by Richard Boch
Donuts
Ricky’s hooked on Asteroids and he’s back at One University the following afternoon; I’m back at work the next night. I’ve got a small joint in my Marlboro box but I haven’t snorted heroin in days. I leave the loft, walk to Broadway and Canal, and pick up an egg cream. Holman, Basquiat, Wayne Clifford and Vincent Gallo are sitting at the counter drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. A downtown version of a junior Rat Pack, they carry themselves with a loose swagger that’s a little Sinatra, a little Sammy Davis, a little cool and a little crazy. Together with Danny Rosen, Boris Policeband and Ken Compton, they float back and forth between White Street and Dave’s Luncheonette.
I pass the counter and say “Hey, see you later.” I walk to work and the night disappears.
Closing time and Michael Holman’s still upstairs with Steve. They’re figuring things out for the Soul party that’s happening on the third Sunday in February. I’m still downstairs, the lights are up and I’m sitting on the bar trying to figure out who or what I’m waiting for. Danny Rosen, Jean-Michel and Vicki Pedersen are headed out the door and wind up winding down at Dave’s for another round of cigarettes, coffee and grease. Ten minutes after they walk in, the donut delivery arrives: set on the counter in a gray cardboard box, fresh crullers and jellies just a few feet from the door. It’s an easy grab and a minute later the “kids” and the donuts are gone.
Vicki’s calling the shots and the boys are in over their heads. To her the donut heist is just a “crime of opportunity” but for Danny and Jean it’s a quick-start, carbed-up sugar rush breakfast. Back on White Street, the Mudd Club’s empty and I’m still sitting on the bar.
Should Have Gone Home
I’m not hungry and not about to start stealing donuts so I grab a cab and head for The Nursery instead. There’s a garbage truck roaring outside and the warm stench breaks thru the cold morning air. Inside, the dead-end thrill of getting frisked for a weapon is about as much excitement as I can handle. Mudd Club alumnus Joey Kelly is hanging out and Johnny Thunders is shuffling around at a forty-five-degree lean looking for anything he can find. Nursery girl Krystie Keller walks by and disappears up the stairs. Hours earlier, Iggy was bouncing around the Mudd Club and now he’s spending his downtime here; I offer up a “Hello, James” and keep walking. There are Hells Angels at the bar whom I know by name but they have no idea who I am—that’s a good thing and I keep it that way. On the stairs to the second floor I run into Anita Pallenberg, who’s just asked Krystie if she’s a boy or a girl; now she’s asking me if there’s anywhere to go after this. I light her cigarette and tell her the only place left to go is hell or home. Neither of us laughs.
Somewhere between there and nowhere Rockets Redglare, the actor, bouncer and former Sid Vicious bodyguard, walks over and starts telling me a story. He’s a really big guy with really bad teeth; he likes to talk but I’m afraid of getting trapped. The other problem, Steve Mass doesn’t like Rockets and doesn’t want him in the Mudd Club. I have little patience at this hour, and thirty seconds into a potentially long-winded report of how I shouldn’t worry because he’s got my back, I start to drift, say thanks and move on.
The Nursery’s crowded and the scene is murky. There’s always someone around I let into Mudd five hours earlier who’ll give me some coke that’s been stepped on within an inch of its life. A guy selling bags of street dope with the Doctor Nova stamp of approval seems like a scam but at 7 A.M. I buy one anyway.
The morning starts to fade, the air feels thick and the place looks darker than when I arrived. I try and find someone to talk to but I can barely speak. Sex seems out of the question but it somehow never is. By 8, I’m standing in the dark smoking a cigarette and holding an empty plastic cup, my head spinning, my body refusing to crash. I have to get out of here but it’s hard to move.
The cold night turned cold winter morning. I’d left the Mudd Club around 5 A.M. and should have gone home after work. It was February 1980 and I was twenty-six years old—long before I realized there’s no such thing as should have.
Marianne
Friday night I took a break from the after-hours crawl and did the same on Saturday. I went home after work and slept as best I could. Sunday afternoon I woke up early. When the phone started ringing I unplugged it without answering, took a long shower and got ready. Before I knew it, it was time to leave.
I walked up Broadway to Franklin Street and cut thru Cortland Alley. I turned onto White Street, stepped onto the loading dock and went inside. Sound check was happening and the band was tearing into “Broken English.” There were a dozen people standing around but the singer was nowhere in sight.
Sunday, February 10, 1980, was a big night at the Mudd Club. Marianne Faithfull, the ultimate Rock ’n’ Roll legend, muse and wild card, was scheduled to sing at 1 A.M. The scene on the street was sure to be as crazy as the one inside, and everyone from high society to rock’s idiot fringe gave up trying to contain the drool of curiosity. The previous night’s performance on Saturday Night Live was both revelation and disaster as Marianne’s barely audible vocal struggled to hang on to the key, the chord and the beat. The brilliant material she wrote with guitarist Barry Reynolds, buried beneath a spectacle of crash and burn.
Marianne needed a rematch and White Street was the place. Anticipation was running high but the crapshoot was uncertain at best.
DJ David was at the turntables, the bar staff stood ready and the cover charge was an unheard-of ten dollars. Steve pulled me aside before he disappeared and said, “Everyone has to pay.” I smiled but the pressure was on.
Marianne Faithfull, onstage at Mudd, 1980, by Bob Gruen.
Anita Pallenberg, fully loaded. Mudd Club staircase, 1980, by Allan Tannenbaum.
There were more than two hundred people in the street before the doors even opened. I stepped outside around 10:30, looking forward to the chance of telling a number of freeloaders, “Ten dollars please.” I apologized, made sad faces and did my best with the Everyone Has to Pay routine. Cookie arrived and whispered, “Hon, I can pay if I have to.” She didn’t have to, but I loved that she offered. Not everyone was that nice.
I kept smiling and kept the crowd moving. I was lucky I didn’t have to deal with a Paul Simon type or anyone else asking, “Do you know who I am?” The only brief back-and-forth came and went with who gives a shit ’70s supermodel Cheryl Tiegs. She’d never been to Mudd, couldn’t understand why she had to pay and threatened to leave. She wouldn’t stop pouting, and her date finally paid the ten.
By midnight, we had a full house. By showtime, we squeezed in nearly every person south of Fourteenth Street who was out on a Sunday night. I went inside before the show started, grabbed a beer and a double brandy and pushed my way up front. The dance floor was packed so tight it was scary and the club was as crowded as I’d ever seen it. Coming on the heels of the December ’79 headline, WHO CONCERT DISASTER in Cincinnati, we were lucky to avoid a stampede. That’s where our luck ended.
When Marianne stepped onstage the place went wild, but two seconds later I knew we were in trouble. Her hands were Day-Glo pink and matched the streaked color of her hair (a do-it-yourself dye job without rubber gloves). She was wearing a crazy blue jumpsuit that was half astronaut, half sanitation worker. As fucked up as everyone else was, Marianne (wrecked on cocaine or maybe procaine) was past the frozen blur, into the beyond. She grabbed the mike stand, leaned against the pillar at the edge of the stage and tried to hang on. When she opened her mouth, not much came out. The band carried on but “Broken English” was broken and two songs later, Marianne was gone.
After the show, the third floor of 77 White became the second second floor of the Mudd Club. Anita Pallenberg and Marianne sat together receiving well-wishers and admirers while everyone else stood around trying to figure out what just happened. Teri Toye sat in a corner doing God knows what with Richard Sohl while I parked myself on a couch nearby. I watched photographers Berry Berenson and Allan Tannenbaum wander aro
und capturing what became truly lost moments, until Teri started laughing at the open fly on Berry’s corduroys. That was my cue to head back outside.
The night was long and about as Mudd Club as it gets. Like drugs in the bathroom or a barely remembered moment on the dance floor, the music and the chaos, the wreckage and the high, all came together. Marianne Faithfull was a mess, but undiminished and undeterred. Her vocal delivery and the performances that followed eventually caught up with the inspired greatness of the material. Her comeback became her career and time was still on her side.
DJ Anita Sarko remembered being introduced to Marianne by the other Anita and gushing like a fan. It was part of the Pallenberg plan to cheer up Marianne after her memorable—albeit for all the wrong reasons—performance. I remember watching Marianne leave White Street in a limo but it was long before the club emptied out. An hour later I walked home alone. I had a full week ahead of me and next Sunday night was sure to be another wild one.
The Soul Party
Marianne seemed a strange source of inspiration but proved to be just that. Her performance became a survivor’s touchstone—and White Street, the path forward. I spent the following days hanging out in my studio, working on several new paintings and doing my best to avoid heroin and cocaine. Each night I was happy to be standing at the Mudd Club door, even in the cold.
Michael Holman was inspired by an equally strange source. His neighbor, a schoolteacher with a unique sense of interior design, was channeling his inner pimp: just inside his apartment, a fur-lined, spade-shaped doorway curtained with strands of hanging plastic beads. Michael was “so turned on” he knew what he had to do—and after weeks of planning, there was only one place he could do it.
Michael’s vision was far out, right on, and perfect for the Mudd Club. Steve Mass loved his idea and came up a budget of ten thousand dollars. A “pimped out” reality of fur coats and round fur-covered beds, a ghetto beauty shop and a fried chicken buffet was finally going to happen. The Soul party was less than a week away.
Gennaro Palermo and Costa Pappas signed on to build the props and lay out the décor based on Michael’s specifications. Designer Millie David trekked to the wilds of Brooklyn hunting for old-school salon chairs and Turbinator-style hairdryers. Other than a few hundred orders of fried chicken, the only thing left to consider was the entertainment—and it had to be the real thing. Two names were at the top of the list but there wasn’t a lot of time.
Richard Boch and Chi Chi Valenti, Soul Night, 1980, by Allan Tannenbaum.
Holman dreamed of the Ohio Players taking the stage but the “Love Rollercoaster” was out of service and looked like it might be a while before it made another comeback. Steve wanted Clarence Carter, the blind Soul singer whose hits included “Patches,” “Making Love (At the Dark End of the Street)” and “Back Door Santa”—and to everyone’s surprise, Clarence wanted the job. The pieces were falling into place, Michael was nailing down the details and Soul Night was taking on a life of its own.
Sunday, February 17, 1980, and it’s freezing outside. Never one to costume other than pajamas, I’m wearing my heavy overcoat, the tartan scarf and a pair of BOY London leather pants—an accidental hand-me-down from Blondie’s Jimmy Destri. It’s early, the club isn’t open yet and I’m keeping warm up on the second floor. Gennaro and Costa are in the “Soul bedroom” fussing with a fake fur bedspread on the round king-sized bed. They take a last quick look and add final touches to the gold-veined mirrors, the gold TV and gold telephone. No detail is too small and Millie David’s busy making sure the “Beauty Shop” is up and running. The white courier van Holman’s been driving makes a run to One Hundred Twenty-fifth Street and brings back fried chicken, cornbread, collard greens and sweet potato pie. The uptown waitresses Steve hired are wearing little white aprons and seem to know their way around Down Home cooking but have no idea what they’ve gotten themselves into.
It’s almost time to open the doors when Gennaro walks past me to the elevator. He’s wearing a hairnet and he’s got a nickel in his ear. Debi Mazar, dressed like schoolgirl trouble and looking younger than her fifteen years, is right behind him. No one’s sure if she’s supposed to be working and neither is she, so for the moment Debi’s sticking close to Gennaro. I make a quick grab at some chicken, stuff a piece of cornbread in my pocket, walk downstairs and step outside. Chi Chi exits a cab in her fur coat, wearing a chain-link headband and a pair of peep-toe heels. I can’t tell if there’s anything under the coat. She runs inside and takes her position at the foot of the stairs while I toss a few chicken bones into the alley. The suitably soulful crowd standing out front looks anxious, so I take a bite of cornbread and open the chain.
Soul Night aftermath. Giorgio Gomelsky, making his move, 1980, by Ebet Roberts.
Michael Holman is ready at the turntables; he knows better than anyone, “Soul Night is about the music.” When he cues up “It’s My Thing,” Marva Whitney starts sockin’ it to us every which way she can.
The place is jam-packed and everyone’s cast in a black-light pimpadelic haze. The walls are lined with Day-Glo velveteen posters featuring Kama Sutra pleasure positions played out in giant Afroed silhouettes. Michael goes it one better, dips into some down and dirty George Clinton and everyone gets in deep. “Red Hot Mama” and “Alice in My Fantasies” from Funkadelic’s Standing On the Verge of Getting It On release a wild dance floor orgasm.
Minutes later, I’m walking thru the room and Jo Shane grabs me. The Ohio Players’ “Skin Tight” comes blasting out of the speakers and we’re both lost in the mix. Soul Night is happening, the crowd’s eating it up and Steve Mass is at the bar near the DJ booth taking it all in. Dressed in a printed silk shirt and a pair of self-belted polyester flares, he’s ditched the faux fur pimp hat and opted for a pair of Ray-Bans instead. I come off the dance floor and move toward the bar. Steve says something but I keep walking. There’s still a big crowd outside and Clarence Carter’s going on in fifteen minutes. I’ve got to work fast.
Nearly 2 A.M. and the club’s going full tilt. No one moves or takes notice until the music stops and the monitor lets loose a blast of feedback. Clarence is onstage and I’m wondering if he can see or even feel what’s going on. He strums his guitar and says “Hello.” The mike picks it up and the PA system sends it back, loud. Clarence is ready but I’m not sure if anyone else is. I’m smiling half a laugh, thinking, Patches, we’re depending on you, son.
By 3 A.M., Clarence is gone, the door’s on autopilot and we’re letting in just about anyone. I make my way upstairs and pick up a beer at the bar; I step into the ladies’ room and see at least six girls in front of one cracked mirror putting on too much makeup. Someone gives me a kiss, hands me a Quaalude and says “Thanks.” I stash the lude and split.
I spot my friend Solveig with trumpeter Randy Brecker looking out the window at some uniformed cops coming in the front door. They think it’s a raid and get queasy until I explain, “those cops come in all the time—they like to be part of what’s happening.” I turn, walk over to the Soul Bedroom and lie down on the round king-sized bed. Chi Chi’s already there, rolling around in the fluff with two soul sisters, when Allan Tannenbaum begins to snap pictures. Minutes later, I’m up, looking for more fried chicken.
Soul Night turned into a live-action party scene straight out of a Pam Grier blaxploitation flick. It was installation art. Site-specific, made for Mudd and a dreamworld away from the work of Kienholz or Grooms. It was White Street 1980.
At 4 A.M. the party was still going strong. I picked up my brandy and swallowed the Quaalude. Gennaro oozed by, high on sweet potato pie. He still had the nickel in his ear.
Huckleberry Finn
Ten minutes later I’m downstairs looking at an empty stage. Two of the velveteen Day-Glo posters along the wall are gone, two others torn. I walk out the door as Soul Night turns into Monday morning.
By 9 A.M. I’m ready to crash. The loft’s quiet and Gary’s missing in action. I wake up
late afternoon, walk to Morgan’s market at the corner of Reade and Hudson and buy three or four bottles of Perrier. The bubbles help burp away the fried chicken and a quick shower helps wash away whatever’s left of Soul Night’s morning after. I call Solveig to see what’s up but she’s already made plans to see Randy play at a club called Seventh Avenue South. I call Lynette and we decide to meet at One University around midnight. I make a couple more calls, unplug the phone and start working on three new X and O drawings. They’re charcoal, paint and enamel on paper, rough around the edges, thirty-eight by fifty inches and a lot smaller than the billboard. I paint for several hours, roll a joint, put John Cale’s Fear on the turntable and take another shower. We finally have a real tile bathroom with a real door—remodeled by Jackie and Sandy, two carpenter dykes from New Jersey I met at Mudd.
I get out of a cab at One University around midnight, order a drink and look around to see who’s doing what, with whom. I say hi to photographer Michael Halsband, crack a smile at Betsy Sussler and land in a booth with Rebecca Christensen, downtown’s go-to girl. We’re both drinking Jack Daniels and I’m still on the first one when Ricky walks in with Teri. Lynette shows up a moment later and by 2 A.M., even on my night off, I’m ready for White Street.
Outside, a cabby we know is parked at the curb. It’s Cedric Baker, an artist and former Pratt student who works the club scene and rarely takes a ride above Twenty-third. He’s gotten to know his own version of everyone, and driving a cab gives him some “insight into the heartbeat of what’s going on.” That’s what brought him to the Mudd Club. Whenever he has time I let him in for free.
Without a word, Cedric knows where we’re headed. Lynette and I settle in, stretch out and smoke a joint in the Checker’s wide-open backseat space. Ten minutes later, he lets us out in front of 77 White but the street’s deserted and no one’s at the door. We go inside to find the dance floor half full and the bar half empty. The second floor’s quiet, hardly anyone around. The bartender’s missing so I fish a tepid beer from the watery tub and look around. James Nares is in a booth with Adele Bertei, DJ Johnny Dynell, and Ross Bleckner’s boyfriend, Ron Dorsett. When Ron gets up, he looks in the mirror on the wall behind the bar; James offers, “If you like it, we’ll get it for you.”
