One day, randomly, I was in the vicinity of Roseland Ballroom on 52nd Street. I was actually on 53rd Street, behind the ballroom, its stage doors and fire escapes on display. It was just a long blank wall, with cracked and peeling dusty-rose-orange-y-paint. The only giveaway of the building’s function were the faded painted musical notes sprinkled across the wall. Roseland Ballroom, an institution in New York, is no more. So I am so glad – for the 100th time – that I have some pictures of it. If you like something, take a picture of it. Because it might be torn down next year.
