Hilly was our Dad. He landed on the Bowery, set up shop, and let us all hang out in his house. Whatever we wanted to create, as long as we played by his rules - and there weren't many - was ours to create. It was like going over to your friend's house - the one with the good parents - and being able for the first time to really be yourself. Full out. Nobody watching. Nobody commenting.
That's how the New York punk scene happened, right there in his backyard. Just a bunch of dumb letters that sounded like chord changes and would eventually, beyond anyone's expectations land on t-shirts, and symbolise more than they were ever intended to be. Hilly was our protector. He was our enabler. There's not enough that can be said about him. And not that much you need to say.
Ultimately undone by the forces of NYC real estate and an organization ironically called the Bowery Residents Committee. Hilly was the original Bowery Resident. His spirit will live forever on that boulevard he called home.
