by Richard Boch
I arrived late that Sunday night and missed one or two songs. Maybe walking in midset was the way to go—part of that You never know what’s happening next at the Mudd Club. I stayed till closing and left with a drumstick in my hand. DJ Bonebrake signed it with a marker, and it still stands in a pencil holder on my desk. With a few other memorable sticks keeping it company, it’s a moment in time, one that I can reach out and touch.
Faded Floral Print
Monday morning I keep playing the X cover of the Doors’ “Soul Kitchen.” Monday night, White Street, I’m trying to sing along with the song in my head. Twelve hours later, Tuesday morning is closing in on 11 A.M. Teri’s hanging out at the loft and Roxy Music is back on the turntable. We’ve been up all night, not ready to sleep, unable to eat. We need something to do.
I’m wearing a Secret Rocker T-shirt, Converse sneakers and a pair of red cotton pants, the same clothes I wore to work night before. Teri’s wearing her own version of yesterday: Maud Frizon heels and a royal blue cocktail dress, her blonde hair pulled into a tiny bun at the top of her head. With black Ray-Bans it’s an impressive look and together we’re trouble looking for trouble. Cabbing it to Second Avenue and Houston, we walk to the corner near the gas station on First Street. I duck into an entryway on the ground floor, shove forty dollars through a hole in the wall, and four dime bags of heroin come back at me. Nearly noon, we head over to One University for a few Bloody Marys. Big Ron is tending bar, surprised but happy to see us.
Two minutes later I’m in the men’s room, Teri’s in the ladies’ and Ron’s just laughing. Back at the bar we order drinks, give Ron a taste of a dime and grab a cab to Murray Street; we go upstairs and get lost. By midnight, I’m on the front steps of the Mudd Club, thinking about two things: I have to make another trip to First and Houston, and I need to get out of town for a few days. First Street’s the easy part; as for the getaway, Big Ron has a brilliant idea.
Ron had heard about a place in Montauk; he called and booked two rooms for the weekend. It sounded too good to be true and I had no idea what to expect. Saturday I worked until 5 A.M., and by 7 we were on the Long Island Railroad. Three-and-a-half hours later, I was wiping sand off the faded floral print contact paper covering the top of an old dresser. I was looking out a window across Old Montauk Highway. I could see the waves and hear the ocean. It was beautiful, a home I never knew until then. I laid out two lines of dope, grabbed a towel, and walked downstairs. Ron’s brilliant idea was called “Bea’s Surf and Sand.”
Dogs
The weekend getaway lasted just thirty-six hours but left me feeling like I’d lived there forever. Leaving Montauk Sunday night, I was already planning my return. Monday, back at work, kissing and hugging people I barely knew and sending most of them in for free. I looked around before I took a break and spotted my friends Bruce Crocker and Michael Maslin. They’d hang out across the street, wait for me to give ’em a sign and make their way thru the crowd. They knew me well enough that the idea of me working the door at Mudd cracked them up. I’m not sure I kissed either one hello.
Bruce was a very young 1980 “Mad Man” working for an agency on Madison. He played drums, guitar and sang in a garage band when he was twelve but his music career, admittedly, “peaked in the eighth grade.” He’d seen Hendrix, Cream and Moby Grape at Woolsey Hall in New Haven when he was a kid and thought he was ready for anything.
Michael, whose work I collected and admired, was the only published cartoonist I knew, his drawings regularly appearing in The New Yorker. He never played the drums or sang in a band but grew up loving Dylan, the Beatles and the Stones. I turned him on to CBGB, he cheered Patti and Television, and kept an open mind.
Stepping thru the door, they headed into the Mudd Club on a night when anything is possible was in full force. It didn’t matter if you’d seen it all or not. This was different—and no one was ready for Thor.
Thor. Spinal Tap before Spinal Tap, 1980, by Ebet Roberts.
A Prince Valiant haircut and pumped-up muscles: black leather boots, wrist cuffs and peekaboo lace-up pants. The music was a heavy metal variety of Vancouver descent—blowing up hot water bottles with lung power alone, the explosive but not very special effect. A cluster of fans carrying Thor’s album, Keep the Dogs Away, along with a midset call for “Dogs, Dogs, Dogs,” brought on the anxiously awaited title cut. Several audience members barked their approval.
Thor was Spinal Tap before Spinal Tap, ahead of his time and beyond even the archness of Mudd Club irony. I’m not sure how or why he wound up on White Street but things tend to happen for reasons we seldom understand. By 3 A.M., I was upstairs with Michael and Bruce. Thor had left the building.
Early summer 1980. Heroin by now was the sometimes Happy Hour choice, and everyone I knew was fucking around with it. Working on White Street Monday through Friday, I wandered Rivington, Norfolk and Chrystie Streets in the afternoon looking for Doctor Nova or one of his friends.
Running around night and day became a series of loose ends. I was somehow functioning, painting a little and smiling most of the time. I’m not sure if I thought anything was wrong. I’m not sure what I thought.
Teri was back and forth from Iowa and living at Richard Sohl’s West Eighty-fifth Street apartment. They were showing up together at the club every night. Andi’s song “Chinese Chance,” about video game addiction and the goings-on in the back room of Mickey’s, was almost ready to tell the story. The song about Mudd had yet to be written.
We were all getting a little crazy, but just how crazy was the question. Lounging around in underpants for Executive Board Meetings (EBMs) at Andi’s apartment on East Thirty-first Street was the fast answer but seemed to skirt the dementia’s root cause.
Ricky, Teri, Andi and I held several EBMs and Doctor Nova attended every one; boxers, briefs and panties kept us cool. We discussed plans for the summer, came up with the name “Square Point” for Andi’s music company and talked about spending time in Montauk. We even talked about removing Teri from the board of directors because of her unprofessional and erratic behavior, which in light of the company was hard to imagine or describe.
Teri’s response to the threat of dismissal, “Don’t try it, Grandma.”
My response to the board, “Ignore her.”
After a few hours of back-and-forth nonsense, I’d fall into the back seat of a cab and head home. I’d wake the next afternoon usually wearing my own underpants.
Two nights after our last meeting at Andi’s, I walked into One University. Gary was at the bar and Rene Ricard was at a table eating a meal that someone else was undoubtedly paying for. Always the entertainer, spewing words of sharp unsubtle cut, Rene looked over and let go, “Here comes the artist-doorman and his hustler boyfriend.” I put down my jacket, picked up a chair and threw it at him. The next thing out of his mouth was a shriek, followed by a squeal, “Mickey! Mickey! He threw a chair at me!” Everyone else kept eating; I sat in a booth and ordered dinner.
For the moment, heroin shrouded any embarrassment and an hour later I left for work. My response to the throwaway words of an erratic, gifted poet was a sad and crazy comment on the type of behavior I assumed I could get away with. It would take time before I could look in the mirror and the truth be told.
Bing Cherries and Beefcake
Rene and I remained a friendly acquaintance; I made it through the night without throwing things at anyone else. After work I went home and passed out. When noontime arrived I took a shower, put on some clothes and stared into an empty refrigerator. A lonely cup of Dannon yogurt and a few Bing cherries was breakfast; my last Marlboro, lunch. I washed it all down with a half-bottle of flat Perrier, went out for cigarettes and worked in the studio for hours. I headed for White Street around 10:30, smoked a joint on the way, and kept my bloodshot eyes behind a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses. I walked inside, looked over at DJ David and the lights went down. I asked for a Coca-Cola with a lot of ice, and I stepped back out. Moments later, I
heard a familiar “Hey, hey Richie!” as Tom Baker stepped out of a cab and started a conversation from thirty feet away. He wanted to make sure I’d look out for his friend Joe Dallesandro, the actor, Warhol superstar and former beefcake model. I thought to myself, Why wouldn’t I? More than a decade past his prime, the iconic star of Trash, Flesh and Heat was still beautiful and he was still Little Joe; by 1980 White Street seemed the wild side.
Dallesandro and Baker, either directly or by degrees, informed the attitude, behavior and style of the sixties and seventies. Moving forward and thru the doors of 77 White, that style and attitude became part of the mix, and we all took notice whether we realized or not.
Tom went inside; I lit a cigarette and reached for a beer that wasn’t there. I finished my soda and cracked the watery ice between my teeth. I sat down on the chain and rocked back and forth. It was quiet—just the sound of the street and twenty people waiting outside. I was waiting too, on Joe and anyone else who might come along.
Thirty minutes later, Alan Midgette arrived and the place was still empty. No one was dancing, the perfect setup. Alan smiled hello, headed inside and walked onto the middle of the dance floor; he stretched out his arms and started to spin. I started letting people in and the bar filled up. People started dancing and Alan kept spinning. Tom Baker was hanging out, and an hour later, I was still waiting.
Little Joe never showed.
Punk Pussy
Baker stuck around till late and I left early, just after 4 A.M. The following night I’m back outside and a few moonlighting NYC cops are working security. They’re a little overwhelmed by the door but come in handy dealing with everything from nasty bridge-and-tunnel girls to drunken bachelor parties looking for Punk pussy.
When three suburban girls—a variety even worse than outer borough bridge-and-tunnel—get shoved around in the crowd they open the chain themselves. I close the chain and tell them, “Get the fuck off the steps.” One of them grabs my arm and tries to slap me and the security cop tells me to go inside. It’s not even 1 A.M. and I’m already pissed off.
I head for the basement and walk into the coat check room to see what Mona and Lisa are up to. I sit on the floor in a corner and hide. I start wondering how much longer I can do this. A minute or two later, I snap out of it and head back out. The girls are gone and the security cop tells me to smile. He says my friend Dory’s inside looking for me.
Made for Dancing
Allen Lanier’s always on the road with Blue Öyster Cult and Dory Lanier likes hanging out on the second floor of Mudd. She’s between the cage and the bar talking to Nurse Debbie. I get a big smile and warm hug as we walk toward the back of the room.
We laugh when we spot teen idol Leif Garrett sitting on a small yellow crushed velvet couch just outside the bathrooms. His hair’s long, wavy and blond, he’s dressed all in white, and he’s got a girl sitting on his lap. He’s pretty but not beautiful, about nineteen and a little old for his job. He hasn’t been to jail yet, but he’s already damaged. His last hit single was called “I Was Made for Dancing,” but he’s not. It’s a Mudd Club disconnect; Garrett appears unsure what he’s doing here, and I occasionally feel the same way.
Back outside, Lynette, Diane and British Punk poet John Cooper Clarke arrive. He’s really skinny, with big hair and dark glasses, but in the summer of 1980 so am I. Two seconds later, Taylor Mead sidles up and asks if he can hold the chain. I tell him NO. Lynette laughs, drags me back inside and saves me.
Last Half Second Dog
I can’t remember leaving White Street and I don’t remember going home but a day later I’m making a midnight hot dog run to Dave’s. Hal Ludacer is at the counter when I get there, staring at his coffee, smoking a cigarette. I can’t tell whether he sees me or if he’s coming or going—having breakfast, lunch or dinner. There’s little sense of time, just the blurry continuum of endless night. I order two hot dogs with sauerkraut, onions and mustard. I wander back to Mudd in a slow drift, dreaming about Montauk.
I’m swallowing the last half of the second dog when Steve appears out of nowhere. Living around the corner at Broadway and Franklin makes it easier for him to do the now you see me now you don’t. He walks over and tells me the second floor is closing for renovations.
“Really, when?”
“Yes, soon, Sunday.”
“For how long?”
“Not that long.”
When I ask if I should let people know he tells me, “They’ll figure it out.” I roll my eyes, thinking, That’s nice, and a minute later he’s gone.
The second floor of the Mudd Club is a dump. It’s part of the charm and people like it that way. I think all that Ritz balcony and multilevel Danceteria Video Lounge stuff has something to do with whatever Steve’s planning and he’s just trying to stay ahead of the game. Sometimes I think he forgets he’s way ahead of it.
So I start telling people that the second floor is closing for a week. When I mention it to artist Jenny Holzer, whose blurbs of Truism cover the walls of neighborhood buildings, she doesn’t seem too upset. When Rebecca Christensen arrives with onetime crucified conceptualist Chris Burden she introduces us but I make no mention of renovations. It’s a low-key visit—no guns or Volkswagens involved—and they head straight for the bar. A minute later, an out-of-character Boris Policeband rushes the door with a woman who appears to be Louise Bourgeois (or a Bourgeois stunt double). Artists Kiki Smith and Walter Robinson stroll across the street and step up to the chain. I start mumbling something about the second floor, lose interest and follow them in. The Ramones’ “Blitzkrieg Bop” comes roaring over the PA system and the dance floor is almost full. The place looks its dirty, dark and beautiful self. I make my way toward the basement but Talking Heads’ “Life During Wartime” pulls me back.
This is my life. Tonight it feels right. Not sure how it’s going to feel tomorrow.
Not Scary Beautiful
Friday night, it’s early. The door, the crowd and 77 White: a small world getting smaller. Time moving slow or fast, it’s hard to tell. Steve’s nowhere to be seen, but I’m still wondering what a second-floor renovation could possibly look like. I forget about it and smile when Marcus Leatherdale arrives and introduces me to his friend Lisa Lyon. It’s hot and she’s wearing a tank top and leather pants; she’s beautiful but not scary beautiful. The cop working security gives her a long slow once-over—two or three times.
Encouraged by Arnold Schwarzenegger, Lisa Lyon won the first Women’s World Professional Bodybuilding Championship in 1979 and never tried again. She was an art student at UCLA, met Arnold and turned herself into a work of art. Now she’s everywhere: magazines, television and running around the city with Marcus. She’s got a shoot with Playboy coming up and there’s a collaboration with Robert Mapplethorpe somewhere on the horizon. She winds up loving the Mudd Club and I love telling people, “She’s the Women’s World Bodybuilding Champion.” It’s an out-of-context credential that jumps the chain; it’s borderline freak, full-on fetish and fits right in.
I look around trying to find Steve. She’s someone he’ll definitely want to meet.
Worlds Apart
Lisa Lyon was the highlight of a near-civilized evening but by 4 A.M. I had a hard-on for something less. In the summer of 1980, a place called Laight Street became the latest neighborhood after-hours joint with the ability to answer that call. It was a sometimes fun, sometimes desperate watering hole located at the northeast corner of Hudson and Laight, just off the entrance to the Holland Tunnel. Thrown together by former Nursery employee Pauline Darling, it was the perfect spot for anyone who didn’t know when it was time to go home. I fell into that category and I fell in often.
Sturgis Nikidas, a musician and Mudd regular, was the Laight Street DJ. Krystie Keller, a Nursery denizen, journalist and writer who interviewed a variety of rock legends, Punks and Dead Boys, worked behind the bar. Just several blocks from White Street and a short walk to Murray, for a few minutes in 1980, Laight Street
was perfect.
With only an hour to kill, I ditch Mudd, stop off at Laight, and come pretty close to figuring out when it’s time to go home. Peter, Paul and Mary’s hit version of “Leaving on a Jet Plane” keeps playing in my head—the only difference, I’m leaving on a 7 A.M. train and I know that Monday, I’ll be back again. I bought the single when I was sixteen and still have it. It’s a beautiful song.
I say good-bye to Laight Street after one beer, run home and pick up my bag. It’s Saturday, 6:30 A.M., and there’s no traffic, no problem finding a cab. The train leaves on time.
I spend the next three hours in a smoking car on the Long Island Railroad. I’m reading a barely used copy of the New York Times that someone left behind and getting high in a bathroom the size of a phone booth. The ruins of Alphabet City and the dunes of Montauk might seem worlds apart but I’m doing my best to bring them together. I’ve got four dimes of Black Mark and Red Star traveling with me.
I arrive at The Surf and Sand alone. I float around, ride the waves and sleep away Saturday night. Sunday disappears and it’s the end of another thirty-six-hour weekend. Monday night I’m back on White Street with a dime bag still in my pocket. I have no idea how it’s gotten this far but I need to make it stop. The chase, running in circles, pissing away money—I can’t tell whether Montauk is a place to rest or just part of a bigger circle. A year ago, I thought the Mudd Club was the answer—and sometimes it still is; other times it’s part of the run.
Monday feels like a quiet night. A chat with Steve and a walk thru the second floor tells me the renovation’s happening fast. There’s an enclosed DJ booth made out of either shatter- or bulletproof plexiglass and a spiral staircase winding its way to the stage. The bathtub beer cooler is still behind the bar, but the bathrooms look reinforced, and ready for the next round of anything’s allowed. The faux Naugahyde vinyl reupholstered seating looks suitably retro and a little less dirty. The whole place looks almost new and somewhat improved, nearly identical to the old second floor of the Mudd Club. People won’t even notice, they’ll just be happy it’s open.
