by Richard Boch
Underground U.S.A.
The following night is like most weekdays: more than half the people are regulars and less than half of them are paying to come in. I’m outside working and filmmaker Eric Mitchell’s inside shooting the dance floor scene for his movie Underground U.S.A. He also plays the hustler to Patti Astor’s No Wave Norma Desmond. A single red gel gets the light just right and the handheld camera captures the herky-jerky of Patti and Eric’s mating dance.
After appearing in a number of films, including those of Amos Poe and James Nares, Eric is the No Wave director of the moment—and I’m thrilled to be included in the movie. I play myself doing the door and exchange a single line of dialogue with Rene Ricard’s character, Kenneth. The soundtrack and ambient noise of the crowd outside nearly bury the line when Kenneth and Patti Astor’s character, Vicki, breeze past me. The moment’s all too brief. My big break winds up small, but Eric generously gives me a credit for my fifteen seconds onscreen.
The Mudd Club lives large in Underground U.S.A. and Eric rounds out the cast with Cookie Mueller, Jackie Curtis, Taylor Mead and Teri Toye. With a nod to Warhol’s Heat, it’s Sunset Boulevard in a downtown loft and Patti plays a drug- and booze-addled actress that time passed by. The sets are familiar, the dialogue is over the top and the delivery is priceless. Teri Toye steals every scene she’s in and the moments shot in the Mudd bathroom play like real time. It truly is a movie within a movie, with White Street playing a midnight-to-5 reality show. In my mind nearly every cast member is a star.
The Mudd Club, a star in its own right, was the heart of the scene: Underground U.S.A. is one example of why. Since the phone call four months ago I’d been in the middle of that scene, only flinching once or twice. I never looked back and the possibility of an over-the-edge crash and burn still seemed a long shot. I liked where I was standing but I had to figure a way to make a next move forward. Then I heard my name called out and saw fifty people waiting to come in.
Of its time yet signaling ahead, the Mudd Club is held in collective memory. Midnight to noon was our day and somewhere between 4 and 11 P.M. we’d catch our breath and start over. Once in a while it all got caught on film.
Patti Astor with Tina L’Hotsky, white heat, blonde on blonde, 1980, by Nick Taylor.
Chinese Rocks and the Electric Circus
August 6, 1979, and I’ve recovered from the disappointment of a buried line of dialogue. I start the day with a shower, a cigarette and a joint, turn on the news and get lost in the turmoil of Afghanistan. Two minutes later I’m being told Nicaragua is asking the United States for yet more foreign aid but it’s difficult to grasp; I’m unsure of who or what Sandinistas are or why I should even care. Thinking about it for more than a minute doesn’t help, so I split for Central Park to see the Ramones.
I catch the double R at City Hall and take it to Sixtieth Street, walk several blocks and pass thru the backstage gate just as the band hits the stage. My timing’s perfect and Phoebe Zeeman and Ellen Kinnally are already jammed into the crowd up front, somehow jumping up and down. They see me and wave, I push closer and the Ramones pour it on. A minute later, I’m jumping up and down too, along with five thousand other people; Afghanistan and Nicaragua, a million miles away.
When the show’s over I take the train to Canal and Broadway and arrive at work early. I can still hear the roar of Johnny’s guitar and can see Dee Dee slamming the shit out of his bass on “Chinese Rocks.” Phoebe and Ellen show up around midnight; they’ve stopped jumping up and down and they’re trying to find Steve. I’m at the door checking the crowd for familiar faces, or at least someone interesting.
Meeting different people every night, nothing’s slowing down and everyone in the city who goes out after midnight is going out. White Street’s busy, nearly a hundred outside, and three or four limos parked in the street. I look around and spot Jerry Brandt getting out of a cab.
Jerry’s got old-school charm, his eyes and ears open and a finger on the pulse. That’s why he’s here. Starting out at the William Morris Agency more than fifteen years ago, Jerry wound up working with Sam Cooke, Sonny and Cher and the Rolling Stones. In 1967, he opened the Electric Circus, the legendary psychedelic dance club on St. Mark’s Place. I was fourteen at the time but even then I wanted in. The Circus connection is still what grabs me.
Happy to see me at the door, Jerry shakes my hand, pats me on the back and steps inside. I need a break and make a run for the upstairs bathroom.
A Real Good Time Together
Saturday, August 11, my ears are still ringing from Ramones mania when Gary and I cab it up to Central Park. The Patti Smith Group is playing the Wollman Rink for what’s shaping up to be one of their last New York City performances. When the band steps onstage Patti comes charging out, and somewhere between “We’re Gonna Have a Real Good Time Together” and “My Generation,” the last several years, beginning with Horses, come flooding back. I feel like I remember every minute.
After the show Ricky Sohl and Lynette rescue us from the crush at the stage and pull us into the mobile home dressing room. It’s cool outside, it’s starting to rain and I’m wearing my leather motorcycle jacket on the one summer night it’s ever left the house. We sit for a minute before we hop in one of the limos and head for CBGB’s where the band’s doing an unannounced second show.
The ride downtown is quick and CB’s is already packed. The vibe inside is heavy—the Patti Smith Group, just a month away from the end of their run. I hang around just long enough to see Ricky step away from the keyboards, pick up a bass and sing “All Along the Watchtower.” I walk out the back door, run around the corner and hail a cab on Bowery. I get to White Street and there’s already a big crowd outside, a small crowd inside and not much happening. I don’t see anyone I know but Louie spots some friends getting out of a cab, grabs them, and disappears. Now it’s just me, facing a hundred people who don’t seem to mind standing around in a little bit of rain as long as they think they’ll get in.
Ten minutes later Louie’s still missing and the doorway’s getting jammed. I’m slowing things down outside when author and playwright Gary Indiana gets out of a cab. He’s with Vicki Pedersen, whom Indiana once referred to as a “Nouveau personality, studying subcultural phenomena in districts north of Canal and south of Bowery.” No one could’ve said it better. They make it thru the crowd and ask, “Is Steve around?” I say, “Somewhere” and they head inside just as filmmaker and former high school baseball star Amos Poe steps up to the chain.
The Blank Generation and a Muddy Lens
Amos is a friend of the house and a friend of Steve’s. In 1976, he and musician Ivan Kral documented The Blank Generation at CBGB’s and Max’s. Likened by one reviewer as being “filmed through a muddy lens,” it’s come to be what many consider the first Punk film. In 1977, Amos attended the Deauville Film Festival with fellow underground cinema stars Eric Mitchell and Patti Astor. He presented The Blank Generation and Unmade Beds, his first feature starring future Mudd Club regulars Debbie Harry, Duncan Hannah and Lynette Bean as well as Eric and Patti. When Amos finally made it back to New York he was a star with a new French girlfriend but no money. That’s when a friend told him, “There’s this guy named Steve Mass asking about you.”
Amos tracked down Steve’s phone number, called and said, “I heard you were looking for me.” Steve responded, “I’d like to make a movie with you. Let’s have dinner.” The conversation seemed a bit sketchy but packed an offer Amos couldn’t refuse—one of those Steve Mass telephone calls I eventually came to know.
Amos and Steve met, drank a lot and ate a little dinner. Between Amos’ recent success and a shared dream of moviemaking, things happened fast. Conversations fueled by cocktail consumption and creative passion quickly followed, and it wasn’t long before an almost film company was born. Needing a place to say, Amos briefly moved into Steve’s Eighth Street duplex.
Steve Mass had the camera and Amos had the eye, but the result: no movies were
ever made. Amos, who was always working on something, soon realized that limitless drinks made for “ideas that sounded genius but by the next day were just ideas.” Knowing that “filmmakers make films,” he took a temporary job at Strand Books and offered Steve a suggestion, “You’d be happier if you opened a bar.”
In early 1978, Amos left Eighth Street (leaving the door open for Brian Eno) and took up residence on East Third, not far from the notorious Third Street Men’s Shelter. The neighborhood was fast becoming the heart of Little Hollywood and home to a roster of young filmmakers, musicians and future Mudd Club alumni. His neighbors included Pere Ubu and DNA bassist Tim Wright, Jerry Nolan, Eric Mitchell and White Street’s reigning conceptualist Tina L’Hotsky. Poe’s late-afternoon activities included serving tea to Sid Vicious.
Richard Boch 4 a.m. Mudd Basement, 1980, by Lynette Bean Kral.
Clockwise from top left: Mudd Club Owner Steve Mass with Mary Lou Green, 1980, by Richard Boch; Talking Heads BBC Taping, 1979, courtesy Richard Boch; Mudd Club ID Card, 1980, courtesy Richard Boch; Michael Holman, by Rhonda Paster Corte; The Blessed/Puberty Ball, 1979, by Eileen Polk; Puberty Ball Poster, 1979, by Eileen Polk/Courtesy Howie Pyro; Nan Goldin/Mudd Second Floor, 1979, by Billy Sullivan.
Clockwise from top left: Mudd Club ID, 1980, courtesy Vicki Pedersen; Mudd Club Staff Member Debi Mazar, by Rhonda Paster Corte; Mudd Club ID Card Flipside, 1980, courtesy Kate Simon; Cookie Mueller/Mudd Second Floor, 1979, by Billy Sullivan; Lisa Rosen, 1980, by Maripol ©All Rights Reserved; Richard Sohl & Richard Boch/Montauk, 1980, by Ron Beckner; Mudd Club ID, 1980, courtesy Kate Simon.
Clockwise from top left: The Times Square Show Flyer, 1980, courtesy Fales Library NYU; Laura Kennedy Mudd Club ID, 1980; Edo Bertoglio, Opal & Louie Chaban/Mudd Stairs, 1979, by Billy Sullivan; Andi Ostrowe, 1980, by Richard Boch; Wendy Whitelaw, 1980, by Maripol ©All Rights Reserved; Damita, Gary Kanner, Victor Bockris, 1980, by Richard Boch.
Clockwise from top left: Vicki Pedersen/Joan Crawford Mothers Day Event, 1979, by Marcia Resnick; Nan Goldin Night School at Mudd, 1979, by Billy Sullivan; Pat Ivers & Emily Armstrong, 1980, by Robin Schanzenbach; Hal Ludacer, 1979, by Eileen Polk; Eric Mitchell & Amos Poe, 1979, by Marcia Resnick; Anya Phillips & James Chance/Mudd Dance Floor, 1979, by Chris Stein.
Talking Heads BBC Taping, 1979, courtesy Richard Boch.
Clockwise from top left: Jo Shane/Colette Fashion Show, 1979, by Allan Tannenbaum; Richard DNV “Ricky” Sohl, 1980, by Bobby Grossman; Smutty Smiff, 1979, by Emily Armstrong; Richard Lloyd, 1979, by Emily Armstrong; Cheetah Chrome, 1979, by Emily Armstrong.
Clockwise from top left: Abbijane Mudd Club ID, 1980, courtesy Justin Straus; Maripol, 1980, by Maripol ©All Rights Reserved; Teri Toye & Scott Daley/Performing, 1979, by Allan Tannenbaum; Vincent Gallo, 1980, by Rhonda Paster Corte; Walter Steding/In the Cage, 1979, by Allan Tannenbaum; Edwige, 1980, by Rhonda Paster Corte; Richard Boch, Lynette Bean, Pete Farndon, 1980, courtesy Lynette Bean Kral.
Clockwise from top left: Richard Sohl & Bea Reilly/Montauk, 1980, by Ron Beckner; Gary Kanner & Richard Boch/Mudd Basement, 1980, by Lynette Bean Kral; Heroin Superstore Lower East Side, by Richard Boch; Historic, 2017, by Richard Boch; Mudd Club DJ David Azarch/Combat Love Party, 1980, by Marcia Resnick.
By then I had already made my move to Murray Street. Everyone, including me, seemed anxious to do something and the next time Steve Mass ran into Amos he told him, “You won’t believe this but I’m going to open a bar.” It wasn’t long before the new place needed a name.
Molotov Cocktail Lounge, a zany No Wave-ish designation suggested by either Cortez or Phillips, was briefly considered—the letters MCL were stenciled on the building’s front window. Steve thought it might be too much; so did the State Liquor Authority.
Whether it was the blur of memory seen through that “muddy lens,” or a nod to Steve’s fascination with John Wilkes Booth’s attending physician, Dr. Samuel Mudd, a real name was finally on the table. Mudd Club Lounge became the official corporate name on the liquor license and by October the Mudd Club was getting ready to happen. Five months later, I was standing out front, and the thick of it was right inside. The security gate, for security’s sake, was permanently rolled down and the letters MCL were never seen again.
Like the Mudd Club, CBGB or Max’s Kansas City, The Blank Generation speaks of time, place and future. It’s the thump, thump, thump of Talking Heads’ “Psycho Killer.” The Voidoids onstage and Richard Hell spitting out a near sing-along (“I belong to the Blank Generation”) lyrical slogan. Like walking thru the door of 77 White, it’s an altered state; the soundtrack’s out of sync, cutting loose from a 16mm dream.
That summer night in 1979, Amos walked right in. I followed him upstairs and told him about a series of monotypes I made three years earlier called “For The Blank Generation.” In homage to the movie, the song and the scene, it was me wanting to fit in and be a part of that moment. Two of the deliberately soiled, flesh-colored images were written about by Jackie Brody for Print Collectors Newsletter and hung at the now infamous Knoedler Gallery as part of a show curated by gallerist Barbara Mathes. I was twenty-two and had just moved to the city; the show, an early stop along the road to White Street.
Today when I see Amos there’s a timeline boomerang. He gives me a hug, and then becomes now.
Heaven
Two nights later came as a surprise, again the memory still with me. Steve let a small number of people know what was happening and I called One University Place to put the word out. Then I called Alice, to tell her and Judy Nylon, “Get down here right away.” We padded the house with regulars and let in the lucky few who happened to come by.
Monday, August 13. It’s 8 P.M. and the evening daylight’s fading. I’m already at the door and Chris Frantz, Tina Weymouth, Jerry Harrison and David Byrne are inside. Talking Heads are getting ready to play an unannounced show at Mudd.
A crew from London is on hand to film the event for a UK Channel 4 documentary and the band is psyched. By 9 P.M., the club’s half full and I’m standing near the stage with Michael Maslin. The intensity of the film company’s lighting turns up the heat and the dark gray Mudd Club walls look bright white. The band opens with “The Big Country” from their second album, More Songs About Buildings and Food, produced by Brian Eno. They follow it with “Warning Sign” and “Love → Building on Fire.” A new song called “Life During Wartime” from the just-released Fear of Music mentions the Mudd Club and CBGB as it barrels along on the rhythm laid down by Chris and Tina. “I ain’t got time for that now” is the line that sticks while the lyrics describe a band on the run. Peanut butter also gets a mention.
I stood there smiling—trying to take it all in. Halfway through the set David Byrne started singing a song called “Heaven.”
“Everyone is trying to get to the bar
The name of the bar, the bar is called heaven
The band in heaven, they play my favorite song
They play it one more time, play it all night long”
Whether he was singing about a party, a kiss or just a dream, I’ll never forget how beautiful the band sounded.
The show ended by 10:30 and by midnight the band, friends of the band and club regulars started taking over the second floor. I was busy at the door but I kept running back upstairs. It was the kind of night that made me realize how much I loved New York and how much I loved the Mudd Club.
I hung out until the place was almost empty and I got home around 5 A.M. I rolled a joint, went in the studio and put a sheet of paper on the wall. I was painting. I was happy.
Running around in the late afternoon, working in the middle of the night and crashing midmorning—I’d been doing it for almost five months but it still felt new. Heading home at 5 or 7 or 10 A.M., the air felt different, you could almost touch it. I walked along Broadway with a lighter step. New York was hot and dirty but everything was okay; it seemed like the dead of August was the best time of the year. My twenty-sixth birthday ju
st three weeks away and I still felt like a kid. Summer ’79 felt like those long summer vacations I remembered—but disappeared too soon.
Sunday, August 19, 10 P.M. and I was looking forward to an easy night. Gerard Malanga, Cookie Mueller, Max Blagg and Taylor Mead were doing a reading on the first floor and Lounge Lizard Evan Lurie and singer Ruby Lynn Reyner were putting some music together. The club was busy by 11 but hardly anyone paid to come in. The program was an hour of literary enlightenment for the well-informed and a What the fuck, I need another drink for the unsuspecting. Whether you cheered and whistled, politely applauded or threw something at the stage, this was the kind of evening that gave the club its identity and the reputation for never knowing what to expect. It was White Street entertainment at its best and kept people coming back for more.
Taylor was the last to read, rummaging through pages, drifting and commenting off the cuff as only he could. When the literary portion of the evening ended, I took a break and went upstairs. The second floor felt private, cozier and clubbier than usual—the drugs and bad behavior practically part of the décor. It’s where Mitch Ryder of Detroit, Bryan Ferry of Roxy Music and writer and director Paul Schrader landed when they stopped by for a drink. For guitarist Chris Spedding, David Bowie and Anita Pallenberg, it was a dirty living room with broken furniture and a bar. Michael Musto called it “incestuous,” a place where “the outcasts were on the inside.” I just called it the upstairs, and a few of those outcasts I called my friends.
Energy
