by Richard Boch
Marianne and Fried Chicken
While the dance floor spins, the place is buzzing. Word gets out that Marianne Faithfull is set to play the Mudd Club in February and appear on Saturday Night Live the night before. It’s a big deal and everyone’s talking about it, but no one has any idea what a live Marianne performance might be like. The only clue is Broken English and if songs and sounds on that record are any indication, we’re in for a great night.
In addition to Marianne’s upcoming event, Michael Holman’s busy working behind the scenes with Steve Mass putting together a Soul Night at Mudd. Originally planned for Club 57, budget limitations couldn’t accommodate Michael’s vision of what was becoming a grand-scale event. That’s when Steve stepped in with the big money, a bigger space, and enough guarded enthusiasm to make everything from décor, entertainment and fried chicken a reality.
Taking Pictures
Trying to keep my excitement over Marianne and soul food on a back burner, I start sending people in two or three at a time. I’m moving around, hoping to keep warm and wondering if there’s anything else going on that I need to know about. The small but anxious crowd looks cold and I’m doing my best to get them in quickly. My friend Allan and his camera are off to the side keeping me company.
Allan Tannenbaum is a self-taught, “picked up a camera as a kid” kind of guy and he’s still teaching himself. He took his first Rock ’n’ Roll photo of Jimi Hendrix in 1968 while living in San Francisco. In 1972 he settled into a loft just blocks from where we’re standing. SoHo Weekly News publisher Michael Goldstein hired him in 1974 when the going rate was five dollars a picture; by late 1978, Allan heard about “the new Punk club on White Street.” He figured it would be “another place to take pictures,” stopped by and found a lot more. Now he’s outside in the cold, waiting for the next shot.
Ten minutes pass, Rastaman “Dirty Harry” arrives and hands me a spliff. I give whoever’s still waiting a quick glance and leave Allan and his camera outside. I move toward the bar, DJ David cues up Roxy Music’s “Love Is the Drug” and the sound of an engine kicks it off. A few seconds later, Bryan Ferry starts singing. I grab Alice and we head upstairs, sit in a booth and fire up the Dirty Harry special. Another ten minutes pass, she’s laughing nonstop and I’m trying to get back outside. When I finally make it out the door Allan snaps a picture; I look at the crowd and start laughing.
Bush Tetras. Pat Place and Cynthia Sley, 1980, by Lisa Genet.
Hanging Out at the Door
Just about anyone going out in New York City wound up standing in front of the Mudd Club—even in the cold. Photographer and CBGB doorperson Roberta Bayley (she shot the iconic cover of the Ramones’ first album) always thought, “the scene outside was the best part.” She’s also first to admit she “was never really a Mudd Club person,” though it’s difficult to say what that means.
Ten minutes hanging with me at the door, Roberta watched the White Street version of “who pays and who doesn’t.” An hour inside and she’d be ready to leave. Sixteen years later, in the summer of 1996, we walked in to the Sex Pistols’ Filthy Lucre Reunion Tour at Roseland together. For me it was a first; for Roberta, who hopped on the bus for a stop along the Pistols’ ill-fated 1978 American tour, it was full circle.
It never mattered if the crowd outside was big or small. From where I was standing the Mudd Club was always the heart of the scene. Max’s and CB’s were already landmark institutions and Studio 54 still had its moments. No one I knew had any idea what went on at Xenon nor was interested in finding out. Hurrah drew a crowd depending on the popularity of whoever was playing, and Club 57 offered events with clever names, throwback themes and lots of cocktails. The latter sounded familiar, but for the most part I stayed below Canal.
Tier 3 on West Broadway was as different as it was essential. Just blocks away from Mudd, the place was a small-scale multilevel dive with an often raucous next-wave Rock ’n’ Roll vibe. Hilary Jaeger, who began working as the club’s manager around the time I started on White Street, was booking great bands like the Slits, Madness, and The Raybeats. The newly formed Bush Tetras were getting ready for their first show at Tier 3 on February 4, 1980. Three months later they were playing the Mudd Club. People were back and forth between both places depending on the night’s lineup, where they could get in, and if they could drink for free.
By now it must be 1 A.M. and the twenty people standing outside an hour ago just turned into a crowd. I’m clearheaded but cold, puffing on a cigarette and focused on taking care of the regulars, the neighborhood and any marginally polite celebrities and freaks who might show up. If you look good and seem interesting, fuckable or all three, you’ll probably get in as well. If you behave like an asshole, based on what the general consensus considers that to be, you can forget it.
An hour passes and I’m mid-conversation with a woman I’ve never seen before who doesn’t want to pay and she’s asking for Richard—as if I’m someone else and he’s somewhere inside. I let Aldo bat the ball back and forth while I open the chain for “angelic” Punk icon Damita Richter and Victor Bockris. It’s after 2 A.M., both are wearing dark glasses and the only thing they want to know: “Is Steve around?” I tell them “Maybe” because it’s the short and honest answer. Director and photographer Edo Bertoglio and girlfriend Maripol follow them inside while the chain is still open. He says “Hello” and she keeps talking to no one in particular, possibly asking the same question about Steve. I offer her the same Maybe. An hour later, they’re all still on the second floor where Maripol is connecting with friends, faces and acquaintances, though most of her actual Polaroiding takes place back at her loft. Some of the instant images are beautiful, some are funny, and some are just used film, but together they paint an artful, interesting and sometimes messy picture of a golden time.
Talking Dirty
The night’s almost over and I’m moving around without thinking. The dance floor’s crashing and I’m talking to a bouncer from a place called the Funhouse. He wants to “get high” with me after work and he’s already talking dirty a half-inch from my face. I tell him to meet me upstairs for one more drink—and one last trip to the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, we’re at Murray Street, fucked up and fucking our brains out. Sometimes it helps and other times I don’t feel a thing.
I passed out around ten and woke up at noon. Funhouse was gone and Gary never came home. I threw some water on my face, made coffee and lit a cigarette. I licked the mirror that was still sitting on the kitchen table. I was looking forward to Soul Night and excited about Marianne Faithfull. I thought about starting some new paintings. Then Yoyo called.
Xs, Os and Pure Mania
I met Yoyo Friedrich at the Mudd Club. He’s got a connection with a gallery in Germany called Gestalt Reform that’s mounting a show of billboards in Frankfurt. Yoyo’s part of the show, our friend Charlie Yoder (last seen in a gorilla suit at the Justine-Colette fashion event) is included, and I’ve been asked to participate. It’s a big deal for me—another big break.
Working hard, I set up the project and map out a grid for a scaled-down model of the billboard. The final piece is an eight- by twelve-foot series of hieroglyph-like Xs and Os, outlined in black, painted in pink and blue and set against a yellow ground. Every night I head straight home from White Street, put on a record and paint. Lynette Bean and Frankie DeCurtis stop by and take photos of me working on a ladder, dressed in a white paper jumpsuit. We smoke pot, drink some beer, turn up the music and take more pictures.
After two weeks, the billboard is finished. I get off the ladder, light a joint and put on the Vibrators’ Pure Mania. When I look at the painting the pink and blue glyphs start dancing. I start dancing too, experiencing a sense of joy that I often dismiss.
In spite of everything—or maybe because of it—the work’s a success and ships to Frankfurt on time. I feel good, like I’m working hard and really doing something. I’ve already started a few smaller editions of the Xs and Os but r
ight now I have to clean up and jump in the shower. I need to eat and get to the Mudd Club by 11. It’s 9 P.M. and Chinatown’s the easy answer.
Chow Something and the Heroin Craze
Gary just got home and he’s hungry too. By 10, we’re sitting downstairs at Wo Hop on Mott Street, waiting for soup, two egg rolls and a shrimp chow something. The food’s cheap, the hot mustard’s hot, and they use whatever tea is left in the teapots to wipe down the tables. It’s crowded but the service is quick. When the food arrives we eat fast and leave.
Ready for work and almost smiling, I’m thinking about the billboard. I think about Yoyo, Charlie, Frankie and Lynette—the Mudd Club was our home turf, common ground. From Murray Street to Frankfurt, 77 White and beyond, it all lined up with the Walter Steding Constellation Theory; a beautiful light with boundaries undefined. Then I think about Wo Hop, two dollars eighty-five cents for that shrimp chow something. I think about Gary and me as we head up Mott Street, walking our way back from Chinatown.
The next morning, alone with a bag of dope, I think about a breaking point years before the break finally came. Defined or not, I think about the zero boundaries when it came to living with Gary. We were constantly stoned, always looking for the next high and fucking around all over downtown. We’d disappear for a day and a night and meet up at One University or Mudd.
In 1976, when I arrived in New York, my drinking was already out of bounds but cocaine was barely in the picture. Heroin was just a curious drug with an odd appeal used by other people I hardly knew. I was intent on making art, fascinated with the Punk scene centered on CB’s and Max’s, and obsessed with easy, casual and often kinky sex. Two years later I met Gary, and cocaine brought us together. When heroin moved in, we made speedballs with the leftovers. I wasn’t a daily user but it didn’t take me long to discover heroin’s appeal, and for a while it made things easier: the job, fitting in and being part of, all benefiting from a quick fix. Then I started to become one of those other people; and slowly, I began to disappear. I thought I was just getting high but I was losing sight of what I really wanted.
When New York magazine mentioned a “heroin craze” at the Mudd Club they were late to the party. No regrets—but I was there on time.
Newsletter featuring notes on antisocial behavior, sobriety testing and faith healing, 1979, courtesy Richard Boch.
Trying to be bad—drugs and drinking were part of that ambition. Some places I could misbehave and get away with it, other places not. Tuesday, January 29, 1980, I was hanging at One University and the smart move would’ve been to stay there. Instead, I left with Marcia Resnick, walked over to Reno Sweeney on West Thirteenth but didn’t make it through the show. We got tossed out after heckling Robby Benson during his performance.
I was the guilty one and Marcia got caught in the middle. Her only crime: listening to Robby sing and play guitar. I got stupid, things got ugly, and there was no excuse. I got what I deserved.
Two hours later, I was working at Mudd, trying to shake off my embarrassing behavior. Ross Bleckner had been in the audience at Reno’s and gave me a puzzled look when he spotted me at the door. He smiled but couldn’t help asking, “What was all that about?” I wasn’t smiling and didn’t have an answer. The next day I went back to Reno Sweeney and apologized to the staff.
That was the last I heard of Robby Benson and the last he heard of me. He never came to the Mudd Club but if he had, I probably would have let him in—for five dollars.
Ex Dragon Debs
From that point on I tried to stick with entertainment that I understood. Sometimes that meant music, sometimes sex and sometimes drugs, but usually all three. Then I heard what Lisa and Judy were up to and it seemed to make sense that a neo-girl group would find a home on White Street.
Between fashion icon Lisa Rosen, designer Mary Lemley and Sophie VDT, they had style to spare. Judy Nylon had Snatch (her Eno-produced musical collaboration with singer Patti Palladin) under her belt and fit right in. Screenwriter Wesley Strick provided the simple keyboard accompaniment long before a successful Hollywood career came calling. Together they were the Ex Dragon Debs.
Judy and Lisa were the brains of the operation and Mary Lemley had a hand in the costumes. Painted paper dresses and purple Afro wigs, cut and trimmed Eraserhead-style, were just part of the look: matching tutus and ruffs pulled it all together. The only piece missing was a full-on Phil Spector Wall of Sound.
Judy Nylon and transient tattoos, 1979, by Lisa Genet.
Lisa remembered that “a lot of thought and no money” went into the costumes for what was “possibly the world’s worst pop group.” What she probably forgot was that once someone put on a tutu and a purple wig, good or bad didn’t matter. Standing in front of the Mudd Club stage, I gave up trying to wrap my head around the girls’ version of song, choosing instead to get lost in the spectacle of White Street entertainment.
Edit DeAk (who, along with Walter Robinson, cofounded the mid-seventies publication Art-Rite) shot some Super 8 footage of the Ex Dragon Debs’ Mudd Club performance. Her sharp eye but unsteady hand created a unique bit of camerawork that Judy described as “an unusual puffball effect.” It was the only live-action document of the Debs, and sadly it’s lost forever.
Steve Mass paid the girls with a case of champagne that arrived in a gray plastic garbage pail filled with melting ice. It was one of those backstage moments wrapped in showbiz tradition that had Mudd stamped all over it. Judy Nylon left for Europe shortly after and fifteen-year-old Eszter Balint, the Hungarian actress who’d been hanging at Mudd since she was fourteen, filled the void. A few months later, the Ex Dragon Debs played their final show at the Squat Theater.
Judy still travels back and forth from Europe, and Eszter, the daughter of Squat Theater cofounder Stephan Balint, still sings. Artist Walter Robinson, Edit DeAk’s onetime publishing partner, became Lisa Rosen’s second husband. Lisa’s as beautiful as ever but decided to forgo a career in popular music. Despite my continued friendship with Judy and Lisa, all I remember of the night’s performance is a flash of purple fluff.
Squatting
Besides playing host to the Ex Dragon Debs’ swan song, the Squat Theater was an important underground venue and cultural center. Founded by members of the seminal avant-garde Squat Theater Group, its resident squatter was Nico, and the Sun Ra Arkestra was practically the house band. I spent many early evenings there listening to everyone from Lenny Kaye, John Cale and James Chance to Johnny Thunders, DNA and John Lurie and the Lounge Lizards. A one-time-only Cheetah Chrome and Nico guitar-harmonium duet was a Squat-inspired stroke of genius: Mudd-like in its anything goes bravado; it was hard to forget.
The place was a strange, dark and interesting stop on what seemed an endless run thru the New York night. More like an opium den than some happening place with lots of people running around—whatever it was or wasn’t—Squat had its moment.
Paella with Wavy Gravy
Nights later, there was plenty of food but no opium at a small dinner party in an old Art Deco ballroom on East Eleventh Street. David Azarch showed up with Abbijane, I arrived with Lynette Bean, and Jerry Brandt was our host for the evening. The eclectic group of guests included Rob Halford of Judas Priest (who inexplicably played the Mudd Club shortly before I began doing the door), Cheryl Rixon, the 1979 Penthouse Pet of the Year (and Halford’s beard), and Wavy Gravy, whom I mistakenly identified as a children’s party clown. It was quite the mix and Jerry was our only connection. We sat around a table in the middle of the dance floor feasting on a large platter of paella from the ballroom’s kitchen.
Wavy (the Woodstock Festival MC) was an old friend of Jerry’s; the who, why or what the fuck? presence of Halford and Rixon was curious at best. The point of the evening was Jerry’s presentation of what soon would become The Ritz: a dance floor, a bar and a wraparound balcony, a few of the best DJs in town and a brilliant one-note formula presenting some of the biggest names in music. The Ritz wanted to be the next big
thing in New York nightlife and we were there to see how we might fit in.
While Jerry gave us the tour my mind was racing, living in an outcome that was years away and brief at best. I wanted to get outside to talk to David, though I knew it wasn’t time to make a change or even think about leaving White Street. We could do anything we wanted to at Mudd and get away with it. A change of venue might mean we’d have to behave.
I think Jerry would’ve loved having us. I looked at David and I think we were tempted for a minute. Then I shook my head and looked away. It was barely 1980, the Mudd Club was our home and we weren’t going anywhere.
As soon as dinner and the tour were over, Lynette and I walked the few short blocks to One University. Mickey was in his spot on the brass rail near the entrance to the dining room wearing his favorite pink sweater with holes at both elbows. Nathan Joseph was next to him, and John Stravinsky, the grandson of Igor, was behind the bar. We headed for the bathroom, and then the back room, to see who was playing Asteroids and Space Invaders. Ronnie Cutrone and Gigi Williams were standing on a chair cheering Richard Sohl, who was going for a new high score personal best. Teri Toye was either sitting on top of or next to Andi Ostrowe, who was either asleep or passed out. It wasn’t even 1 A.M. as we settled into that little backroom pocket of New York City. It was my night off and way too early for White Street.
One U was always the crazy cafeteria clubhouse. Places like Squat and even The Ritz—just slices of life, moving parts of the old and new decade.
Mudd Club was the bridge between then and now.
