They say the people make the place, and the people in New York in the 1920s made it the capital of the world. Babe Ruth, Charles Lindbergh and even Lucky Luciano were larger-than-life folk-heroes, swashbuckling through their respective pursuits; Silver-tongued Dorothy Parker, Alexander Woollcott and Harold Ross gathered around the Algonquin’s round table to parse out daisy mines of wit that exploded across stage and screen as well as the pages of Vanity Fair and The New Yorker. Times were good: the moonshine flowed like wine, a Renaissance bloomed in Harlem, Scotty wrote Gatsby, and a newfangled invention called radio swept the land.
Taking flight from the anecdotal histories of these magnificent characters and doings, Pop is able to tell a bigger story of the movements, the moods and the metropolis that changed the world. As with his books Lost Hollywood and Hollywoodland, about Los Angeles in the 20s, it is the salacious bits and noggin-scratching whoa moments that he unearths that will redefine the way you look at a famous chapter in history.
But I have to say that. He’s my dad.