When Roxy Music was recording “Street Life” for their 1973 album Stranded, they attempted to capture the authentic sounds of Oxford Street by hanging a microphone out of the window of AIR Studios. Dissatisfied with the raw recordings of urban traffic, they opted instead to layer in the exotic ambiance of a Moroccan market. As “Street Life” unfolds, the listener is immediately immersed in the soundscape of a city – car horns, distant sirens, all underpinned by a haunting chord progression and shimmering hi-hat. Then, Bryan Ferry’s voice cuts through, expressing a desire for solitude, a need to escape into the anonymity of the streets. “Each verse seems to have its own character,” Ferry later reflected, “like blocks on a street.” For those who, like a youthful version of myself captivated by early Roxy Music, seek refuge in the urban pulse when the world feels overwhelming, that ethereal city vibe of “Street Life” still resonates deeply. It’s the soundtrack to a personal urban exodus.
In Los Angeles, a city I’ve called home for two decades after relocating from New York, the concept of street life takes on a fascinating duality. Heading west from my doorstep in Echo Park, or north, or south, unveils what I believe to be one of the world’s most captivating urban environments. This vibrant street life is palpable as I turn onto Sunset Boulevard, a thoroughfare brimming with the eclectic energy of barber shops, classic burger stands, independent bookstores, and mystical botanicas. Here, within a few blocks, practical needs meet cultural richness: knife sharpening and shoe repair alongside grocery shopping and a dizzying array of global cuisines. The sidewalks are a constant flow of humanity, a diverse tapestry of faces and stories, even though Echo Park itself ranks only twentieth in walkability among Los Angeles neighborhoods according to some online metrics. MacArthur Park, a more densely populated area rivaling parts of Manhattan, scores higher, as does Hollywood. Yet, Echo Park offers a unique balance. Escape from the commercial bustle is readily available just three blocks north, where sprawling parkland offers miles of shaded trails. Alternatively, a quiet stroll through residential enclaves reveals intimate street life scenes: neighbors chatting on front steps, the weekend ritual of car restoration underway in a driveway, citrus-laden trees casting shadows, and the vibrant red of dragon fruit peeking through garden fences.
The hidden alleyways of Echo Park offer another dimension of street life. Venturing west towards Echo Park Lake entirely through an alley, one is transported to a seemingly different world. Overgrown fig trees and cracked sidewalks, pulverized into dust, evoke a sense of rural Mississippi, a scene straight out of a Barry Hannah narrative. Yet, this almost pastoral setting runs parallel to and just behind the vibrant energy of Sunset Boulevard. Reaching the lakefront, the public space teems with life – picnicking families, bustling food carts, and contemplative fishermen, creating what my son playfully calls “pressure on the lake.” One memorable afternoon, I witnessed a peculiar act of urban intervention: a couple furtively releasing a pristine white duck from a backpack. Clearly purchased from a live poultry market, their attempt to “rewild” it among the mallards and grebes felt like a strange, yet endearing, form of courtship played out on the stage of urban street life.
However, the narrative of Los Angeles street life shifts dramatically when heading east, towards downtown, a mere mile and a half away. The optimistic “booster talk” fades as the landscape transforms into a less inviting urban reality. Freeway overpasses loom, empty lots stretch out like urban wounds, and fortress-like buildings present blank facades to the street. This eastward path reveals a dead zone, a stark contrast to the vibrant pockets of street life just minutes away. The potential for a thriving pedestrian experience is geographically present – the Opera House, Walt Disney Concert Hall, The Broad museum, the historic Bradbury Building, City Hall, the grand theaters of Main Street, the bustling Jewelry District, and the iconic Union Station are all within reach. Philippe the Original on Alameda, a century-old deli attracting undertakers from nearby mortuaries alongside a diverse clientele, and the striking new Frank Gehry building near my son’s music school, all represent points of interest that should contribute to a vibrant streetscape. Gehry himself, in his later career, seems to be prioritizing human-centered design, emphasizing plazas, shade, and inviting spaces for passersby. Yet, the promise of a pedestrian-friendly downtown is barricaded by several blocks of monolithic residential architecture, built by a single developer and bordering freeways. These inward-facing structures, with their dark, vacant storefronts, bunker-like parking garages, and sky bridges, actively discourage street-level engagement. The residents of these complexes, reportedly mostly USC students, remain unseen, their lives insulated from the street. The only individuals encountered in this zone are often unhoused, many seemingly grappling with severe mental health crises, their presence highlighting the stark contrast against the impenetrable, medieval armory-like buildings they inhabit the periphery of.
These developments, collectively dubbed the Renaissance Collection, act as a physical and social barrier, a plaque separating the organic street life of Echo Park from the potential vibrancy of downtown Los Angeles. The architect of this divide is Geoffrey Palmer, a developer described as resembling a ventriloquist’s dummy, notorious for his adversarial relationships. Palmer specializes in acquiring overlooked and undesirable plots of land adjacent to freeways, transforming them into his signature “Italianate” developments – Italian in name only, as authentic as faux leather. In a parallel, the artist Gordon Matta-Clark’s 1973 conceptual art project, Fake Estates, involved purchasing tiny, leftover land parcels in New York City. Palmer’s acquisitions might remain similarly conceptual if not for the very real, yet equally artificial, estates he constructs upon them. His defense – building where others won’t – rings hollow when considering his apparent satisfaction in stacking apartment balconies overlooking the notorious 110–101 freeway interchange. The off-white stucco facades of his buildings are quickly stained with freeway soot. His history includes the illegal demolition of the last Victorian mansion on Bunker Hill in 2003 during the construction of the Orsini complex, located just blocks from my home. Palmer is a staunch opponent of affordable housing, spending millions on legal battles and ballot measures to prevent its inclusion in his projects. He has also faced class-action lawsuits regarding the systematic withholding of tenants’ security deposits. A major donor to Trump, he has boasted about his company’s decades-long avoidance of federal taxes. In 2014, a fire, later determined to be arson, erupted in Palmer’s half-built Da Vinci complex, a block from the Orsini. Flames soared higher than downtown skyscrapers, stretched for an entire city block, melted freeway signs, and cracked 160 windows in the iconic John Ferraro Building. The widespread sentiment among architects, residents, and journalists was that anyone could have had motive to start the fire, given the breadth of animosity towards Palmer. City commissioners even joked about alibis at a planning meeting. While the city sued Palmer for the reckless conditions that allowed the fire to escalate, the arsonist, motivated by protesting police killings of unarmed black men in the name of Michael Brown, was apprehended and imprisoned. Remarkably, no one was injured, and the Da Vinci was promptly rebuilt, a testament to the relentless march of development regardless of street life considerations.
“Why is Everything So Ugly?” a recent n+1 editorial posed, dissecting the question through a Situationist-inspired dérive through New York City. Their starting point was “The Josh,” a new condominium tower, replacing a century-old building, described as being constructed from plastic, concrete, and “an obscure wood-like substance.” These materials, the editors argue, are chosen not for aesthetic or qualitative reasons, but for global supply chain efficiency, streamlined design review processes, and cost-saving reliance on semi-skilled labor. The Josh, even at just five months old, already appeared shabby, its façade becoming “conspicuously . . . wet” in the rain. Their dérive continued past generic Bank of America branches, vape shops, and into a theater showing a derivative franchise film based on a comic book TV show. The experience culminated in an encounter with blindingly bright LED lights, leading to an urgent care visit. While a quick online search reveals the building they call “The Josh” is actually named the Greenpoint, located in Brooklyn, the fictionalized name serves the editorial’s purpose. The Josh, or the generic archetype it represents, embodies a certain contemporary urban aesthetic – mass-produced, soulless, and prioritizing profit over place. The name, with its soft “sh” ending, sounds like branding itself, easily adaptable to selling anything from wine to prefabricated living spaces. The humor in “The Josh” highlights the broader issue of standardization. Branding becomes essential when everything becomes homogenized. If the built environment is increasingly uniform, manufactured difference becomes the only way to distinguish one generic entity from another.
The Situationists’ dérives, meaning “drifts” – unplanned urban walks – were initially a response to a rail strike. Guy Debord and his contemporaries explored the city without fixed routes, often under the influence, discovering new perspectives and orientations through these unplanned journeys. In his autobiographical Panegyric, Debord, reflecting on a period of disillusionment with urban life, lamented the “flood of destruction, pollution, and falsification” that had overtaken the planet. (One wonders if Debord, too, would have noted the damp façade of “The Josh”). Five years later, Debord tragically took his own life. His despair wasn’t solely about aesthetic ugliness or the failure of revolution, but also the corrosive effects of alcoholism.
Inspired by the Situationist concept, I decided to undertake my own dérive, venturing into the urban morass separating my street from downtown Los Angeles. Leaving my house, turning right, another right, and then left over the 101 freeway, I crossed into this liminal zone. If this overpass could talk, I mused, imagining the stories of fleeting encounters and desperate transactions that unfolded in the shadows of its concrete structure. In daylight, it stood empty, devoid of human presence. Turning onto Temple Street, I passed a freeway-adjacent hotel, a sun-baked bus stop where my child was once dropped off from school – the very spot where his own urban dérives began. This block of Temple features a bakery, a liquor store, and the recently closed D’Bongo Party Supplies, before dissolving into a post-human landscape. A tow yard, a recycling center, a cul-de-sac abutting the freeway where a tent encampment had recently burned down, and a vast, empty bus yard occupy one side of the street. Opposite this stark scene rises the massive retaining wall of a high school baseball field. The open space, the unexpected greenery – albeit chemically treated and contained within chain-link – exists because this land was once an oil field, deemed unsafe for building. What appear to be lampposts are actually methane vents, releasing subterranean gases.
Beyond the baseball/methane field, I encountered our local version of “The Josh,” christened “The Charlie.” The Charlie, a recent arrival, replaced a family-run auto repair shop and car wash. Now, a narrow, eight-story “space gray” building stands, adorned with a cluster of red real estate balloons, incongruously cheerful against the sterile backdrop. Driving past at night, the units remain dark, while the Charlie’s eight-story parking podium glows with an unsettling, prison-like brightness. Across the street from The Charlie, another Palmer monstrosity is under construction, occupying a ten-acre site formerly home to a Bank of America data center. Invasive palm trees, Palmer’s signature “lush Mediterranean landscaping,” have been newly planted, their fronds still tied up. Even when released, they will offer no shade. A grand, yet dry, fountain stands as a centerpiece. A large sign advertises “2 months free + free parking.” This latest addition to Palmer’s portfolio of Italianate freeway rentals is named “The Ferrante.” Perhaps named by his Parisian wife, seemingly more cultured than himself, maybe a fan of Elena Ferrante’s novels. This is speculation, of course. Elena Ferrante, we’ve been told for years, is a pseudonym, a constructed identity, like Tom from MySpace, or The Josh. But someone, undoubtedly, is writing those books. Whoever they are, they possess talent, but the insistence on anonymity now feels performative, even slightly gauche, perhaps mirroring the tackiness of The Ferrante and its 1,150 units. I walked past its row of vacant street-level commercial spaces. Palmer doesn’t even bother trying to rent them. Apparently, there’s no penalty for leaving them empty; it’s not factored into his business model. Why would a developer prioritize street life? Turning left, I walked under a highway overpass, approaching the rear of a neighborhood CVS. CVS – what does it even stand for anymore? Everything worthwhile inside is now locked behind security measures, requiring a panic button press for access.
Crossing through the parking lot, I passed a strange, tower-like machine flashing a blue light – some automated security device, its function unclear. A barefoot boy approached, asking for a light. I didn’t have one. Remember the outrage when JT LeRoy, the fabricated persona of an ethereal rent boy/lot lizard, was revealed to be a middle-aged woman? It was perceived as the ultimate deception, counterfeit tragedy masquerading as authenticity. Meanwhile, Elena Ferrante maintains her anonymity as a supposedly middle-aged woman writer. What if she’s actually a teen boy turning tricks in parking lots? The thought crossed my mind as I exited the lot and turned right onto Sunset. I walked towards Palmer’s Orsini complex, lining both sides of the street, its commercial spaces uniformly dark and empty. No street life here, save for a man in rags setting fire to trash on the sidewalk. Is Palmer directly responsible for acts of arson? The connection is complex. But in the absence of street activity, actions become amplified, starker, less diluted by the diverse interactions and vibrancy of a healthy streetscape. At the end of this long, sterile block, another solitary figure appeared – a young woman, her arms marked with injection scars. She seemed oblivious to my presence, engaged in a Sisyphean struggle, attempting to push an unactivated e-scooter, its wheels locked.
The following day, driving back down this same street to pick up my son from music school, I saw the woman with the scooter again. She remained in the same bleak zone, as if it were her designated proving ground. Now shirtless, she was throwing her body against the brick wall of the Orsini. But the building remained indifferent, the street unseen, and I barely registered her myself, as the traffic light turned green, urging me onward. While aesthetic ugliness in the designed world can be jarring at any speed, it is the slowed pace of walking that truly forces one to confront, contemplate, and brood over the plight of those most exposed to this urban indifference, those for whom this ugliness screams loudest.
