The Mudd Club

by Richard Boch

The Vietnam conflict was already more than five years old; Castro and Cuba were in revolt and the United States was ready to launch its failed Bay of Pigs Invasion (a great name for such a sad affair). JFK ultimately stared down Khrushchev in a three-way fuck-fest with Fidel Castro in the middle. Just short of nuclear disaster, the standoff became known as the October Missile Crisis and Russia came out of it looking bad. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, Texas, thirteen months later; I was in fifth grade and I remember how everyone cried.

  That was the end of 1963. I already knew the words to “Hound Dog” and might’ve heard “Please, Please Me” or “I Want to Hold Your Hand” on the radio but that was it. I was only ten years old, there was no such thing as a hippie, a Yippie or a Woodstock; a punk was just a punk and the Mudd Club was still fifteen years away.

  The seeds of an idea for the club were planted in spring 1978 on a road trip to Memphis where Anya, Diego, Steve and his 16mm movie camera filmed Grutzi Elvis. The unreleased phantom, directed by Diego and starring Anya (and as rumor has it, Vernon Presley), was partly shot at Graceland before the crew headed north thru Chicago and began winding their way back east. Diego produced a soundtrack album featuring No Wave stars James Chance, Arto Lindsay, Bradley Field and George Scott. It became one of the obscure pieces of evidence related to the film.

  By then everyone was somehow connected; musician and artist Walter Steding called those connections “constellations.” In the summer of 1977, when Diego briefly rented a loft below Canal, one of those constellations began to form. The following spring, the Radical Three returned from their road trip and the search for a space began. Within weeks, Steve found a first floor with a basement in the same building where Diego spent the previous summer.

  An odd coincidence, another connection and the Walter Steding Constellation Theory was in play. By then I was living just nine blocks away, with less than six degrees between us.

  No One Had Any Idea

  Independence Day ’78 fell on a Tuesday—the endgame of a weekend that seemed to go on forever. Steve Mass, musician John Lurie and his girlfriend Leisa Stroud were out on a joyride, cruising the East Village in an ambulance. The Hells Angels were blocking off East Third Street for a July Fourth celebration, and I was wandering thru SoHo, heading home.

  The ambulance turned on the siren, stepped on the gas, and blew thru the barricade. The Angels tossed fireworks and beer bottles. A dozen blocks south I crossed Canal Street thru a cloud of firecracker smoke and kept on walking toward Murray Street. The ambulance headed for White Street, and the Angels kept celebrating on East Third. The official opening of whatever Steve, Anya and Diego were planning was just four months away. No one had any idea what to expect.

  Opening Night flyer, October 31, 1978: The B-52’s for $2.52, courtesy Maureen McLaughlin.

  The club found its home at 77 White Street, a nondescript six-story building owned by the artist Ross Bleckner. From Hewlett, Long Island, by way of Cal Arts, Ross arrived in New York City in 1974. Like other young artists before and after, he moved into a loft on Broadway below Canal Street.

  Newsletter featuring the film Blank Generation, 1979, courtesy Marina Lutz.

  Just around the corner a “For Sale” was hanging on the front of 77 White, midblock between Broadway and Lafayette. The block was cut in half by Cortland Alley, which ran between Leonard Street to the south and Canal Street to the north. The side of Number 77 ran along the alley. Ross saw the sign and bought the building in 1976 for $125,000. When asked why, his answer was simple: “It was for sale.”

  The lease for the club was signed after Diego reassured Ross that whatever happened, it would be “like a local bar, an art thing.” It wasn’t the truth but no one, at least yet, had any idea what the truth really was.

  Ross’ investment came to show unusual, unexpected and lucrative returns but “something like Mickey’s One University Place” or a “local bar with low music” wasn’t one of them. In September 1978, arriving home after a summer away, Ross couldn’t help but notice a new sound system with very large speakers and realized, well before the rest of us, what we were in for.

  With a radical aesthetic born of Punk, 77 White was getting ready for something. Diego’s later comment that the club was “well-anchored in the art world” was an understatement: roots were everywhere, from Dadaism and the Paris salons to the early days of Max’s Kansas City and Andy Warhol’s Factories. Steve added his own brand of irony, a twisted sense of humor and the vision to just let it happen.

  Punk Magazine Awards

  On Friday the thirteenth of October, a little more than two weeks before the club’s official opening, Steve Mass was busy getting the place ready for the Punk Magazine Awards after-party. Racing against time, a newly assembled crew was trying to turn a stack of plywood and a pile of two-by-fours into a bar and DJ booth. There were still no turntables but there was a sound system—the same one that frightened Ross Bleckner the first time he spotted it. Future star DJ David Azarch was in the basement putting together a mix-tape to provide the music and the beat. The liquor license pending, Punk Magazine cofounder John Holmstrom paid Steve five hundred dollars to stock the bar. The awards were being handed out earlier in the evening at Club Hollywood, a not-very-Punk dive on Second Avenue in the East Village, described by Holmstrom as a “sleaze pit.” There were a lot of loose ends, not to mention the disaster that went down the previous day.

  Nancy Spungen’s death, allegedly at the hands of her Sex Pistol boyfriend, Sid Vicious, occurred on Thursday, October 12, 1978. It was the kind of nightmare no one saw coming. An accidental overdose maybe—but not murder, and no one knew how to respond or react. I thought it was sad watching the end of that brief era unfold, and even from a safe distance I could sense the tragedy and chaos. Nancy was dead; Sid, beyond redemption or repair.

  The awards ceremony went on despite what happened, and presenters, guests and nominees included everyone from Lou Reed and Joey Ramone to Harvey Keitel and Malcolm McLaren. Club Hollywood was nearly destroyed in what turned into a free-for-all, but everyone still made it to the after-party at the not-quite-ready club on White Street. The night that started out as a clusterfuck quickly turned into a huge success. Everybody got drunk, Steve Mass reimbursed John Holmstrom his five hundred and it wasn’t long before the place on White Street had a name.

  The Line Outside

  The Mudd Club officially opened its doors on Halloween 1978. A performance by the Animal X configuration Xerox kicked things off, and a new band from Athens, Georgia, called the B-52’s was the headliner. The ongoing citywide newspaper strike that began back in August eliminated any chance of front-page coverage.

  The B-52’s were the perfect quirk: with a unique look and distinctive sound, they had already played Max’s and CBGB to a varied but enthusiastic response. Mudd was a different story and by October the 45 rpm version of “Rock Lobster” on DB Records was an underground hit. Flyers mentioned the two-dollar-fifty-two-cent admission charge and the cartoon-style map on the backside directed people to a neighborhood that barely existed and a club that no one knew. Curiosity and word of mouth did the rest. Opening night the place was packed, the stage makeshift and the line outside ran all the way to Broadway. Everybody remembers being there, whether they really were or not.

  Mudd quickly became the place to go if you could find it. Word spread and people started hunting down a deserted little pocket of New York sometimes referred to as Industrial Chinatown. Taxi drivers started to hear the words White Street and the line down the street turned into a mob around the door. The early days passed and there was no stopping the momentum; someone needed to stand outside and get a grip on what was already out of control. Eventually that someone was me.

  Whether you were looking to dance, get drunk, be enlightened or get laid, White Street became the next wave-No Wave alternative. We were children of the fifties, the sixties and the Sexual Revolution, fueled by whatever we could consume, including one another. Everyone was wi
lling to try anything at least twice. With little use for the words no, stop or enough, the Mudd Club was perfect.

  The Talent Pool

  I continued bartending in SoHo and drifted in and out of Mudd. I walked in on filmmaker and actress Tina L’Hotsky and her Crazy Spanish Girls party in early December, picked up on the crazy, while appreciating anything even remotely Spanish. I’d see various Talking Heads, a Blondie or two in the corner and Andy Warhol standing near, but never on, the dance floor. When I spotted Frank Zappa leaning into the DJ booth I wondered, really? I walked past, an arm’s length away, as our elbows hadn’t started rubbing.

  January 1979. The Cramps freaked out the Mudd Club with a loud Psychobilly grind that included such hits as “Human Fly” and “Surfin’ Bird.” A few months later, the “big names” started to appear; a few years later, the Cramps returned and pussy did the dog (something everyone, including me, was waiting for).

  Joe Jackson performed on Sunday, April 8, but I only liked a couple of songs, and never really got it. The legendary Sam and Dave got onstage a few weekends later, and it was the first time on my watch that I got to see the real deal. By late summer, Talking Heads took the stage while Marianne Faithfull, X, Lene Lovich, and the Brides of Funkenstein waited in the wings.

  There were so many great performances: scheduled, impromptu, logical and out of left field. The locals and the regulars were the staple and the stable and performed as part of the White Street experience. They included everyone you could imagine and some you never could. John Cale, Chris Spedding, Judy Nylon and Nico, John Lurie and Philip Glass were just a few. Writers and poets such as William S. Burroughs, Max Blagg, Cookie Mueller and “Teenage Jesus” Lydia Lunch all wound up on the Mudd Club stage. The talent pool was so deep and occasionally dark that even Hollywood Babylon’s Luciferian auteur Kenneth Anger got involved.

  Steve’s willingness and generosity along with his guarded enthusiasm offered support to a local community of artists, musicians and filmmakers. Together with Diego’s early influence and Anya’s short-lived but “dominating” spirit, the Mudd Club became an instant happening, a free-for-all with No Wave orchestration and very few rules.

  Diego described the Mudd Club as “a container, a vessel, but certainly not the only one in town.” What made the place unique was its blank-canvas emptiness. When the space filled up, it happened and everybody wanted to be a part. A living, breathing work of art, it was beautiful and way off-center, a slice of golden time.

  I was lucky, and soaked it all in.

  The Job

  By early 1979 the secret was out and someone truly had to start watching the door. Steve Mass briefly hoped performance artist and future femme fatale Joey Arias would be the one whose eye would look after the downtown crowd and get the mix just right.

  Joey worked as a “shop girl” at Fiorucci, the hip fashion emporium on East Fifty-ninth Street. Anyone with a sense of cool and a willingness to indulge in dubious taste shopped there. Joey, whose taste remains unquestionable, had an active social life and was out every night, particularly at Studio 54. He knew “everyone,” something Steve Mass liked to believe about people who worked the door, which by this time had turned into a nightly round of chaos.

  It seemed the perfect fit, and Joey handled the crowd with what he called “thumbs up–thumbs down, Caesar at the Roman Colosseum” decisiveness. The only glitch was that he happened to be working with singer and visionary performer Klaus Nomi, who was concerned that Joey’s position would alienate potential fans—a worry that led Joey to give up the door after just two weeks.

  Joey Arias set the bar high and paved the way for all who followed. Designer Robert Molnar (boyfriend of B-52 Fred Schneider), working in the Mudd Club “checkroom,” was up next, and soon became one of the first official doorkeepers. Joey Kelly, already part of the team, was there at the beginning and helped build the place. Colter Rule came by one night, found Steve, and volunteered his services.

  Louie Chaban soon stepped in alongside Robert after artist Ronnie Cutrone and fashion icon Edwige brought him to the Mudd Club. They were at One University when Ronnie said “I found this new place,” and for Louie, “that was the beginning.” Rebecca Christensen, wife of Contortions drummer Donnie and personal assistant to oil heiress and arts patron Christophe de Menil, told Steve Mass, “Hire him!”

  Louie was perfect and did a great job. He had a sexy look, a sense of humor and very little patience. His biggest problem: finding enough time for himself on the dance floor or in the bathrooms.

  That’s when I came along.

  My first night at the door of 77 White was in the cold early spring of 1979. I showed up at midnight, the club was already open, and the place was busy. I stood there, not sure if Steve Mass told anyone to expect me or expected me to tell someone that I was working. I thought, Okay, I get it, but really I didn’t.

  Joey Kelly was one of the people outside with me, and a woman named Gretchen Stibolt was taking money at the door. They were the only ones who talked to me. He was busy handling the crowd, and she was as frazzled as anyone would be collecting three-dollar covers with a cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Gretchen was my first real friend at the Mudd Club and she was a lifesaver.

  A guy named Glenn McDermott seemed to be in charge of something but I was never sure what. He stepped outside, said hello and disappeared. Steve came by, said “Oh hi,” the same as during my ten-second interview.

  I was on my own, afraid to do much of anything. I felt as I did in high school—I still didn’t fit in and just stood there, wondering if this job was really for me.

  When I turned around Meat Loaf was behind me talking to Joey. He was wearing a velvet jacket with a ruffled shirt, sweating, his hair stuck to his face. Definitely not something I wanted to get close to, physically or musically. I looked away and remembered Steve Mass telling me he wanted to avoid the bloated “seventies music” and “limo crowd.” Maybe he was talking hypothetically or maybe I needed clarification.

  Poison Ivy Rorschach, The Cramps, post-performance, Mudd Club, by Alan Kleinberg.

  The Loaf lingered but I ignored it, trying not to focus on what came to be considered a prime example of “two cover charge large.” When Steve suggested excluding people of a certain size, I just listened and nodded, still apprenticing my role as judge and jury.

  I stood around, the night flew by, and the overweight singer left in a cab. I saw people I knew, people I admired, and people I wanted to know. All was a blur and left me wondering what I’d gotten myself into. At 4 A.M., I grabbed a beer and walked home—my head spinning—my ego inflating and deflating a half-dozen times. Steve called the next day and asked me to work that night. I knew I had the job if I wanted it but still wasn’t sure what the job really was. Maybe I had to open the chain and start letting people in to figure it out.

  Standing on what amounted to a loading dock and facing a crowd that wanted in was both funny and frightening at once. People in the street looked at me and raised a few fingers, letting me know how many they were. Knowing I was the possible opening between where they stood and the front door, I hesitated to respond. Luckily for me, the chain did the talking.

  I kept to myself those first few weeks, ignored by the staff but occasionally told what to do. I was somewhere between wanting to be accepted and doing the accepting. I was a stranger but wanted to feel at home. Biding my time without knowing it, I was waiting for something to happen. Then it did.

  I was just getting started when I was exiled to the downstairs bar for a night or two. A week later, I was sent upstairs to work the “beer bottle bathtub bar” of the second floor. After two weeks of pouring drinks and opening bottles of Miller and Heineken, I missed Gretchen and Joey and Louie. I was ready to get back outside.

  Shuffling Me Around

  I’d been at the club barely a month, working the door and filling in at the upstairs bar. The Mudd Club’s version of management seemed to think they were in charge and
kept shuffling me around; they didn’t get why Steve wanted me out front or why I was even hired.

  Finally, one night Steve confronted me. He wanted to know what I was doing behind the bar other than making friends and handing out a lot of free drinks. I didn’t have an answer even though I was learning the pecking order: figuring out who drank for free, who thought they should, and who got a free drink because it was the easiest way to make them go away. It was like some kind of mad Darwinian process and I assumed the information would come in handy, whether at Mudd or as a life lesson. I also understood who was paying me and knew the club wouldn’t be happening were it not for Steve Mass. No matter who did what or which way things went, Steve called the shots. Working behind a bar wasn’t what he hired me for and by the next night I was back outside. Management didn’t say a word but had to know something was up—like time.

  By then I started to settle in, slowly realizing that fitting in was more mind over matter. Despite the realization, I often needed a joint to lift my spirits, a drink to grease the conversation and cocaine to numb the fear. At that point I was free to do whatever I wanted as long as I stayed outside and worked the door. I reported only to Steve and didn’t answer to anyone else. That was one thing that never changed. Management never interfered with me again and Steve rarely if ever bothered me about anything. If there were a need to brief or debrief me, the wall phone rang in the entryway and I’d be given my orders or asked to come upstairs. It might be as simple as looking out for some behind-the-scenes person from Saturday Night Live or making sure his brother Larry got safely inside; other times it might be an off-duty cop and his wife, an obscure foreign journalist, or some underage and unshaven East Village debutante.

  Steve’s communication style was simple, no frills, few questions and no wasted words. I’d usually try to respond with something amusing, informative or ridiculous. Our conversations were often brief, occasionally interesting and always a little strange. I liked Steve, and in our own way we connected, but I still looked at him as some kind of peculiar underground celebrity. I respected him and believe he respected me but I felt awkward and hesitant to offer either opinion or suggestion (something that plagued me for years to come). Even so, when the nights got crazy, so did I, and to his credit and mine, Steve let me do my thing. Not everyone had it so easy.