, I drove a cab, dodging drunks and lunatics on the Bowery. But always, always, I was tuned into the city’s relentless soundtrack—the kind of music that could split the sky in two and leave you breathless.

At Bleecker and MacDougal, the ghosts of the beat generation still lingered, their coffee-stained wisdom seeping into the cracks. At the Fillmore East, Hendrix summoned the divine; his guitar wasn’t an instrument—it was a lightning rod. Over at the Cafe Au Go Go, Miles Davis stopped time every time he picked up his horn. These weren’t concerts; they were rituals, and we were the lucky congregation. Amen.

Music wasn’t just a soundtrack—it was the heartbeat of the city. It kept us connected, binding the chaos with its electrified rhythm. At 3 a.m., behind the wheel, Coltrane’s “My Favorite Things” spilling from the radio, it was the music that kept me grounded, steering me toward a victory slice of New York pizza.

Now, fifty-some years later, I’m still chasing that beat and, yes, still searching for the perfect New York slice. It’s a tougher quest south of the border. But luck has a way of finding you—around the corner in Guanajuato, there’s a guy from Rome named Sal turning out world-class brick oven pizza. It ain’t New York but, I’m not complaining.

Let’s not polish it too much. The Big Apple reeked of hot dogs, sweat, and existential dread but damn, it was alive. You didn’t just exist in New York—you wrestled it, tamed it, or let it swallow you whole. The mornings tasted like egg creams from Gem’s Spa; the nights buzzed with Acapulco Gold, that shimmering strain of weed that promised transcendence but could easily deliver chaos.

The soundtrack was raw and unfiltered. There were no algorithms suggesting what to listen to, no auto-tune sanitizing the imperfections. Zeppelin’s “Dazed and Confused” didn’t need a remix; it was already the remix of your soul. Sure, I got held up three times in my cab, but that was just the price of admission for living in the beast’s belly. Those memories aren’t just mine; they’re tattoos etched into the city’s skin.

Half a century later I’ve changed, thankfully, and so has the entire planet.

As my Buddhist brothers believe, permanence is the nature of life, and for me, embracing the impermanence of all things has been the key to finding peace and clarity amid life’s constant changes.

Today, I wake up and think, “Why the hell am I chasing Instagram followers for this blog? Does it matter if I have 2,500 subscribers instead of 1,200?” Spoiler: it doesn’t. The dopamine hit of a like pales in comparison to seeing Miles bend time itself. And modern music? Don’t get me started. Sure, there’s talent out there, but most of it feels like elevator music for the soul. Synth beats and overproduced choruses don’t leave scars; they evaporate before they even sink in.

New York itself feels like a ghost. Albert “Tootie” Heath nailed it: “ Everybody’s dead. Nobody goes there anymore.” The city I knew is a mausoleum of memories. The Bowery’s gone upscale, the Fillmore’s a bank, and the faces that made it all matter are mostly in the ether. I can barely bring myself to visit. It’s not fear of change; it’s the weight of absence.

Which brings me to the Bardo—the Tibetan Buddhist concept of the space between life and death, a cosmic waiting room for transformation. These days, that’s exactly where I feel I am: standing at the threshold of what comes next. I’m channeling this into a film about the Bardo, exploring it not just as a spiritual journey but as a powerful metaphor for my own life—a deep dive into the transitions that define us and the mysteries that shape our paths forward.

Here’s the kicker: I couldn’t have made this film in 1970. I didn’t have the bruises or the gray hairs. I hadn’t felt the pain or joy that sharpens your creative edge. And honestly, the technology wasn’t there. Back then, AI was a sci-fi fantasy, and film editing meant splicing actual film. Now, I’ve got tools that Hendrix and Miles couldn’t have dreamed of, and I’m using them to explore the spaces they once improvised in.

The music sure doesn’t play like it used to, and the city doesn’t hum the same. But somewhere out there, a kid is picking up a guitar for the first time, fumbling their way through the opening chords of something new. Maybe he’ll create the next “Purple Haze” or “So What.” Maybe he won’t. The point is, the spirit of creation hasn’t died—it’s just waiting for someone to strike the match.

For me, it’s all about leaning into the Bardo—embracing the chaos of creation and fighting to shape it into something real. Will my film make me rich? Not a chance. Famous? No way. But it will be mine—a raw, unfiltered testament to everything I’ve lived, loved, fought for, and lost. That’s worth more than a thousand fleeting Instagram likes.

Will anyone understand it? Jesus, I hope so. I’m sure it will make some people think and that’s a good thing. I say some, because a lot of people don’t want to think anymore. Too difficult. Much easier to just stare endlessly at a screen and take the guided tour. It’s short, and painless, and with a penny-ante rush on the other side. Sorry, no more green stamps.

So here’s the truth, mis amigos: Stop chasing validation. Likes fade. Ghosts stay ghosts. Find your rhythm—whether it’s the pull of a guitar string, the focus of a camera lens, or the stubborn idea that keeps tugging at your soul. Nostalgia is a trap, but creation? That’s what will set you free, creation. Maybe that’s why becoming a content creator is the new American dream.

So I’m shutting off the noise, going straight to my Lee Morgan playlist, cranking up the volume, and diving headlong into the unknown. The beat never stops, and if there’s one thing I know, neither will I. Certainly not in this life, and probably not the next, either. Beyond that, I’m hoping for enlightenment. Hey, I can dream, can’t I?

A little more perhaps, why not go for a Deep Dive: