by Richard Boch
It wasn’t long before Lenny Kaye spotted Stephanie across the room. She remembers how he walked over and said something like, “You’re so beautiful you look like Miss America.” Lenny was the guy who knew everyone and Stephanie was just getting started. Nobody was ready to settle down but no one was going anywhere either. Beyond the memorable pickup it was the beginning of a White Street romance, and the next time I looked they were Lenny and Stephanie. Last time I looked, they still were.
Quadrophenia
October was busy. The weather was holding up and the long tweed coat was taking a rest. The Rod Stewart clone and the guy who claimed he was a member of Earth, Wind & Fire kept coming to the door. I made the clone pay but didn’t let Fire Liar in. I pulled the old It’s a private party routine because it was.
Tuesday, October 30 (the eve of Mudd Club’s first unofficial anniversary), the Who in association with Who Films was celebrating the opening of the movie Quadrophenia. The premiere took place at the Eighth Street Playhouse and the party followed at 77 White. Few of the cast except maybe Sting—whom I didn’t care about even then—were in attendance. Director Franc Roddam was hanging at the bar and Roger Daltrey was floating around the room talking with SoHo News journalist Alan Platt. John Entwistle was hanging out near the bathrooms with three professional-looking “hostesses” and behaving like John Entwistle. I was running around, just trying to behave.
By 1 A.M., the upstairs was filled with Mudd Club regulars. Everyone from Sharon D’Lugoff (the teenage daughter of legendary Village Gate owner Art D’Lugoff) and Rockats bass player Smutty Smiff to Tina L’Hotsky, party girl Roxanne Jefferies and Pat Wadsley were all rubbing elbows with the other elbows. An hour later, Sharon, “an admittedly huge Who fan,” found herself cornered in the bathroom by Entwistle and his female accomplices. With an offer made a million times in a million bathrooms around the world he invited Sharon back to his hotel for a five-way. Despite the Who-ness of the gesture and Sharon’s love for the “Oh my Lord!” nature of the Mudd Club bathrooms, she was caught off guard and even a little grossed out. She managed to make it out of the bathroom, went back to the bar and decided to wait for the return of Keith Moon.
John Waters and Cookie Mueller, Quadrophenia party, 1980, by Allan Tannenbaum.
For those who missed their chance or might’ve been present but barely there, bathroom stories live large in Mudd Club history. Sharon D’Lugoff shakes her head, starts thinking and says, “Oh, to have been a fly on those walls.” She remembers the Entwistle moment clearly but now worries about coming off like “such a prude.” She pauses, laughs and quickly points out, “It’s not like I never took anyone home from Mudd.” I laugh too, thinking we all did—just not that particular wistle.
A Trip to Long Island
The end of October came and went, Mudd’s first anniversary unacknowledged. I wore the orange pants and black leather jacket on the thirty-first but it was hard to tell if anyone was dressed up or not. Thursday and Friday were busy and Saturday night almost did me in. As much as I tried to avoid the news, the rest of the world seemed even crazier than the weekend crowd on White Street.
Chain in hand I held my ground, while former CIA director George H.W. Bush was making a first bid for the presidency with typically hateful rhetoric and a straw poll victory in Maine. Ronald Reagan didn’t seem worried. Closer to home, thieves in the Bronx set a subway token booth on fire with the token clerk inside. When I started hearing about the Ku Klux Klan shooting anti-KKK demonstrators I turned off the TV. Halloween came spooky that year and I needed a break.
Sunday, November 4, 1979. I’ve got the night off and I’m spending it in Roslyn, Long Island, with Iggy Pop, at a club called My Father’s Place. It’s a rambling old dive located under the Roslyn Bridge just off Northern Boulevard, a few miles from where I grew up. Guitarist Ivan Kral’s in the band, and his girlfriend, Lynette Bean, put me and several new members of the Mudd Club crew on the guest list.
My Father’s Place was the best Rock ’n’ Roll club on Long Island; I’d been there often and over the years I saw some great shows. The Ramones blew the place apart more than once, and Patti Smith played the club for two nights on her first tour behind Horses. That was early January 1976: I was up close with Wayne (my future Murray Street roommate), and my friends Louis Minghinelli and Fred Siedlecki, smoking pot and washing down white crosses with beer. The sound of Patti pounding her chest during “Break It Up” was thumping thru the PA and “Free Money” was like nothing I’d ever heard before. When the band played “Gloria” the room was shaking. When John Cale stepped onstage and picked up a bass guitar for “My Generation” the place exploded.
The world I knew changed that night. I sat around after the show talking to Richard Sohl and stayed up till the next afternoon, buzzed on speed, poetry and a three-chord revelation. Now, nearly four years later, I’m headed back to Roslyn in a rented Davel limo for a club-sized Iggyfest. We’re driving east on the Long Island Expressway—the memories of tripped-out mornings and eighty-mile-an-hour teenage adventures flash by and disappear. There’s a bar in the limo and we’re all drinking. I have a gram of coke and so does everyone else. We get to the club and Lynette and I head backstage; we find Ivan in the dressing room and the three of us go out to the car. Ten minutes later, the band opens with “Real Cool Time” from the first Stooges album recorded in 1969. Iggy’s a powerhouse; his voice—a baritone cry—is deep, sexy and beautiful. He closes the show with the Johnny Mercer-Harold Arlen gem, “One for My Baby.” It’s a nice surprise and he nails it. The band comes back with a wailing, slow grind version of “No Fun.” Then it’s over.
After the show, I run into some people from the Mudd Club who follow and photograph Iggy. Twenty minutes later, Lynette and I say good night, join the others in the car and head for the city. When we get to White Street it’s only 1:30, last call still half a night away.
The trip to Long Island left me with a sense of longing and loss; the friends who drifted away or disappeared were just a part of it. In three short years a connection to the place I once called home was gone. Things were different now, but I wondered if that might happen again. I walked over to the bar and put my arm around Lynette.
A love of Iggy Pop and a few grams of coke helped break a little ice with the new Mudd Club employees but the camaraderie didn’t last more than a day or two. They came off like straights, descended from some generic hospitality trade school, with a newly acquired taste for cocaine in order to adapt to their environment. Our only real connection was based on me doing the door, and them pouring the drinks. Impossible to like everybody, those first impressions were hard to shake. That went both ways.
I Liked All of Them
A year earlier, in the fall of 1978, when the Mudd Club was just getting off the ground, Levi Dexter, Smutty Smiff and Dibbs Preston landed in New York. They’d never heard of White Street and I was still working on West Broadway. Levi, who looked about fifteen, was busy channeling Elvis circa ’55. Smutty, a pretty boy covered with tattoos, was pounding and plucking an upright bass. Dibbs was the blond kid playing guitar, and photographer and Heartbreakers “handler” Leee Black Childers was their mentor and manager. Levi and the Rockats was the name of the band and they arrived from England in advance of their first U.S. shows—opening for the Cramps. They had something going on and I liked them right off.
Max’s, November 10, 1978. The place was packed and the room was buzzing. A sad-looking Sid Vicious, accompanied by a girl named Michelle, grabbed two seats at our table but all I could do was say “Hey.” I was with friends waiting for the Rockats, Sid looked like he was waiting for the world to end and his “date” seemed like she was just along for the ride. Ninety days later, Sid was gone.
The Cramps were the headliners that night but the crowd was ready and waiting for Levi and the Rockats. When they finished their first song, Trixie Revenge a.k.a. Plunger Girl screamed, “You’re so cute!” because they were. The band had a familiar sound, wi
th an attitude filtered thru Punk. Levi sang and danced up a storm, Smutty stood on the side of his upright bass and Dibbs’ guitar ripped right thru the middle. The audience ate it up.
A year later, as I passed thru Cortland Alley, I heard that familiar sound again. I walked into the Mudd Club and smiled wide when I saw Levi and the Rockats doing a sound check. Leee Childers looked at me, laughed and said, “Hello darling.” The boys gave a nod—happy to see that I was working the door.
Today Smutty remembers the scene on White Street having its own stars, superstars and happenings. You could dance or just hang out, get drunk, get high, get laid and come back for more. People were painting and writing, making music, making movies and taking pictures. They were doing it at midnight and still doing it at four or five in the morning. Smutty knew, “Mudd was the place to go because everybody was up to something.”
Pravda
Whether it was midnight or five in the morning, at home or at the Mudd Club, no one was talking about communism or reading the newspaper that spoke its voice.
In early November, a club called Pravda, several blocks north on Crosby Street, was getting ready to try and become a New York nightlife legend. Rudolf Piper and Jim Fouratt, the activist, club manager and impresario, fronted the operation. Ron Lusker, a silent partner, owned the building and was doing the construction. Rico Espinet, the future stage manager of the original Danceteria and the next version of Peppermint Lounge, was brought in to do finishing work, while Bruno Schmidt assisted Rudolf with the club’s fast-forward design. Pravda had location, word of mouth and the destiny of a huge opening night. With a great sound system, multiple DJs and a performance space it would be the perfect place for art, music and fashion. The exclusive vibe and minimalist décor (thanks mostly to Rudolf) was going to give New Yorkers another place to go.
The progress reports I was hearing said the new club was almost ready. The buzz had everyone excited but was making Steve Mass a little crazy. In a fit of cold-war paranoia and a bit of spite, he decided to clamp down on any chance of industrial espionage. Steve told me he didn’t want any of those Pravda people getting into Mudd and I did my best to comply.
November 8, 1979, was the big night. I was working the door at Mudd and everyone else was milling about Crosby Street, waiting for something to happen. The Pravda opening party, honoring both WET magazine and Fiorucci, was jammed—and about to become legend for all the wrong reasons. By midnight, a few Mudd Club regulars, unable to squeeze into the new place, showed up on White Street; their only report, “Very crowded.”
An hour or two later, something did happen and the crowd from Crosby came pouring down Cortland Alley, headed for Mudd. Pravda’s opening night had unexpectedly turned into a closing night party and the following night the club was gone. Angry neighbors, the police and fire departments, along with wheels and palms never properly greased, brought down New York’s Pravda, yet the legend lived on.
At 3 A.M., there was still a big crowd on White Street. I let in nearly everyone who showed up and the bar was busy giving away lots of free drinks. Mudd held onto its groove, kept its cool and was still the place to go. Steve Mass had worried for nothing.
The Pravda founded in 1912, St. Petersburg, Russia, stopped the presses in 1991 after eighty years of operation, twelve years after its Crosby Street namesake had a one-night stand.
The long tweed coat and a few dusty Quaaludes rediscovered in the pockets helped keep me warm on those cool November nights. I’d wash one down with a Rémy and get ready for the 1 A.M. rush. By 2 A.M., I was working hard but playing it loose, taking a break with anyone willing to play; 3 A.M. and my better judgment was already somewhere else. I’d occasionally sell out cheap and wind up slumming with everything from a ’79 vintage variation on Dog the Bounty Hunter to a coked-up dentist or a passed-out Punk. The tweed coat kept me safe but certain memories run chills up my spine. Some nights my dream job turned nightmare.
Tonight’s a different kind of dream. I’m facing off with a gaggle of high school boys from the Upper East Side, telling me they’re on Andy Warhol’s list. They’re cute in that empty, pretty, prep school kind of way but they’re not my type and I’m unmoved. Andy’s not in the club and there’s no way to tell when or if he’s coming. He stops by occasionally, and when he does he works without a list.
I smile, stop just short of rolling my eyes, and tell whoever’s working with me to please explain to the boys that it’s five dollars each to come in. I step away, head upstairs and pound on the steel bathroom door. Artist Nathan Slate Joseph, a former Lower Manhattan Ocean Club manager, bartender and ex-boyfriend of Ocean Club waitress-turned-actress Ellen Barkin, exits with two blonde Swedish girls (bathroom habitués). Cookie Mueller’s still at the mirror checking her makeup, and Russian Eddie’s lighting a joint. I relock the door, turn around and get lost with a Marlboro, a Heineken and a dime. The Warhol fanboys manage to get in and everything works out fine. Andy’s nowhere to be seen.
Concept, Felt, Animal Fat
When I finally made it back to the door Willoughby Sharp and a fedora-wearing friend were getting out of a cab. They headed straight thru the crowd, said hello and stepped inside. A conceptual artist, video pioneer and cofounder of Avalanche magazine, Willoughby was a legend in the art world and a regular at the Mudd Club. Two months earlier, the same “Reverend” Willoughby led a procession of mourners up White Street for the Dead Rock Stars party. He was also the curator of the Guggenheim’s 1979 Joseph Beuys retrospective. The show opened on November 2, Beuys was still in New York and Willoughby brought him to White Street.
I had no idea who it was going in. It was late, I was busy and I saw Willoughby all the time. Then the thirty-second delay ended, I snapped out of it and realized Joseph Beuys, the artist of coyotes and concept, felt, animal fat, politics and performance, was inside the Mudd Club. I left the door, looked around and found them at the downstairs bar. I’d never said much more than hello to Willoughby but I had no idea where Steve was, so I walked over, introduced myself to Beuys and made sure the bar was taking care of them. Other than offering them a Quaalude it was the best I could do.
Joseph Beuys was a strange-looking guy—kind of old but kind of young with a serious stare and half a crazy smile. Though he helped transform my idea of art by moving it outside of itself, he seemed far removed from anywhere I’d been. I realize now he was part of the Mudd Club before he even stepped inside.
When Beuys left I opened the chain and said “Good night,” he turned around and said, “Thank you.” Starstruck once again, I went to the Guggenheim the next day. I looked at art and all it could be.
An hour later, I squeeze in alongside the bar. DJ David aims low with his own high concept and cues up the LP version of “Rock Lobster” at 45 rpm. The B-52’s start spinning out of control and the dance floor plays along.
I look around remembering what it was like before I started working here—when you could still see a bit of floor between the people. I push my way forward and spot Abbijane, Julie Glantz and Lynette. DJ David moves from lobsters to Motown and Diana starts singing about a world that’s “empty without you babe.” Lynette grabs me and we start dancing. We’re jammed together in the middle of the room, Diana’s still singing but the world seems far from empty.
Baker
I leave Friday night’s never-empty world of art stars and lobsters behind. Saturday’s even busier and Steve wants to keep traffic light on the second floor. David Bowie’s in a booth with Blondie’s Jimmy Destri and Sassoon’s creative director Mary Lou Green is sitting nearby with her friend, the Academy Award-nominated Fat City actress Susan Tyrrell. Cookie Mueller’s a few feet away, engaged in conversation with Tom Baker the actor, Jim Morrison best friend and star of Warhol’s I a Man. I walk by and Tom gives me a bear hug and a “Hey, hey Richie.” Cookie gives me a kiss and a “Hi hon.”
Other than Sylvia Miles, Tom’s one of the select few who calls me Richie and gets away with it. Besides being a really swee
t guy (despite calling me by a diminutive), Baker knows a curious strain of everyone. He introduced me to Ronee Blakely at the Lone Star Café after she blew the place away with a cover of Dylan’s “Just Like a Woman.” A few weeks later, I rode around in a cab with Baker, a few Wildings and a Getty for a wasted, dawn-breaking tour of the after-hours circuit. I survived the ride and made it home by 10 A.M.
By now it’s getting late, and Joey Arias and Klaus Nomi are still upstairs saying good night. Mary Lou Green walks over and asks if they’re sure they’re ready to leave without meeting David. It’s a simple introduction that leads to Klaus and Joey’s star turn with David Bowie on Saturday Night Live.
I walk by on my way downstairs looking for a different kind of introduction. By 4 A.M. the first floor’s winding down and the second floor’s either ascending or descending into what Nathan Joseph calls “a scene out of Satyricon.” Cinematic and sexy, it’s another dirty dream, a late night lost and found. For Nathan, those nights on White Street existed in “a moment of the moment. It was anarchy, political without politics and freedom of everything.” Without thinking too much, it sounds about right.
I’m ready to split but I make time for one more round. Mary Lou and Susan are headed for the door when Baker walks over, squeezes the back of my neck hard and says good night. Two hours disappear and by 7 A.M. I’m at The Nursery adding another drink to a Quaalude, a joint and a speedball combo. I’ve been trying to get the balance right for a while but it seems almost impossible.
Several people shake their heads, vaguely disapproving of my behavior and appetite, but only Anita Sarko and Abbijane speak up. It’ll be a while before I start to listen and by then I’ll be saying a sad good-bye to so many friends—Tom Baker among them.
