Someone responded to my recent post about my old rooftop in Williamsburg saying that it made them jealous for not having experienced Brooklyn during the peak indie years. And it made me realize (with some horror!) that we’re nearing the point where people might start romanticizing what went on in Brooklyn in the 2000s/2010s ala a sort of 1960s Haight-Ashbury…which is something I honestly hope doesn’t happen.

I’m nowhere near eloquent enough to write the post-mortem, but I have this pet theory that the indie decade was born as a reaction from 9/11 teens/20-somethings to what they experienced in the Bush years that followed. It feels forgotten now, but by 2004, there was a massive nationwide surge of anti-war sentiment among young people. Every week was another protest, a rally, a vigil, a boycott. It became unthinkable that Bush would get a second term and the wars would continue – which is, of course, exactly what happened.

When it did, I think it caused a sort of generational apoplectic shock. That so much passion and work had ultimately resulted in ZERO change made it very clear that your voice simply did not make a difference, even when people we knew were dying.

So in contrast to the hippie era, in which mainstream culture and art went hand-in-hand with a fight for societal change, Brooklyn/indie culture felt like the opposite: a retreat into a walled, controlled kingdom where everything was predicated on being small and restrained and insular.

Really, that’s the key word I think of when I look back at the spirt of Williamsburg: small. Everything was so preciously, exactingly small. Small-batch chocolate, small-batch hot sauce, small-batch pickles.

Bands were small, and so were expectations of success. It was like the most important thing was to appear as effortless and uncontrived as possible. You look back at band pics from the era, and it’s remarkable how alike they all look in their mundanity. Songs followed suit in being about small topics, about the most minor of blips of insecurity or unrest in relationships.

It was like everything was muted and restricted, especially emotions and ambitions. If you liked something, you often had to frame it as being ironic. It’s not surprising that drug use was so rampant, the easiest way to instantly counteract all of these pressures.

Making things worse, for the first time, all the negatives of a gate-kept scene were turbo-charged by the unbridled nuclear potential of social media and blogging. Now, instead of having to wait a month for the latest issue of Rolling Stone to see if your album got a good review (which was lame anyway), now you’d know if you got that coveted 9.0+ from Pitchfork within 24 hours of its release.

Rather than having to rely on printed zines to make the rounds at shows to keep you updated on the latest from the scene, blogs and social media spread news, gossip and show reviews with up-to-the-moment urgency, quickly learning that the negative drove far more traffic than the positive.

It’s frustrating, because make no mistake, something special was indeed happening during this period, one of those glorious of epochs where a single geographical point becomes the epicenter for an explosion of creativity and creation. Except this time around, it was a more akin to a black hole, predicated on pulling everything in – and letting little out.

So what came of this experiment in the end? Of course, the long term success stories, unsurprisingly, were the bands that broke the #1 commandment on the indie rock tablets and developed a brand. You had to be subtle about it so as to not be called out, but it was as simple as having something that could easily be talked about beyond the music: a style of dressing, a good logo, a repetitious aesthetic, a lore, archetypal band members, an ethos.

Those are the bands that still seem to be touring successfully today. Everyone else who played by the rules? Times are tough.

All of which is why it’s so hard for me to find much romance in looking back on this era.

To be clear, it was a lot of fun at times! It was neat to be buying broccoli at Tops on the Waterfront (RIP!) and and see Kyp Malone a few feet away in the fruit section. Or to be standing in line at the post office right behind Franz Nicolay, who I’d just seen play with the Hold Steady the previous night.

I remember scouting in Brooklyn Heights, and hey, there’s Rostam from Vampire Weekend biking by with his keyboard strapped to his back. Or turning a corner and seeing Flight of the Conchords being filmed at my local coffee shop.

But the reality was never, ever as romantic as I’m sure it’s easy to imagine. I remember one time, there was a knock at my apartment door during a building-wide roof party, and I immediately recognized the guy standing there as a musician in one of the biggest bands of the time. Not the front man, but a well-known member. “I know you…” I stammered, trying to digest the very surreal moment. “Yeah, can I use your bathroom?” he asked.

So now he’s in the bathroom, and a bunch of his friends come in to find him, because apparently, he just got dumped. So they all sit at our kitchen table and begin one of those interminable “you’ll find a new girl / she doesn’t deserve you / you’re famous” drunken commiseration sessions, and man does the allure of the indie rock life quickly collapse as you’re listening to all this for an hour and just hoping they’ll wrap it up so you can go to bed.

A mutual friend later shared that the musician was particularly down because, since he didn’t write the songs, he got way less in terms of money and had little say in the band’s direction. The friend said that he was planning to quit the band, though in 2026, after several tepidly received solo and side projects, I see that he remains a member in good-standing.

Relationships in particular during this period felt fleeting and shallow, and it was fairly rare for people to be in anything long term. I knew a girl who had once dated a drummer in another extraordinarily successful indie band. The guy was still infatuated with her, and would send her emails from the road about how he loved her and wanted to get back together. Buuut he couldn’t kick his pesky habit of sleeping with groupies, and ultimately, it never happened.

And yes, it’s cool when you find out one of your roommate is dating a guy from that 90s pop-punk band you loved in high school! Less cool when you’re late for work because he’s taking a long morning crap in your 4br loft apartment’s only bathroom!

It was fun. But looking back, I find myself mainly mourning the an insane concentration of talent that came together to build and create, only to be stymied by its own self-policing ethic. And I wonder how things might have been different if there had been more optimism for the world, an acceptance with being gushingly passionate, and an unbridled belief in growth over limits.

And the irony. My god, why did everything you liked have to go through that fucking filter of possibly being ironic? Why wasn’t it OK to simply like – or even love! – something for what it was? What was the risk?

It reminds me of the song “Ballad of a Thin Man” by Bob Dylan, in which he eviscerates an aging music critic for not understanding the emerging hippie movement. “Because something is happening here but you don’t know what it is,” Dylan sneers with inflamed condescension.

Dylan was right to castigate the critic. But all these years later, when the aims of the 1960s movement clearly have fallen far, far short of their ideals, isn’t it fair to say that Dylan too had no fucking clue what was actually happening?

All of which is to say: it is the folly of every generation to romanticize an era they never experienced. But don’t fall for the trap. The good news is that there are ALWAYS places where rents are cheap and art communities are fermenting. Rather than dwell on dead history, seek them out and be part of the next movement. And if you’re going to look to the past, do so to to learn from its mistakes.

In the case of the “peak Brooklyn” era? As the old spooky story goes, the killer was indeed calling from inside the house – but turns out, it was us all along.

There’s a rose called Twilight Zone after the TV show, and I feel like it’s a very LA thing that all of our formal rose gardens seem to include it.

Fbf to the unexpectedly perilous water tower at my old building in Brooklyn at 132 N 5th. If you ever attended a roof party there circa the late-2000s, it was basically a rite of passage to at some point attempt a drunken climb up the 30′ ladder. Only there was a surprise waiting at the top…

The water tower had long been out of use and a family of birds had made a big nest inside. So people would reach the top and cheer victoriously – only to be suddenly swarmed by a huge flock of terrified birds fleeing for safety. We’d try to warn people, but few took heed…

Miraculously, there were no (major?) injuries to my recollection. Google Earth makes it seem like only the frame is left now – if so, RIP and thanks for the memories!

Some time ago, I was scouting a woman’s house for filming, an “Anywhere USA” 2-story in the Valley.

After taking pictures of the first floor, I asked if I could grab a few photos of the master bedroom, which we’d previously discussed – and suddenly, she seemed reluctant.

People understandably are often uneasy about letting a stranger into rooms beyond the common areas of their home for a variety of reasons (including safety)…which is why I’m ALWAYS specific before the appointment about what areas I’d like to scout, to be sure they’re onboard.

But regardless of what was agreed upon, if I ever sense discomfort while scouting, I always hit the brakes and assure people there’s no reason to do anything that makes them uncomfortable. It’s easy enough to stick with just the exterior and common rooms, then schedule a follow-up scout at a later date if the director responds positively.

And it often gives them a moment to reflect on whether they really are comfortable with a crew of 100+ trampling through their home over the course of several days.

After a moment of consideration, the woman insisted it was OK to shoot today, that her bedroom was just messy because she was involved in a project, and she was embarrassed to show it. 

Now, I hear something like this at almost every home I scout. As I walk through, homeowners will often point out every element of their home that they’re insecure about. “We’ve been meaning to repaint that room…” “We’re going to re-drywall next week…” “It’s such a mess, I can’t believe you’d want to film here…”

I’ll stress again and again, all we care about is size, layout, and the broad strokes – which is true! But I get it – it’s a vulnerable situation to have someone in the most intimate areas of your home who is explicitly there to cast a level of judgement over what you’ve built.

As we went upstairs, I assured the woman that we in fact like messes, that production designers very much prefer to see a “lived in” feel rather than an immaculately clean home.

She seemed unconvinced, and as we neared the bedroom door, I began to wonder: what exactly was I about to see? I’ve been in homes where “the mess” turns out to be a sock on the floor, and in others where it’s a legitimate hoarder situation, with old newspapers stacked floor to ceiling. I stepped through the doorway –

And the “mess” was the last thing I could’ve expected.

There were Legos everywhere. Not built sets, but Lego pieces. Thousands, if not tens of thousands, strewn out across a series of folding tables that dominated the room, the queen-size bed pushed to the corner as though an after-thought.

Looking closer, I saw the tables were covered in storage shelves with tiny drawers labeled by the particular Lego part and color they contained. There were sets in the process of being dismantled, piles of instruction manuals, Legos on the carpet…

Most of the time, the “mess” is something so minor, it’s easy to ignore. But other times, the explanation begins without a question even being asked.

“It’s my side hustle,” she explained, with an air of embarrassed defeat.

“It started when my son told me to sell his old Legos. I learned that you made more money if the sets were complete. And then I found out that there’s a lot of money in selling individual pieces. I’m a teacher, but we can really really use the money. 

“It’s weird, I know.” She almost seemed like she might cry.

These are the moments that get me most as a scout, when you see the unexpected side of someone’s life you’d never know from the perfectly normal living room, the perfectly average kitchen, the perfectly typical backyard.

The moments where you see the real person, the struggles, the ingenuity, the creativity, the unexpected, the resilience. Where you’re reminded yet again how complex and surprising and nuanced people are behind the mask they present to the world.

And as you’re taking it in, the idea that there’s someone out there who could look at her situation and cast judgment and mockery just reminds you who the real monsters are.

I assured the woman that the history of my job was coming upon things like this in people’s homes, and it couldn’t be more normal. Open enough doors or closets or drawers, and eventually you find something like this at any house. Thankfully, she seemed to believe me.

When scouts like this wrap up, there’s always a funny cheeriness that follows, like when you go to the dentist expecting a cavity and are instead given a clean bill of health. And honestly, what better feeling is there than letting your guard down completely – and finding there was nothing to be afraid of after all?

At a time when it’s never been easier to reduce people in our minds as the worst of one-dimensional caricatures, I’ve always appreciated my job for constantly providing me with evidence that most people turn out to be anything but.

And it’s a nice day when the world seems surprised to agree.

Last week, I was scouting desert backroads and thinking how lonely location scouting can sometimes be, when I looked up and saw I had a companion!

About a hundred yards so off the road, I saw a bobcat. He didn’t seem to notice (or care about) me, so I quietly drove alongside and watched as he found what he was hunting for…

Then we parted ways, and I headed off to do the same.

This is ridiculously hyperspecific to my particular profession, but one of my favorite work occurrences as a movie location scout is when we take the director and VIPs to visit The House Where You Have To Take Off Your Shoes.

Some background on what the heck I’m talking about –

Location scouting works like this: as a scout, I clear and photograph a ton of options for the location manager, who then reviews them with the production designer and director. A handful of “selects” are then chosen to visit on a director scout. 

Now, I have NO issue with any home that asks me to take off my shoes before I scout. Homeowners will often be so bashful when making the request, but I always assure them, I’m the guest, and am happy to abide by their rules.

There’s only one slight hiccup that occurs with surprising frequency: the homeowner will ask if I’ll take off my shoes, and I’ll say of course, and then I look around the entrance for a bench or stool to sit on…and there’s nothing. 

I’ll sort of sneak a glance at the owner to see if there’s a place I’m supposed to sit, but their expression will be a blank smile, and I realize: the floor is the option. 

So I’ll plunk down on the floor, and man, nothing makes you feel more like you’re a little kid again than sitting on your butt trying to hurriedly wrestle off your shoes. 

Of course, this will be the moment your laces get stuck, so you’re trying to make small talk while calmly undoing some ungodly knot. It’s tricky! 

Over the years, I’ve mostly managed to master the more composed “kneeling” shoe-removal method, where you look a little more “adult” by dropping to one knee for one shoe, then switch to do the other – though it’s very easy to teeter if you haven’t developed those requisite shoe-changing muscles. 

The funniest thing is that I’ll usually have to shoot the backyard. So they’ll take me to the backdoor, and I’ll say, “Oh, should I go get my shoes?” And they’ll say, “no it’s OK.” And then I realize: they’re saying they’re OK me with me walking around outside in my socks, then coming back in the house. Which always seems a bit odd to me, because it feels like my socks are going to track in much more dirt than my shoes? But again, their house, their rules!

Eventually, we narrow down the locations I’ve scouted to a few selects, then pile into a van so the VIPs can visit each in person to ultimately choose one.

These van rides are among my absolute least favorite parts of the filmmaking process. Individually, most people you work with in 2026 are pretty chill and easy to talk to, no matter where they fall on the movie ladder. Long gone (for the most part) are the horrific egos and “how dare you talk to me” pretensions of Hollywood’s decades of yore. 

But something changes when everyone gets in the van. Right off the bat, the hierarchy becomes apparent as people choose seats. Obviously the director is going to sit up front, and then the producer, prod designer, LM, and 1st AD will all want to be close. And then others will take the further back seats. 

And then, a strange spell settles over, where everyone gets really quiet and reserved, as though any comment is being made in front of a firing squad.

People will mostly keep to themselves, but then a topic about the movie will come up. And for some reason, the van environment just skews toward negativity.

So people will weigh in on the topic in noncommittal ways. And then, suddenly, someone will find the guts and say, “I think X would be a great idea.” 

The van goes silent. Time passes as people read the room. 

And then, more often than not, someone will say, “ehh, I’m not so sure,” and then someone else will agree that it’s not right – and then, the whole group will dismiss the idea and move on, leaving the original person having learned their lesson about offering ideas in the van. 

Which is weird! Because in literally EVERY other part of the process, filmmaking is THE consummate collaborative group exercise. People are incredibly inviting and encouraging of one’s thoughts and contributions in nearly every other setting. 

But the van just introduces some sort of weird social dynamic where it’s easier to be negative than positive. So the whole thing just ends up feeling like a weird mirror universe of the job. 

Which is why I love rolling up to the house where you have to take off your shoes.

Because this bubble of stark austerity INSTANTLY pops when you have ten or more grown adults all trying to gracefully squat on the front hallway rug as they writhe to take off their shoes, like little kids about to go into a pre-K class. 

Everyone always look so disheveled after standing back up again, shirts untucked, hair unkempt. And it’s a good reminder why it’s important to keep your sock game on point! Because someone always has a hole in their socks (I’m guilty myself! best to try and hide it by scrunching up the torn fabric in your toes!). 

Someone else will always be revealed as wearing a pair of killer socks with a smart print, so everyone compliments that. Mismatched socks are always a fun surprise. 

But my favorite was on a shoot with a director who indeed had been a bit full of himself. So it was nice when he pulled off his $300 limited edition sneakers to reveal the same cheap Kirkland socks I was wearing. “Ah, a fellow Costco connoisseur,” my eye contact must have conveyed. 

But as silly as it sounds, I find that the simple act of removing one’s shoes can serve as a MUCH needed reset button on director scouts. Because let’s face it: filmmaking is professional make-believe. And in my experience, such pursuits only flourish when levity and risk are not only allowed, but fully embraced. 

Nothing beats a director scout where everyone is walking around in their socks, like we’re all on a sleepover at a friend’s house. All of a sudden, people are laughing and joking again.

And then, the real work can finally resume.

I was scouting for something the other day going street by street…and I guess at some point, they just called it quits and went home?

This is Part 2 of a then-and-now look at the New York City filming locations of The Warriors. Click here for Part 1!

Resuming where we left off, the Warriors are on a train heading toward Union Square when a nearby fire forces them out into the the Tremont section of the Bronx on foot. This is definitely somewhere under the J train, most likely near Broadway Junction where the chase scene was filmed, but I wasn’t able to identify it. Any thoughts?

Meanwhile, we find Luther and the Rogues gang (responsible for murdering Cyrus, then pinning it on the Warriors) cruising around:

This was shot on First Avenue approaching 1st Street:

They stop at a soda fountain to make a phone call, located at 17 First Avenue…

…which is now a locksmith shop:

Meanwhile, the Warriors continue through Tremont to the next stop. Except, they’re not in the Bronx…

They’re on 45th Road (just off of 23rd Street) in Long Island City, Queens:

45th Road, along with the extraordinarily beautiful 45th Ave one block north, are routinely used in movies because they can be easily faked as Any Borough, NYC. Here they’re given a down-and-out look, but they’re typically used as upscale neighborhoods:

The Warriors run into the Orphans gang, who watch them from all sides:

Across the street, the stationary store is now a barber shop:

Just as it seems all will be OK, a woman named Mercy comes out to cause some mischief:

Mercy convinces the Orphans to deny them passage, but the Warriors continue through anyway. So sad to see that great porch building is gone:

The Warriors continue down the block and turn a corner…

…and are magically transported to way way way out in Brooklyn at 62nd Street and 15th Avenue, a block away from the New Utrecht Ave subway station:

The Orphans arrive, and it looks as though a fight will break out:

As tensions rise, Mercy heads toward the scene, though she’s technically going in the wrong direction. This shot was filmed on 15th Avenue right around the block, but to find the gangs, she should head in the opposite direction to the corner, then turn left.

But such is filmmaking, and she winds up at 62nd Street anyway:

The two gangs square off…

Then, one of the Warriors throws a Molotov cocktail, allowing them to escape:

They run just up the block to the New Utrecht Ave subway stop…

…head through the doors…

…and the camera rises to catch them as they come out on the platform upstairs:

This is one of my favorite shots in the film, as the layout of the subway perfectly facilitates this graceful, non-stop motion:

Meanwhile, Luther and the Rogues stop at a gas station to make another call about the status of the hunt for the Warriors. I did a lot of searching, but wasn’t able to locate this one…Anyone recognize it?

Back en route to Union Square, The Warriors find the train lingering suspiciously long at 96th Street station and decide to make a run for it.

At first glance, you’d assume this was shot at the 96th Street and Broadway station, except…

…why do the walls say Hoyt on them?

That’s because this was actually filmed on the abandoned platform at the Hoyt-Schermerhorn station in Brooklyn. Dozens of movies have been shot here, including The Taking of Pelham 1-2-3 (remake), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and Michael Jackson’s Bad music video.

Unfortunately, the police spring on the Warriors, and the gang splits up:

Four of the Warriors head up to street level…

…and suddenly, they’re at the 72nd Street 1-2-3 station in Manhattan:

They go outside…

…and run into the totally creepy Baseball Furies gang. This was shot on West 72nd Street looking north-east from the station:

The Warriors head south-west, with the Baseball Furies right on their tail…

…passing this restaurant on the corner.

From West 72nd, they then jump again to West 100th Street between Riverside and West End Avenue, heading toward the park:

A second shot – always great to see how those trees have grown up:

The Warriors rush into Riverside Park by way of the Firemen’s Memorial, another fantastic use of existing New York statuary:

Despite the grittiness of New York circa 1979, this graffiti is a little too photogenic to be completely authentic:

Stone benches have now replaced the old wooden ones:

The Baseball Furies continue their pursuit:

The action then moves a few blocks south, as the Warriors enter Riverside Park via the 97th Street ramp:

Now in the park, they run north along the dirt path that still exists today. Compare the tree on the left for accuracy!

A fight breaks out in the field just a few blocks north, and the Warriors are victorious:

But they still have a ways to go to Coney Island… Part 3 to conclude shortly!

-SCOUT

My trusty Red Wings after five years (and three resoles!) of movie location scouting…

I think it’s finally time for a new pair…but it’s hard to say goodbye!