It was at the edge of the wire, the reign of Nixon had finally died but the fiery trail of rage and young blood he had left behind was stained across the American soil. We had already fallen witness to the Vietnam War, The assassination of Dr. King, Robert Kennedy and the skillful termination of Malcolm X and the Black Panthers.
New York was now near bankruptcy and debauchery, proudly taking on it’s new title as The Wild, Wild West.
The shattered poster children of a proper American Democracy had flown too close to the sun, and as Nixon and Ford quickly burned their wings to ash, they dropped down back into the city rubble.
The streets were now owned by these fallen creatures, cameras replaced guns and film became more powerful than any bullet. A mad wave of genius and loving creativity had emerged out of the burned out rubble of the lower east side, a hidden minority of gathered survivors declaring their existence.
After the spark Andy Warhol had left in the underground film community, young directors needed a new direction to look at, the