Queer Street: The Rise and Fall of an American Culture, 1947-1985

Imagine if James Joyce were queer and writing about the "Gay scene" of the pre-AIDS era. Now take away a little talent, add a little ego, season with post-modern perspective. At times I gave up. At times I wanted to throw it against the wall. At times I wanted to burn it. At times I wanted to have written it. An amazing book, a lark, a voyage. Truly incredible. Oh, just buy it. Give yourself permission to dip in and out, and then just enjoy.

Well in this-this-here "tome," a true Opera Queen of the Olde Schoole (as it were) reminisces about Gay Life 1945-85 from the pied-a-terre of Manhattan. Downtown becomes the standpoint from which the giddy whirl whirls... How best to describe this kaleidoscope of glimpses into the Camp sensibility? This potpourri-salmagundi-lagniappe (I just had to get into the spirit of his style...) Well, let's try some analogies.First, what is the author's genealogical "pedigree"? The author's style is perhaps Ronald Firbank out of Oscar Wilde with fertilizing whiffs of Jean Genet and William Burroughs, not to mention Andrew Holleran's denizen dancers and dance, dedicated dourly to delight or anyhow distraction. Yes McCourt's style is "rough" as in ruggedly-baroque & rocococo. Product Disclaimer: As other reviewers here prove, you do need a Certificate in Deeper Reading to enjoy this melting pot, er ah, crazy salad. "Abandon Literalism All Ye Who Enter Here." But the style is also "rich" organic in a rather full-organ florescence...Then, is the book itself, like "a nostalgic memorabilia trip"? As if the queer-temperament author climbs up to his memory-attic. And then unpacks for us his Hope Chest (or Drawers of Despair?) of recollections. Of his early life, and entering into The Life by night of gay New York, of his sojourn in England. Of historical events, personages. Above all of media: books, the theatre, and always opera, opera... With a satchel of sachets always, and oh the ambiance, Mary...Or, is reading the book like "doing an archaeological dig," uncovering layers? Not just the dualism of straight daytime vs. queer night time. But also, we spot levels upon levels of historical allusion, shards of references to subcultures past. Hour of the wolf. The Everard baths and fire. The Homintern. Polari slang. Friends of Dorothy dancing the Madison. Cakes and ail. And too much more to mention. But always, it seems, "the standing-room line at the Metropolitan Opera..."Or perhaps reading the book is like "walking through terrain"? It's varied within the hothouse botany of artifice. The forest of autobiography. Then a clearing where a duenna duet-duologue dishes diversely. Then a meadow, whereupon stage, screen, and books are played out. Then back into the orchid-greenhouse of the author's sensibility.That sensibility-okay, more than not, it's non-"serious." Oh, he does can masculine Score Points butch-assertive fashion, like when he nails the problems with Joe Ackerly's biographer-he incisively takes a stand, using psychoanalysis and other insights well. (And his occasional Alter Ego can slap his silly self upside the sensibility, a gyroscope...) But the majority is camping on the old camp ground tonight and always. Always at one remove; and yet scoring some Truth-points even at the distance he must maintain. But, Tooo Much? Ultimately is more, less? Does it all become styrofoam filigree upon a tinfoil plakk? [{"Behind the surface, not more surface, but..."}]

This book bills itself as a history of 20th-century gay culture, but it's nothing of the sort, which may account for some of the infuriated reviewers here. Hmmm... a gay history where Victoria de los Angeles gets referenced 6 times in the index, and Samuel Delany doesn't make it at all (but Marilyn Hacker does!)?What the book really is is a collection of opinionated comments on life and culture (some of it gay) by Harold Bloom's favorite author (I should have been warned in advance by Bloom's effusive jacket blurb about "the McCourt"). Only about half the book makes sense (and I suspect it will be a different half, depending on the reader), but since it's over 500 pages, you can read the half that makes sense to you and skip the rest and still get your money's worth.There are some oddities in the book, perhaps reflecting a lack of editing. What are we to make of the reference to Rock Hudson's wife Phyllis Yates (106)? Is this a typo (but the indexer doesn't catch it)? A trick of memory (there but for my surname go I)? Or another of the imaginary characters which people the book, like Diana Devors (220-221)?Is McCourt's discussion of alcoholism (378-9) just wrongheaded? Or is it a deliberate parody of pomo jargonism? Which of the many "interviews" in the book actually took place (in "real life" rather than the author's head)? Beats me! I confess to finding the book infuriating at first, but eventually charming.

Ignore the naysayers - this book deserves every bit of the massive attention it is getting. James McCourt is a literary god. But my favorite book is still 'Delancey's Way'.

I had read reviews of this book in several newspapers which were attracting, and I'm so glad I got it. It was more than I expected. I understand so much more now and have so much respect for the experience of gay persons. The more I know, the more I love and admire them.