by Richard Boch
Minutes later, with a smooth move, fast enough to rival the infamous Dave’s Donut Heist, the mirror is gone. The gang disappears in a flash of penny-ante criminal mischief and makes a run for Ross and Ron’s place on the sixth floor. Ten minutes later and the only thing James remembers before “floating down the river on a raft like Huckleberry Finn” was passing around a suspicious joint. High on crime, angel-dusted and nowhere else to go, they were Trouble looking for Fun on a cold winter night.
I saw nothing, heard nothing and said nothing about the mirror. I pulled another beer from the tub and went downstairs looking for Lynette. Monday turned Tuesday, February was sliding toward March and daylight was still running late. Walking home alone, I left a quiet Mudd Club morning behind.
The Wedding
I lost track running between Murray Street, One University and Mudd. February was a long short month and March daylight rarely seen. Nighttime Broadway was still cold; White Street felt the same. Spring was making an effort, and I kept waiting for winter to say good-bye.
Sunday, March 16, 1980, I have to be at work by 11 P.M. Smutty Smiff and Gail Higgins, the Heartbreakers associate and co-manager, are getting married in the late afternoon.
The previous night, Smutty’s stag party was a rough one. I worked the door and tried to keep a safe distance while a crew of twenty-year-old Rockabilly boys, a gaggle of female fans (including L’Hotsky and Pedersen) and some not quite cougars all splashed around in a sea of limitless alcohol on the second floor of the Mudd Club. Factor in a steel cage, the bathrooms and Smutty’s lost and found memory of getting “blind shit-faced drunk” and it was everything a young bachelor could ask for.
The aftermath and morning after found people passed out upstairs, some waking up in Cortland Alley and others headed for a 7 or 8 A.M. one-night stand. I managed to make it home but never went to sleep. A number of celebrants including the groom were listed MIA until they were rounded up, hosed off and put back together in time for the ceremony.
The big event took place at Ashley’s, a restaurant on East Fifty-second Street. Gary and I hailed a cab at the corner of Murray and asked the driver to go straight up Sixth Avenue and across Twenty-third. The driver decided to head across Canal Street instead and got caught in traffic. When he made the left into Little Italy I asked him, “Where the fuck are you going?” He stopped for the light at Mulberry and Broome, we tried to get out but he wanted his money. When the cabbie grabbed my jacket, I took a swing and cut my arm on the partition in the cab. The Broome Street boys of Little Italy were hanging on the corner, watching it go down. They pulled the driver out the cab, threw a dozen punches in the direction of his head and shoved him back in the car. They looked at me and asked, “Richie, you okay?”
Those guys were a handful when they came around White Street and carried on like junior wiseguys. They were ballbusters but I was happy to have them on my side. One of them hailed us another cab and we walked into Ashley’s at the same time Smutty arrived, smiling and fully recovered. The faces inside were all Max’s and Mudd Club refugees, and I knew nearly everyone in the room. When Gail appeared she looked beautiful and Smutty looked almost as pretty. The ceremony was a quickie and before you knew it they were man and wife.
A minute and two drinks later, I’m headed for the bathroom with Marcia Resnick, the official wedding photographer. She snaps pictures of me leaning against a tile wall with a cocktail in my hand and a fresh battle scar on my forearm from the cab fight. The shots capture time and place, drugs and bathrooms and one of the photos becomes a personal favorite.
I stay behind and freshen up while Marcia makes her way thru the room taking pictures. She gets a shot of Gail and Smutty that’s headed for the cover of next week’s SoHo Weekly News.
I grab a quick something to eat and it’s time to leave. I kiss the newlyweds good night and tell everyone else, “See you later.” I stop by One University on the way downtown, check out the crowd and try to find a couple lines of coke. I hear a screech from across the room and see that it’s Rene Ricard, screaming at two oversized Romaine lettuce leaves used to garnish the seafood special. He calms down, places the lettuce on the floor and continues eating. At this point, the Mudd Club seems like a sane choice.
8. HOOKED
Richard Boch and Pete Farndon, friends, 1980, by Lynette Bean Kral.
It’s late and I’m standing inside when Johnny Thunders blows thru the door with Chrissie Hynde. She’s got on the same red leather motorcycle jacket she’s wearing on the cover of the Pretenders’ first album. It looks authentic, a little rough around the edges, and so does she.
They just left Max’s where they must have had a good time because it’s hard to tell if either of them knows or cares where they’ve landed. They head for the downstairs bar, then wander upstairs, and stumble back down. Fifteen minutes and they’re outside getting a cab. It’s a quick visit, short and sweet, and no one gets in any trouble.
The security guys are used to Johnny’s brand of slurred and ragged charm but Chrissie’s get out of my fucking way attitude is harder to swallow. I don’t care either way. I like her voice, I like the red leather jacket and I want to see the band.
The Pretenders were in town for a few East Coast gigs before heading off on a six-week tour. New York City would have to wait. DJ David was already playing the self-titled debut album, and “Brass in Pocket” and “Mystery Achievement” were dance floor favorites. “Precious,” Chrissie’s up-tempo, in-your-face Cleveland dream, came fully loaded with the unforgettable “Fuck off.” The band’s first single, “Stop Your Sobbing,” had a B-side called “The Wait,” a song Kate Simon describes as “fucking brilliant.” That’s a lot of fuck for one album.
The sound was big; Pete Farndon’s bass and Martin Chambers’ drums were the bedrock and the beat. When Jim Honeyman-Scott’s guitar let loose and Chrissie started singing, there was nothing like it. I still hadn’t heard the Pretenders live, but I already knew.
I think I know it all but still don’t see what’s coming. I’ve got a few dime bags of dope tucked down the side of my Marlboro box and I’m headed for Lynette’s on Bank Street in the West Village. Her roommate is away; the roommate’s pet monkey isn’t home. Ivan Kral, Lynette’s longtime on again-off again boyfriend, has been on the road forever, but Herman, their longhaired cat, is still there. I like Herman but my allergies don’t, and my eyes turn bloodshot whenever I walk into the apartment. Fortunately, it’s nothing a few lines of dope won’t fix.
It’s early evening and there’s no plan; we smoke a joint when I arrive but I keep quiet about the dimes. Lynette’s got a friend coming over and he’s already on the way. She spins positive, tells me I’ll love him but I have no idea.
The doorbell rings and a minute later, Pete Farndon of the Pretenders walks in. I recognize him from the album cover and Lynette introduces us. It’s completely different from the previous night’s encounter with Chrissie at the club, and in no time the three of us are getting on like old friends. Pete’s open, easygoing and beautiful, and he comes off a real gentleman. I respond to all of it and I’m hooked. It’s the beginning of a friendship that lasts a little over three years.
Lynette grabs her Polaroid and shoots some photos of Pete and me wearing motorcycle jackets.
She lights up a joint but Pete isn’t into it.
I take out the dope and ask Lynette, “Is it cool?”
Pete looks at me. “What did you just say?”
Lynette tells him. He laughs out loud. We all get high and the three of us walk over to One University Place.
The cold air feels good as we cut across Washington Square. We walk in and Mickey Ruskin’s in his usual spot, perched on the brass rail at the end of the bar, sipping a shot of Sauza Conmemorativo. I introduce Pete to Mickey and order drinks. Mickey keeps sipping his Sauza while the three of us slip into the men’s room to finish up the last dime bag. Pete’s smiling, I’m leaning against the wall and Lynette’s laughing. I’m not sure if it
’s the dope or the fact that we’re crammed into a bathroom stall together but there’s already a connection. It’s a we three, just us moment and nobody else is in on it. A round or two of Space Invaders in the back room seals the deal, and we hang for one more drink before we split. Mickey makes a point of saying good night, and Pete can see why we love the place. We jump in a cab outside, and tell the driver “Broadway and White Street, two below Canal, left side far corner.”
Fast friends, three short years. I still look at those Polaroids. Sometimes I cry.
Serious and Ridiculous
Good memories or bad, some we hold on to and some we lose—it’s never our choice. Now it’s 4 A.M. again. The Mudd Club’s almost empty and my newest friend, found and gone. Ten minutes later I’m home alone, looking in the mirror, saying good night.
By two in the afternoon I’m up, out the door and on my way to visit Andi. She’s reinvented herself as part of the Electric Lady Studio staff, having replaced manager Dory Hamilton, who retired to become Mrs. Allen Lanier. I got to know Dory at Mudd and she’s a sweetheart—blonde, beautiful, a great smile and addicted to Rock ’n’ Roll. Allen is a founding member of Blue Öyster Cult, a brilliant musician, and one of those people who knows everyone. We become friends, connected by Mudd, music and our eventual (if somewhat demented) love affair with late-night Mary Tyler Moore. It’s the Walter Steding Constellation Theory in spades.
When Andi finishes work we head for Midtown to buy a Polaroid SX-70. We land at Thirty-second Street Camera where the girls behind the counter know me from the club. I sort of recognize them but I’m not quite sure (Saturday night bridge-and-tunnel brunettes all look the same). We chat for a minute, I buy the camera and we’re all set. The girls keep talking and give me two extra packs of free film because I always let them into the club. I say thanks—but they’ll still have to pay.
Teri Toye and Ronnie Cutrone, peace pipe soliloquy, TV Party, 1980, by Bobby Grossman.
Andi and I cab it down to Murray and call Richard Sohl. We take Polaroids of each other looking both serious and ridiculous. By 10 P.M., we’re in the back room of One University taking shots of Space Invaders, Asteroids and Joseph Kosuth’s neon wall sculpture. We kill a pack of film in a few minutes and move into the dining room; we haven’t eaten all day and we’re both hungry. Melvone, our waitress, tells us the kitchen’s backed up and suggests a bowl of Navy Bean soup but both of us are a bit unsure about a bowl of beans. Melvone’s black and beautiful, a London transplant with an accent that somehow suits the words Navy Bean. It’s hard to say no.
Ricky Sohl eventually arrives with Teri Toye just as Lincoln Scott, the dreadlocked dining room manager, slowly wanders past our table. Ricky heads straight for the back with a pocket full of quarters, intent on playing Space Invaders. Teri squeezes into our booth intent on ordering a Kamikaze. Andi and I split a bowl of soup, head back to Murray Street and roll a few joints. “The soup of the day is Navy Bean,” spoken with a Melvonian accent, becomes our new laugh line.
By 3 A.M., we all show up at the Mudd Club. By 6 or 7 A.M., with a little luck, a line of dope and a half a Quaalude, I’ll be asleep.
The Polaroid camera’s the first new toy I’ve had in a while. For whatever reason, I rarely take it to the Mudd Club.
Andy, Gerard and Marcel
Thursday, March 20, 1980, officially one year on the job. The anniversary goes by unnoticed and unrecorded by me, my Polaroid or anyone else. I’m at the door smiling and opening the chain while Steve’s busy throwing a thirty-seventh birthday celebration for poet, photographer and filmmaker Gerard Malanga. The invitation reads ABOVE THE MUDD CLUB and the party’s taking place on the mysterious third floor. It’s the same floor where I’d bring Robert Rauschenberg to meet Steve, where I snorted coke off the end of a hunting knife with the Hells Angels and where Marianne partied after her performance went up in flames. It’s the private reserve of late-night adventure and the occasional freak-show sexual encounter. There’s even a rack of old wedding gowns just in case someone’s fetish impulse runs amok.
Besides a third-floor birthday party at Mudd, Gerard’s own history is woven into the creative fabric of the avant-garde: the path that led him to White Street, as wild as it gets.
In the early ’60s Gerard assisted Andy Warhol with nearly all of his large silkscreen paintings. He also appeared in many of his early films. It was some of Warhol’s seminal work—masterpieces that for me defined and redefined art.
Gerard danced in leather pants and cracked a whip in Warhol’s Exploding Plastic Inevitable presentation of The Velvet Underground. He continued to write, take photographs and make films of his own. Gerard met everyone, witnessed and participated in everything.
In the fall of ’63, he and Andy traveled to Los Angeles for a show of Warhol’s Silver Elvis paintings at the Ferus Gallery. At that same moment, the Pasadena Art Museum was presenting the first retrospective of Marcel Duchamp’s career.
By way of fate and coincidence, Andy and Gerard met Duchamp at an outdoor café, a block from the Pasadena museum. Marcel was sitting alone eating a sandwich when Gerard and Andy approached. Acting like teenagers who could barely contain themselves, Gerard remembers the experience leaving them “giddy and starstruck.”
Every art concept and idea from the Beats to Rauschenberg, from Warhol and Pop to Punk, No Wave and graffiti bore the mark of Marcel Duchamp. The Mudd Club in some strange way was the ultimate readymade, the empty space that became something more, something else. Dark, playful and Dada in spirit, 77 White felt the hand of Duchamp if only by osmosis. Gerard Malanga shook that hand, and then ours.
Officially Gray
The spirit of Dada continues to transcend and the band Test Pattern is now officially called Gray. They’re part of the new guard informed by everything and everyone from the streets of downtown to Duchamp and Pollack, Miles Davis and John Cage.
Saturday, March 22, two nights after Gerard’s birthday party. Gray are doing a show at CBGB’s, opening for DNA and I’m working the door on White Street. Either way we’re both dealing with a tough crowd.
Standing outside, I thought my days on White would keep going on and that New York City would always stay the same. I thought I was ready for almost anything.
I was wrong, and what came next was bound to happen.
Jim Connelly, the odd sixty-year-old retired former something from New Jersey, was supposed to be in charge of Mudd security but he turned out to be a bad joke. He never liked me, the feeling was mutual, and somewhere between “Get out of my way” and “Fuck you” his fist landed in my face. I knew immediately—and he found out thirty minutes later—the moment he threw that punch he became a former Mudd Club employee.
Teen party girl Ellen Kinnally was standing next to me; Tina L’Hotsky was on her way down the stairs. In a show of solidarity, they took me to Steve’s loft around the corner. We rang the bell and Steve buzzed us in to the wild bachelor pad world of Doctor Mudd.
Andy Warhol, with camera and camera-ready, Mudd 1980, by Kate Simon.
My nose had already stopped bleeding, my teeth all present and accounted for. I was pissed, the girls were yelling at Steve and he was already on the phone. He hung up and told us to wait twenty minutes before we returned. “Security” had less than ten minutes to pack up and leave.
Tina and Ellen came to my rescue, Steve took care of the situation, and several drinks took care of me. At last, the posse from New Jersey was gone and thirty minutes later, wounded but happy, I was working the door alone.
Staring down Cortland Alley I start thinking about the phone call that came out of nowhere and the now familiar voice that said, “Pat tells me you know everyone.” I still don’t—but I’m still here.
9. BIRDS AND FLOWERS
Fab 5 Freddy Brathwaite, The Times Square Show, 1980, by Bobby Grossman.
Winter might be over but I’m still wearing the heavy coat. It’s cold and it’s Saturday night, the end of March 1980; Chi Chi and I are both o
utside and Aldo’s working security. From the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of a big blonde woman who used to work at the club. Built like a pro wrestler, with the soon-to-be-apparent arm and aim of a major league pitcher, she disappears in the crowd. A minute later, a dead pigeon comes flying at me, catches me off guard and hits me hard in the shoulder. I’ve never been hit with a dead bird before and nearly lose my balance. I have no idea how to react and standing in front of two hundred people doesn’t help. Someone in the crowd points as the big blonde jumps in a car and drives away. It’s like a scene from a rickety black-and-white newsreel, and for me the moment is a total What the fuck?
I look at Chi Chi, head inside and walk up the stairs. A few people know what’s happened and follow me. I’m worried my overcoat’s messed up and the idea of a dead pigeon makes me feel sick. I pass thru the second floor without looking at anyone, kick the metal door of the bathroom and go inside.
I’m a few drinks and half a gram past banging my head on the wall and just short of coming undone. I feel around in my pockets for a Quaalude, bite one in half and snort up two lines of coke from David the Dentist. Russian Eddie lights my cigarette and shoves another blast under my nose. Phoebe Zeeman looks at me and flicks a feather off my shoulder. They all mean well but I’m not feeling it. I still can’t believe it: I’ve been hit with a dead bird.
