EDITOR'S LETTER

Los Angeles, Seattle, San Francisco, Denver, Phoenix ... like ambitious children looking to the future, the major cities of the American West have always been in a hurry to grow up. Tear this down. Build that up. Move on to the next best thing. But somewhere in that vapid transition from brick to glass and old to new, we lose important pieces of our cultural heritage. And we're left looking back. Wondering how this could have happened. Why didn't somebody do something? Where was Julia Butterfly?

Sadly, history keeps repeating itself, so we cling to the memories of what's been lost. It's only a consolation, but there is some value in reminiscing. It helps us maintain a sense of continuity despite the constant flow of change over time. For me, it's a form of refuge, too. An escape to a simpler time. To the days of popping wheelies with my brother Jeff. To Dilly Bars at Dairy Queen. To wearing out records on my Emerson Swingmate. There was nothing profound about any of those things, but there are times when I wish I could go back. That's why Paul Markow's Instagram post of an old Phoenix nightclub caught my eye. It took me back. Not to a place I'd been, but to a place I wish I could have been. Man, I wish I could have been there.

Paul is a good friend and a longtime contributor to Arizona Highways . His father is the late Bob Markow, the Obi-Wan of Phoenix photographers. During the height of the pandemic, Paul posted a lot of his dad's images on social media. All of them were interesting, but the black-and-white shot of the Koko Club really stood out.

I was intrigued because the intersection where it was made 24th Street and Camelback Road — looked like a rural scene in a Larry McMurtry novel. Today, that intersection is crowded with residential towers, high-end hotels and chic department stores, but 75 years ago, it was the site of a kicky hangout that billed itself as the "Gayest Spot in Arizona," one that offered "distinctive dining and dancing where all the stars play."

It was one of the many hot spots in Phoenix in the middle of the last century, along with the Gilded Cage, Golden Drumstick and The Islands, a Polynesian restaurant on Seventh Street just south of Camelback. "My parents would go there for 'fancy' dinners," Laura Gardner-Muenchow says. "I attended a wedding reception at The Islands when I was 12, and one of the fire Dancers set his hair on fire."

Despite the exotic names of its hottest places, Phoenix still imbued a small-town vibe in the 1950s. It had a touch of Mayberry, but like Dylan's pivot at Newport, the '50s marked the end of an era. That's when Phoenix began its evolution from a sleepy cowtown to a modern metropolis. It was ready to grow up. And it did. The local population quadrupled, tourism boomed, and places like the Koko Club eventually gave way to chain restaurants and food courts. Or worse. Now, all that's left of most of those places are memories and photographs, including the stockpile in Bob Markow's archive.

For decades, the quiet man made hundreds of thousands of images of metropolitan Phoenix. Like the golden shrines in King Tut's tomb, his treasures were protected in a sealed vault. Unseen. Until Paul started sharing them with the rest of the world. As soon as I saw the shot of the Koko Club, I called and asked if he'd be interested in doing a book. He agreed. But first, we did a dress rehearsal in the magazine. You might remember it.

I was hoping the portfolio would serve as a prompt for readers - a link to the past. And it did. "Your February 2021 issue certainly brought back memories," Janice Jordan of Sandy, Oregon, wrote, "especially the photo of the Phoenix Towers. As a farm girl from Laveen, I imagined myself living in that elegant and stylish building when I grew up. I ended up with a wonderful life in Oregon, but that picture brought back my childhood vision of what life might have been like."

I also hoped that a few readers would see themselves in the photographs. That happened, too. "Imagine my surprise at breakfast this morning as I flipped through the February issue," Lynne Cunningham of Sacramento, California, wrote. "There on page 30 was a photograph of 'a family' at Casa Hermosa. Well, that wasn't just any family, that was my family. My parents, Fred and Kay Stresen-Reuter, owned and ran 'The Casa.' I'm the cute one in the skirted bathing suit (age 6), and my brother, Scott (age 4), is next to our dad. My parents sold Casa Hermosa in 1958. Thanks for the wonderful trip down memory lane."

You're welcome, Ms. Cunningham. Our new book is more of the same. It's a trip back in time to a simpler time and place. Before Phoenix, Arizona, grew up to be the fifth-largest city in the United States. Here's hoping that you and everyone else will find some refuge in its pages.

Meanwhile, on behalf of everyone at Arizona Highways, I offer thanks to our dear friend Paul for mining the archive. And to his beautiful mother, Bea, who will turn 103 on May 4, for her meticulous documentation of her husband's many photographs over the years. Thank you, Mrs. Markow. The book is dedicated to you. I hope it brings back some fond memories.