Just off Times Square, on the block of 48th Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, once stood Music Row.

From the 1930s to 2018, the neighborhood was home to eclectic shops like Sam Ash which sold instruments and other musical gear to Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, the Rolling Stones and the Beatles. Have you heard of it ?

There was nothing else like it in New York or anywhere else in the world, for that matter.

These days, however, I refer to that sad stretch of asphalt and inexplicable musty smell as Chipotle Way or Scaffolding Street, depending on which side I enter.

But an opportunistic and sadly corny conglomerate would have you believe that the iconic Music Row is back and thriving. These greedy building owners haven’t abandoned some of the last vestiges of Midtown’s distinctive character in favor of bong shops and espresso bars. That Ringo Starr could be rolling around buying new drumsticks any day.

It would be the new Hard Rock Hotel, the brand’s last outpost of memorabilia and kitsch that, surprisingly, still exists. It joins Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville Resort, Bubba Gump Shrimp Co., and David and Buster as businesses that make me think, “Maybe Mayor Adams should try to bring back the XXX movie theaters and the crack dealers!”

Yet somehow the Hard Rock is the biggest slap in the face to all those schlock factories because it so blatantly steals from the rubble it sits on. One of the three theaters it houses is even called “The Venue at Music Row”. Oh please.

Inside, the Hard Rock is a little more stylish than its international brethren of accommodations and cafes filled with chicken fingers. I searched and searched for one of ZZ Top’s barbs stapled to a wall, but didn’t even spot any stubble.

Then I disgustedly encountered the Rock Shop downstairs, where you can’t buy guitars from master craftsmen who have honed their craft for decades, but you can take home a sequined bomber jacket. Hard Rock brand for $150. And for those of you who really embrace sex, drugs and the rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle, grab a croissant from the brightly lit adjoining bakery.

Why not go even further, man? In your bedroom, you can do “RockOm” yoga or have a Fender guitar delivered to play badly while filming Instagram videos – with headphones. Celebrate, losers!

As I walked up to the bar and restaurant, I started seeing the typical trinkets, but they made me more queasy than in Florida or Las Vegas. New York, unlike Orlando, is already a museum of music history without resorting to such corporate gimmicks.

Behind glass was a love letter sent by Frank Sinatra to his then-wife, Mia Farrow. Nice. But why not head to one of the chairman of the board’s favorite haunts in New York City, just a few blocks away instead? The Russian samovar on 52nd Street was once called Jilly’s Canteen where Sinatra spent many nights. The upstairs bar has been kept as is – not knocked down and commodified by a 446 room hotel.

Then there were Lady Gaga’s silver boots she wore to the 2018 Grammy Awards. Little monsters are surely plotting to steal them even now. Instead of getting arrested, head to the Bitter End in the West Village, where Gaga performed when she was still called Stefani Germanotta.

John Lennon’s 1971 handwritten lyrics for “New York City” are a great find. More moving and chilling to date, however, is set outside Dakota, where the Beatles lived and were murdered by Mark David Chapman.

Every block in this city has a story like that. I just found out that I walk past Bob Dylan’s first New York apartment (161 West 4th Street) every day and had no idea. But, oh, Hard Rock has one of its guitars, so why venture beyond the neon lights of Midtown, with its comforting Krispy Kreme and brutally seared meats on a bun?

Times Square quickly turns into Epcot with crime, or Las Vegas without miniaturized St. Mark’s Square. It’s a parody.

Here’s the cold, hard rock truth: The Crossroads of the World should keep more things that are proudly, unequivocally and unashamedly New York. And screw the rest.