by Richard Boch
Ten minutes later, Phoebe comes back with Ellen Kinnally to check how I’m doing. I’ve pulled it together enough to ask for a double Rémy. I want sympathy too—just don’t touch me.
I throw down the brandy in one cough-inducing gulp and head downstairs. Outside everything looks gray. The pigeon’s gone but the crowd’s still waiting, relieved to see me but not sure what to expect. I’m pretty out of it and won’t look at anyone. Chi Chi looks at me, shakes her head and laughs just a little. I grab the chain and we slowly start letting everyone in. Phoebe comes outside and tells me to come back upstairs. It’s freezing and she’s wearing a sleeveless cocktail dress and go-go boots. I eat the other half Quaalude and let in the last of the stragglers. I follow Phoebe upstairs. I’m not sure if I’m feeling better or not feeling anything at all. I’m not sure it matters.
Wilted Carnation
The following night starts out like any other. Streetlit on the outside, empty inside, it’s the Mudd Club waiting to go another round. There’s one cab and only two people waiting. It’s a dark-alley, soft-focus blur right out of a Hopper painting, the address still years away, if ever, from becoming a desirable location. I’m at the door smoking the short end of a spliff less than twenty-four hours after getting hit by a dead pigeon. My pride’s wounded, my coat slightly soiled.
Around midnight, two girls bring me a flower. It’s a wilted carnation, likely nabbed from a coffee shop vase. It’s sweet, the thought that counts, and it almost makes me feel okay. I fold up the stem and wear it sticking out of my pocket. It gets me through the night. Thank God it’s Sunday.
At 4 A.M., I walk to Murray Street. I just want to lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling. The only things I want near me are cigarettes and dope. I’ll close the shutters, put on Roxy Music’s Siren and drift away. I’ll get up when it’s dark again. I’ll take a shower, look in the mirror and try to smile.
Boggs
A day later I’m pulling myself together. I manage to distance myself from the bird debacle and appear on Midday Live with Bill Boggs. One of the show’s producers, a semi-regular at Mudd, had asked me, DJ David, and other so-called nightlife personalities to appear and talk about the club scene. It was a good example of bad daytime television.
Coming from Boggs the word scene sounded more hollow than usual. He made things worse by presenting us as a bunch of weirdos running around in the middle of the night. I said very little, the others said a bit more and Bill did most of the talking. The show taped in the late afternoon and aired the following day.
I went to work that night, went home and stayed up till noon to watch Midday Live—a show that was live yesterday. The picture looked grainy on the small black-and-white TV and the segment was a nonstarter for my on-air career. Solveig, always the supportive friend, watched from her place and called up laughing, telling me it was great. Bill Boggs never visited the Mudd Club and I wasn’t interviewed on television again for nearly ten years.
There was a time when my ego would’ve gone wild, even over a Midday Live appearance. Now, between the drugs and a pigeon, I’m off balance. I’m hoping warmer weather and springtime will make a difference.
I crash and wake up around 9 P.M. Dinner is two hot dogs with onions and sauerkraut from Dave’s—the last bite swallowed on the front steps of Mudd. Aldo’s already outside, I’m as ready as I’m going to be, and the first people to arrive say they saw me on TV. I let them in but they have to pay five dollars.
I’m still cruising along on the hot dogs when John Waters, the American trash master, writer and film director, steps out of a cab. He’s friendly and polite and there’s a lot about Mudd that’s in sync with his humor and proud sense of perversion; for him, no doubt, a well-aimed dead bird would be a standing ovation.
Chiclets and Dos Equis
When a limo pulls up and Anita Pallenberg gets out I forget about everything else. She’s wearing a white hat, white jacket and a single earring covered with diamonds. It’s large, either Winston or Van Cleef, the mate probably long since missing. She mumbles something and we both walk in. Teri Toye comes over, starts whispering in Anita’s earringless ear and the conversation looks about as close to real girl talk as these two can get. I feel left out and return to the door.
Hours later, sitting on a bench in the basement with Anita and Lynette, I’m relaxing with the help of a low-dose lude. The early departures are picking up their coats at the checkroom but nobody bothers or comes near us. Mona and Lisa, a mother-daughter team who live nearby on Duane Street, are working the coat check and Mona’s sixteen-year-old son, Steven, is sitting six feet away, making out with Teri. Lynette’s talking fast and laughing, and Anita’s been digging around in her bag for what seems like ten minutes. I light a joint, pass it to Lynette, and everything seems as it should be. Near closing time, the basement’s become a waiting room with everything happening and hiding in plain sight. Anita, still digging deep down in her bag, eventually finds what she’s looking for. I’m still wondering what, until she turns and hands me a thin yellow box.
“You want a Chiclet?”
It’s tempting, though the Chiclets look like they’ve been hanging out since Barbarella days or at best The Rolling Stones’ American Tour 1972. Thinking twice, and despite the possibility of a vintage provenance, I decline.
Without much more to say I disappear thru the storage area, take the elevator to the second floor, pick up a beer at the bar, and head back down the front stairs. It’s after 4 A.M. Aldo’s still watching the door but there’s no one outside except the people leaving. John Lydon just slipped in for an early morning visit and maybe thirty people are left upstairs. Lydon’s wearing a red suit and he’s hard to miss.
I wind up sliding into a booth with Damita Richter. She’s all dark innocence with an angel face, a full-color cowgirl pinup tattoo on her forearm and two crooked barrettes in her chopped-up hair. She looks about twelve going on twenty. I get up and grab two beers at the bar; I make a quick reach for one more and the bartender gives me a dirty look. I want to say fuck you but hold back, saving it for another night. Damita and I head for the door, hand a beer off to Lydon and hop in a cab. Five minutes later, we’re buying a six-pack of Dos Equis and a pack of Marlboros at the deli on Church Street. We hang out at 9 Murray, playing records and lying on the living room floor with the TV on. It’s dark outside and the shutters are closed tight. Damita crashes at my place for the next few days and disappears for the next few weeks. It seems kind of sad, makes me feel kind of lucky.
Damita with cowgirl tattoo, 1980, by Ebet Roberts.
I survive another morning of beer and cigarettes for breakfast. I catch some sleep and paint for a few hours. The weeks seem more and more like one long night and it’s beginning to feel as though I’ve been staring down Cortland Alley forever. At times I can’t even tell if I’m stoned, whether the drugs are even working. The joyful swirl of Jack Daniels and LSD is nearly a decade past, a joint or cigarette now just a prop. Cocaine’s become the paralytic, jaw-clenching mindfuck; Quaaludes are a sleepwalk minus the dream. Alcohol’s the free and easy default while heroin smoothes all rough edges. I’m not sure if I’m confused or lost but happiness is becoming hard to measure. I avoid trying, roll another joint, and keep showing up.
Another nighttime day and the crowd out front looks the same; at least the weather’s improving. The metal steps seem softer underfoot and the chain feels lighter in my hand. The up and down feelings come and go. Maybe spring is really here.
Sometime before last call, Nancy Miller and her dog Turu stepped outside for a walk. She and her roommate, Andrew Earl, shared the fifth floor directly below Ross Bleckner and regularly offered me safe haven. While Nancy fearlessly navigated the perils of living above Mudd, Andrew seemed indifferent, only occasionally coming downstairs for a drink. Either way, it had to have been a challenge.
Today Nancy’s forever amused by the lived upstairs from Mudd Club experience. Funny but difficult to imagine—the miracle being she
survived. Ross, however, had no hesitation telling me he “hated it.”
Shöx Lumania
March was slowly becoming April. The weather kept getting warmer and I kept trying to figure out what to wear. When Stephanie Richardson walked into the club and spotted a guy wearing a general’s uniform and a crazy hat she felt inspired and did what she had to do.
The guy in the uniform was Lari Shöx, and he’d just started a band called Shöx Lumania. Stephanie told him she’d “love to see it” and Lari told her, “See it? You can be in it.” With Lari on vocals and Stephanie reimagining “Yoko at her worst,” their sound could peel paint off the walls and get people dancing at the same time. Between the synthesizers, no guitars and composer Man Parrish’s music, the Lumanians and their crazy headgear were a hit.
The band played all over town, but for Stephanie, “A show at the Mudd Club was like playing for a roomful of friends—it was home.” That sentiment never got old.
Some weeks later, I stood by the bar and watched Shöx Lumania onstage. I moved onto the dance floor and couldn’t stop laughing at the odd apparatus-like stagewear attached to Stephanie’s head. Abbijane came up behind me, gave me a shove and we started dancing. That’s when Diane showed up looking for Lynette.
Number One
I met the artist Diane Dupuis at Mudd. Adventurous to a fault, she picked up Punk Magazine issue #1 in January 1976 and entered the trivia contest on the back cover. Despite high hopes, Diane needed more than a contest win to keep things going so she searched the Village Voice classifieds for work. She dialed a number cold and, oddly enough, Punk Magazine answered. Diane mentioned her participation in the trivia contest along with the fact that she was a girl, both of which appealed to cofounder John Holmstrom. She won the contest, got the job and established a brief but brave tenure at Punk.
In 1978, she left for London, hooked up with Lynette Bean and ran around chasing British rockers—and occasionally, the music. In December ’79 she returned to New York, walked thru the doors of the Mudd Club and headed for the dance floor. When springtime rolled around she was still dancing and by some miracle or just plain luck, so was I.
Whether we were connected by the dance floor, the music we loved or the bands we chased around, the Lene Lovich show on White Street was a night that brought everyone together. A quick stop on a mini-tour in support of her second album, Flex, the set list included some of the material I loved from Stateless.
The Mudd Club, with its loose schedule of live music, was the perfect venue for a band with a night off. A small poster in the entryway went up two or three days before the show and word of mouth did the rest. I called my friends Alex Rozum and Phyllis Teitelman and told them to come by. They were big fans of Lene, and Phyllis was a big fan of crazy on White Street.
I arrived after the sound check and only knew Lene from the records. The dressing room was set up on the off limits third floor and the band showed up just before midnight. Lene and Les Chappell, her partner and lead guitarist, arrived a short time later. They were more freak than beautiful—all business, no smiles and barely acknowledged anyone. I took them upstairs and they didn’t say a word. I rolled my eyes for my own benefit, walked back down and went outside. Something told me, this was going to be good.
The small but unnecessary guest list was a scribble of music-biz types and downtown rock writers; the rest of the crowd was a strange brew of Lovich fans and club regulars. Steve was outside “helping” and I was grabbing the people I knew when Solveig arrived, adding a touch of glamour to the evening. We stepped inside, she ordered a Stoli rocks and both of us disappeared into the basement. Ten minutes later the band was onstage. Lene was singing “Bird Song.”
Solveig and I were still downstairs when the band finished “Say When.” The strange beat of “Lucky Number” started coming through the floor and Lene’s bizarre vocal acrobatics brought us back upstairs. I looked at Solveig, said “Let’s go” as we cut our way into the wall-to-wall wave of bobbing heads.
By midset, Lene was spinning around in front of the microphone. Her yelps, bleats and bird noises were flying around the room and her bugged-out eyeballs, swinging pigtails and braided buns were all just part of the show. Who knows what she was like at home—but if you came to see her live, this was what you were here for.
After half a dozen songs, I had to get back to the door. The band’s cover of the Tommy James classic “I Think We’re Alone Now” was the kick I needed to ditch Solveig, squeeze past the bar and head outside. The street was all but deserted except for the cabbies. Alone without the crowd felt good and Lene and Les must have felt the same way; when the show was over they were gone.
After 3 A.M., but it feels early. “Lucky Number” is still bouncing around in my head. The first floor’s crowded though danceable, and I just made out with someone but have no idea who. Outside, only two sad-looking people are hanging around—three, if you count the person passed out on the hood of a taxi. I ask the driver, “What gives?” and he tells me the guy’s waiting for his friend. I duck back inside to put my skills to better use and by 6 A.M. daylight I was home, working in my studio. Thursday came and went without notice and by the weekend I was ready for whatever it had to offer.
Friday is one of those nights where nothing and everything is going on. The place is crowded by midnight and Sylvia Miles is at the bar chatting with Steve. A fast talker with a self-described “elephantine” memory, she refers to Steve as Stephen. I can’t imagine the topic or depth of their conversation.
Marcia Resnick drifts past me and I tag along. We turn the corner and start walking upstairs. Howie Pyro and Siouxsie Sioux are steps ahead of us and Hal Ludacer and Russian Mia stand in a cloud of smoke on the landing.
Billy Idol comes out of the second floor and offers a “Hey mate.”
I give him a “Hey” back. “You want a drink?”
The slurred response: “Sure.”
It doesn’t take much. Everybody’s easy. Bryan Ferry is upstairs hanging out with Henry Edwards, the failed screenwriter partially responsible for the painful 1978 film version of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Bryan’s wearing a suit and looks like what you expect Bryan Ferry to look like. I walk over, introduce myself and remind him that we met at the Carlyle Hotel just over a year ago. He’s polite but it’s doubtful he has any memory of the encounter.
Ferry’s a huge star and both his solo work and Roxy Music can tear up the dance floor—his cover of Wilbert Harrison’s 1962 single “Let’s Stick Together” blows the place apart. His presence causes a bit of a buzz on the second floor but everyone’s either too cool or too stoned to make a fuss. He never sits down and just seems to loiter a bit with a drink in his hand near one of the booths. Oddly enough, he fits right in.
On the other end of what’s happening is the kid selling Tuinals in the bathroom. It’s like high school all over again, except for the bar filled with drunken artists, rock stars and Mudd Club regulars. The kid looks bridge-and-tunnel, Queens, maybe, or even New Hyde Park, but nobody knows him and he’s too sketchy, even for a teenage drug dealer. I’m not the one who let him in so I head downstairs and ask security to toss him. It’s a pretty good night for a Friday.
There’s a crowd six deep standing around the front steps. Delphine Blue comes around the side and I open the chain. She’s already dreaming about a possible job at the new place on East Eleventh. A minute later, Mary Lou Green gets out of a cab with “Little” Debi Mazar and asks if I’ve seen Steve. I step inside for a soda and John Cale comes over, asking the same question. I tell him yes, about an hour ago, talking with Sylvia Miles; he counters with a rude but funny non sequitur. Everybody’s asking but Steve is nowhere to be seen. I’m not finding what I’m looking for either, so I ditch the soda, order a drink and go back out.
Dylan McDermott’s walking down White Street, headed toward the door. He’ll hang and talk but never asks for a drink. He walks in at the same moment French Chris, stoned, beautiful and hard to resis
t (right down to the lure of a prison tattoo), shamelessly asks if I’ll get him a Martell. I tell him we have Rémy or Hennessey.
Soon-to-be-legendary vocalist Dolette McDonald arrives, offers to pay for a group of friends, and drops a wad of cash on the steps. I reach down and hand it back to her but she’s confused as to where it came from. I tell her, “it’s YOURS” and send them in for free. Finally, Lynette arrives with Peter Davies, the one- or two-time Iggy tour manager. The three of us walk upstairs and head straight for the bar. The drinks are on the house and Peter leaves the bartender five dollars, a surprisingly good tip.
The three of us get ready to make a move when Anita P. pulls me aside. She’s with a young man I’ve never seen before and wants to know where Steve is. It’s starting to feel more like two days than two hours since Stephen and Sylvia were at the bar. Anita and her new friend leave without getting an answer.
At last the coast is clear and Peter and Lynette walk with me to the elevator. I tug on the cable and we go for a ride. Five minutes and half a gram later, I drop them off and take the elevator down to the basement. I sit alone for a minute, collect myself and catch my breath. I dump another pile of coke on my fist and just stare at it. A moment later, I’m asking for a drink at the first-floor bar, trying hard to speak thru a frozen smile. DJ David’s got the whole room spinning and Abbijane’s dancing with her childhood friend, Julie Glantz. Red Head Heather, Diane Dupuis and Jackie Shapiro, a cute uptown delinquent, are all awhirl, caught up in some sort of neo-Twist gyration. There’s a bit of open floor around them, and when anyone gets too close Abbi’s hand goes up with a stop right there palm to the face. It’s a classic move and when I look over at David we both start laughing. Giving up on any attempt to speak, I move onto the floor and dive in.
