Informationen zum Autor John Lurie is a musician, painter, actor, director, and producer. He co-founded The Lounge Lizards in 1979. In the decades since, he has released albums (including those by his alter ego Marvin Pontiac), acted in films, composed and performed music for television and film, exhibited his paintings throughout the world, and produced, directed, and starred in the Fishing with John television series. His most recent series, Painting with John, debuted on HBO in 2021. Klappentext The quintessential depiction of 1980s New York and the downtown scene from the artist, actor, musician, and composer John Lurie A picaresque roller coaster of a story, with staggering amounts of sex and drugs and the perpetual quest to retain some kind of artistic integrity. The New York Times In the tornado that was downtown New York in the 1980s, John Lurie stood at the vortex. After founding the band The Lounge Lizards with his brother, Evan, in 1979, Lurie quickly became a centrifugal figure in the world of outsider artists, cutting-edge filmmakers, and cultural rebels. Now Lurie vibrantly brings to life the whole wash of 1980s New York as he developed his artistic soul over the course of the decade and came into orbit with all the prominent artists of that time and place, including Andy Warhol, Debbie Harry, Boris Policeband, and, especially, Jean-Michel Basquiat, the enigmatic prodigy who spent a year sleeping on the floor of Lurie's East Third Street apartment. It may feel like Disney World now, but in The History of Bones , the East Village, through Lurie's clear-eyed reminiscence, comes to teeming, gritty life. The book is full of grime and frank humorLurie holds nothing back in this journey to one of the most significant moments in our cultural history, one whose reverberations are still strongly felt today. History may repeat itself, but the way downtown New York happened in the 1980s will never happen again. Luckily, through this beautiful memoir, we all have a front-row seat. Leseprobe Chapter 1 Boy Boy Just a speck. At the top of its arc, a mystical thing suspended against blue. Then it would come hurtling down and thwack to the earth. Always out of my reach. My father could throw a ball, incredibly high, straight up into the air. I loved being hypnotized as it hung up against the sky, this thing that was no longer a ball. It wasn't really even a game of catch, because I could never catch them at that age. We used to sit on the couch listening to the stinking Red Sox on the radio. I loved the smell of him, there was warmth in it. You're a foxy little newspaper. My dad laughed. He was waking me up to go fishing, and this was something I said that was left over from a dream. When I was a kid we used to go fishing on Saturday mornings. He'd wake me really early and we'd go out, both so tired we'd be laughing like idiots at everything. Boat stuck in the reeds. Incredibly amusing! You had to be there. On the drive home, we saw an old lady in a fur coat hunched over the wheel of a convertible sports car. Her white hair flapping wildly in the wind. She pulled alongside us, hovered there for a moment, and then whizzed off, like we were standing still. Tears rolled down my dad's face. He wasn't much of a fisherman and didn't take it seriously. He just liked to be out in a boat with his son on a nice morning. He called me Boy Boy. You want to go get something to eat, Boy Boy? The throws got lower and lower until it wasn't so exciting anymore. I went to high school in Worcester, Massachusetts. A horrible place, Worcester has a dome over it so that God is not allowed in. The first thing that emerges when I think of Worcester is a metal pole. I am familiar with its molecules. I know its deepest essence.<b...

Zusammenfassung
****The quintessential depiction of 1980s New York and the downtown scene from the artist, actor, musician, and composer John Lurie

“A picaresque roller coaster of a story, with staggering amounts of sex and drugs and the perpetual quest to retain some kind of artistic integrity.”—The New York Times****

In the tornado that was downtown New York in the 1980s, John Lurie stood at the vortex. After founding the band The Lounge Lizards with his brother, Evan, in 1979, Lurie quickly became a centrifugal figure in the world of outsider artists, cutting-edge filmmakers, and cultural rebels. Now Lurie vibrantly brings to life the whole wash of 1980s New York as he developed his artistic soul over the course of the decade and came into orbit with all the prominent artists of that time and place, including Andy Warhol, Debbie Harry, Boris Policeband, and, especially, Jean-Michel Basquiat, the enigmatic prodigy who spent a year sleeping on the floor of Lurie’s East Third Street apartment.&#160;

It may feel like Disney World now, but in The History of Bones,&#160;the East Village, through Lurie’s clear-eyed reminiscence, comes to teeming, gritty life. The book is full of grime and frank humor—Lurie holds nothing back in this journey to one of the most significant moments in our cultural history, one whose reverberations are still strongly felt today.&#160;

History may repeat itself, but the way downtown New York happened in the 1980s will never happen again. Luckily, through this beautiful memoir, we all have a front-row seat.

Leseprobe
Chapter 1

Boy Boy

Just a speck. At the top of its arc, a mystical thing suspended against blue. Then it would come hurtling down and thwack to the earth. Always out of my reach.

My father could throw a ball, incredibly high, straight up into the air. I loved being hypnotized as it hung up against the sky, this thing that was no longer a ball. It wasn’t really even a game of catch, because I could never catch them at that age.

We used to sit on the couch listening to the stinking Red Sox on the radio. I loved the smell of him, there was warmth in it.

“You’re a foxy little newspaper.”

My dad laughed. He was waking me up to go fishing, and this was something I said that was left over from a dream.

When I was a kid we used to go fishing on Saturday mornings. He’d wake me really early and we’d go out, both so tired we’d be laughing like idiots at everything. Boat stuck in the reeds. Incredibly amusing! You had to be there.

On the drive home, we saw an old lady in a fur coat hunched over the wheel of a convertible sports car. Her white hair flapping wildly in the wind. She pulled alongside us, hovered there for a moment, and then whizzed off, like we were standing still. Tears rolled down my dad’s face.

He wasn’t much of a fisherman and didn’t take it seriously. He just liked to be out in a boat with his son on a nice morning. He called me “Boy Boy.”

“You want to go get something to eat, Boy Boy?”

The throws got lower and lower until it wasn’t so exciting anymore.

I went to high school in Worcester, Massachusetts. A horrible place, Worcester has a dome over it so that God is not allowed in.

The first thing that emerges when I think of Worcester is a metal pole.

I am familiar with its molecules. I know its deepest essence.

The pole was a railing around someone’s front yard on Pleasant Street, near Cotter’s Spa. It was about two and a half feet off the ground. Steve Piccolo and I used to try to balance on it and then walk from one end to the other. We’d get halfway, wobble, and then fall off. We never made it all the way to the end. One night, when I was fifteen, we took mushrooms and crossed it several times with ease. That was how I got to know the metal pole on a molecular level. That was the same night we went into Friendly’s, grinning insanely, and said, “We’d like to exchange these quarters for ice cream.” We held the…