The Mudd Club

by Richard Boch

  When Dawn Silva heard they were playing a club called Mudd she wondered out loud, “What kind of place is THAT?” She walked in the door thinking, Whoa, this is weird-looking.

  A couple of hours and a sound check later, the Mudd Club’s steel security gate-stage curtain rolled up and the girls were ready. Dressed in head-to-toe Larry Legaspi and looking like Wild West divas from outer space, the Brides of Funkenstein poured it on. Dawn and Lynn’s signature “one voice vocal,” Rodney “Skeet” Curtis’ bass, Tyrone Lampkin’s beat, and Michael Hampton’s guitar had the funk bouncing off the walls. They played a song off their first record, Funk or Walk, and another from their second album, Never Buy Texas From A Cowboy. They covered Talking Heads’ “Once in a Lifetime” and Lene Lovich’s “Lucky Number.” Toward the end of the set, they burned the house down with a killer version of Funkadelic’s “Standing on the Verge of Getting It On.” Through it all, the great Bernie Worrell was the maestro with a groove, and his keyboards made everything fly.

  The Brides closed the show with a ten-minute version of 1978’s “Disco To Go.” The security gate rolled down, people in front started pounding on the steel curtain, and the audience kept screaming. Steve stepped in, told the band, “They loved you” and the gate rolled back up. The encore was pure celebration, and “Disco To Go” kept going.

  Post-Punk took a funky turn that night and didn’t stop. By the late summer-early fall of 1980 both music and Mudd were moving in a new direction. I was still working the door but things were starting to feel different. Part of my problem was an unwillingness to change until my back was either against the wall or slamming into it. By now I was getting close.

  Thirty years later, I asked Bernie Worrell (a Funkadelic founder and major mover when it came to Talking Heads’ early eighties sound) about the Mudd Club. He’d never been there until the night he played with the Brides, but he still remembered a “great show at a crowded little place downtown.”

  He loved the way audience and performer felt a sense of camaraderie, “an intimacy missing in a big venue.”

  I listened and Bernie continued.

  “You know, I started playing music when I was four years old.... I had a strict upbringing.... I met George Clinton at a barbershop in Plainfield, New Jersey; my wife introduced us—it’s where George formed his Doo-Wop group called The Parliaments.”

  Bernie laid out a beautiful story, referring to that barbershop as the heart of the scene.

  I started standing in front of 77 White in March 1979 when the Mudd Club was the heart of what was happening. I knew what he was talking about.

  I talked to Dawn Silva and her recollections serve this story well. She “can still see the stage and the steel curtain rolling up and down” and still remembers how “the audience sway had its own tempo.”

  We kept talking and I felt a connection, that sense of camaraderie based on having been there. I remembered where I was standing that night; I closed my eyes and could still see the Brides of Funkenstein onstage. I could feel the beat and I could hear that one voice loud and clear. I opened my eyes and said, “Boy that was a great show,” but I think she already knew that.

  Almost Fucking

  Nearly three weeks into September, the never knowing what’s next ride continued. Barely twenty-seven, I continued flirting with heroin but by now heroin was flirting back. Still, something was always missing and my balance was always off. I wasn’t sure if it was just me wondering what was going on or whether everybody was walking the same fine line. It was hard to tell the difference between moving forward and moving closer to the edge. Chain in hand, I just kept sending people thru the door.

  Ten minutes later, I found myself leaning on the sink in the second-floor bathroom; there were six other people inside. Two were up against the wall, almost fucking, and everyone else was getting high. I lit a cigarette and fond memories of all the bathrooms and toilets in town came flooding back. When someone passed me a vial of coke I dumped a pile on my fist and snorted it up in one blast. When the top of my head settled down I looked around and said, “Thanks.”

  Richard Boch, bathroom portrait with red leather tie, 1980, by Marcia Resnick.

  Bad Behavior

  I leave Mudd and cab it over to Laight Street. Sturgis is spinning records, Krystie’s behind the bar and Marcia Resnick’s standing in front of it. Anita Pallenberg is in the back, and John Belushi is on his way out. I have nearly a gram of cocaine wrapped up in a fifty and I’m not sure where it came from. Coked up and frozen, drifting thru the blue haze of cigarette smoke, I’m wishing for a speedball. Maybe two dozen people are in the place and everybody looks easy; at this hour or any, bad behavior has little meaning. With few boundaries other than messing with the Hells Angels, I hit on a security guy from The Ritz instead. Dumb and wasted, long dark hair and beautiful in the right light, he’s got Bensonhurst or Bay Ridge written all over him. I walk over, mumble in his ear for thirty seconds and he follows me out the door.

  The next time I look at a clock it’s noon and I’m lying on my living room floor; the fifty’s wiped clean, lying on the kitchen table, and Bensonhurst is in the shower. The speedball wish never came true and ten hours of crash time later I’m back at 77 White.

  Chipmunks

  Eighteen months and counting—it sounds like nothing, but when you’re in your twenties it’s a good chunk of life. Fall 1980, I was still hooked on my job and all that came with it, but I wanted to start doing more than the door. When I realized all I had to do was ask and all Steve had to do was say okay it seemed I was on to something. I had one or two ideas, and the only budget I needed was a stack of drink tickets.

  I set up a last-minute after-party for the Pretenders following their September 24 show at the Palladium. I left the door at 1 A.M. and worked the room, the basement and the bathroom. Chi Chi assumed her role as director of second-floor admissions and Aldo stayed outside working security. McEnroe and Gerulaitis were upstairs hiding behind Roy Orbison-style sunglasses; Chrissie was probably hiding out with Kate. Everyone else was hiding in plain sight—just along for the ride and free drinks.

  Vitas Gerulaitis, Cynthia Heimel, Stiv Bators and John McEnroe, post-concert Pretenders party, Mudd Club second floor, 1980, by Kate Simon.

  A week later, I started booking guest DJs for the new plexiglass booth, putting the club’s low-tech second-floor renovation to good use. I kicked off the series with Stephen Saban of the SoHo Weekly News, a safe bet with a steady hand and a decent record collection.

  Tonight I’ve lined up a wild card: Ricky Sohl at the turntables and Teri Toye as the almost able assist. Dusty Springfield, The Monkees, Cher’s Greatest Hits and the Chipmunks covering Blondie’s “Call Me” are all on the playlist. Ricky’s segues are smooth and clean, and Teri’s only dropped two or three records on the floor. It’s a performance piece—Lucy and Ethel, slapstick and serious at once—and it’s working out beautifully. Alice Himelstein’s at the bar, laughing out loud as the tiny Chipmunk voices struggle with Giorgio Moroder’s arrangement. It’s the yin and yang of White Street’s Next Wave-No Wave soundtrack and a hard one to top.

  Three minutes and thirty seconds later, the Chipmunks settle down, Alice stops laughing and opens her big black bag. She reaches inside, digs around and introduces the second floor to the world of pharmaceutical amyl nitrite. Not your standard disco/sex club variety, these poppers snap with a heart-pounding, room-spinning burst of high school acid-trip laughter. It’s a de-evolutionary moment, and it’s difficult to say if we’ve reached a new high or low. I walk over to Ricky and ask him to play “Baby Don’t Go.” He tells me to calm down.

  By 4 A.M., Alice is in a corner with Gary and Mary Lou Green. Everyone else is sitting down, trying to stand or heading for the door. I grab one of the yellow boxes of amyl and start to leave with a guy from New Jersey named Tim. Danny Fields stops me and tells me he looks too Blueboy but at this point who even cares. I just hope he’s gone by noon.

  Okay When It I
sn’t

  The door’s become routine, the chain sometimes opening on its own. Making sure my friends get in is easy—knowing who they are, still the hard part. I’m starting to catch the anything can happen moments before they arrive. I’ve begun to realize there has to be an endgame. Heroin, even just a line, makes everything okay when it isn’t, and more okay when it is. I finally understand that working the Mudd Club door is a very hard job.

  A few people know what that’s like, and legendary Limbo King Mike Quashie is one of them. The former Lou Reed associate and onetime opening act for Led Zeppelin was part of the scene; he worked the door at a long-ago Greenwich Village joint called Salvation. When Mike Quashie steps out of a cab and sees me, his smile is big and real.

  Photographers and co-conspirators Nan Goldin and David Armstrong are standing at the chain but have no idea what a crazy job this is. After a quick low-key hello, I follow them upstairs as they disappear into a bathroom. Cookie Mueller, a Goldin muse, is already sitting on a toilet, ready for a close-up.

  Back on the street, one of those good-looking bridge-and-tunnel kids—whose name I’ve never known and probably never will—is standing alone in the crowd. I let him into the Clash Rude Boy party two months ago; he likes to get wasted and fuck, so he’s coming in again.

  Chi Chi and Gennaro have the night off and Aldo’s working outside with me. Debi Mazar’s inside dressed in a suit and porkpie hat, “working” at the foot of the stairs. She’s easily distracted but runs a tight ship; besides, no one argues with a fifteen-year-old gatekeeper. I turn around, tell Aldo I’ll be back in ten and head inside to find the kid from Queens whose name I’ll never know.

  Tiepolo and Turtles

  I pass Eric Goode on the second floor, spot bridge-and-tunnel boy near the bathroom and hand him a drink ticket. He asks me “What’s up,” and I tell him I’m working. He appears confused by my answer and so am I.

  Eric and Shawn Hausman are still hanging near the bar; I pass by, saying little more than hello. They’ve gotten used to me at the door and I’ve gotten to know them as the guys who live around the corner.

  Tonight they’re talking with Ricky and Teri. She barely knows Eric from Parsons School of Design but she likes him and wastes no time turning on the Teri Toye charm. Steve soon joins the conversation and from a safe distance it feels like I’m watching bad late-night television.

  Eric and Shawn were eager for something to do and Steve was always eager to do something. The Mudd Club basement, sorely in need of a makeover, became Eric and Shawn’s first commission. There were no rules when it came to design, demolition or construction, and a Tiepolo reproduction ceiling and trompe l’oeil marble floor sounded perfect. They asked Steve if they could cut a hole in the ceiling and without a second thought he said, “Sure.” Working day and night, the whole project took about a week.

  Eric and Shawn made a great team. Following the Mudd basement redo, they did some of their best “early” work on a project called The Club with No Name, located far west on Twenty-fifth Street. Like everything else happening in late-night New York it was “completely illegal.” Small and dark, the place was a cross between an after-hours club and the Bronx Zoo Reptile House. Stephen Saban spoke of it fondly in his SoHo News article “Night of the Iguana.”

  Three years later, in September 1983, Eric and Shawn, along with Eric’s brother, Christopher Goode, and a fourth partner, Darius Azari, went on to create a nightlife masterpiece called Area, just four blocks from 77 White. I stopped by occasionally and after way too many drinks I’d beg Jodie, the backroom DJ, to play Elvis’ “Suspicious Minds.”

  Eric’s involvement and partnership in various restaurants, hotels and clubs grew steadily while Shawn’s design career went from big-time dream to bigger-time reality. Neither will forget the basement job on White Street.

  Today Eric Goode describes himself as a “hard-core world traveler and crazy conservationist.” His Turtle Conservancy and far-flung adventures are the rewards of a wild life that keeps giving. Sitting across a table, he’s echoing and retooling the words of Marcia Resnick, telling me he always thought of the Mudd Club as “a democratic society once you got past Richard Boch.” I almost laugh, and take it as a great compliment.

  Roller Coaster

  Later that same night I’m back upstairs when Jack Casady pulls me aside and asks if his band, SVT, can play a free show at the Mudd Club. It’s a great offer, Wednesday after next works for the band, and a 3 A.M. set sounds about right. I’ll talk to Steve and make sure it happens.

  The next night, Andi shows up with a test pressing of “Chinese Chance,” the single she recorded back on August 9 at Electric Lady Studios. DJ David cues it up and it sounds beautiful ringing thru Mudd’s PA system. It’s a hit, at least in our minds, and the B-side cover of Pete Townshend’s “Nothing Is Everything” holds its own with the original. Andi’s happy and the song remains forever part of our connection. Everyone’s dancing and David gives “Chinese Chance” a second spin.

  Looking around, the place is filling up. I’ve been keeping things tight at the door and Chi Chi’s keeping an even tighter grip on the second floor. Just off the bus and barely legal performance artist David Ilku is trying to get upstairs; Chi Chi lets him down easy with a smile and the old standby, “Sorry hon, not tonight.” I’m outside smoking, minding my own business, trying not to watch.

  I send more people in, one or two at a time. I turn around and do a double take when drummer Michael Shrieve steps out of a cab with Mick Jagger. They’ve just been to see Keith Jarrett perform, figured the Mudd Club an easy late-night pit stop, and headed downtown. I open the chain, they both say hello and walk in. No one seems to notice.

  Michael Shrieve’s claims he’s “a tourist” when it comes to Mudd, but he’s been coming around White Street since the beginning. A little over ten years earlier, he was a teenage phenom, joining Santana in 1969 and playing drums on their first eight albums. He’s been everywhere from Max’s Kansas City to Max Yasgur’s farm and now he’s hanging with the Stones. Tonight, Charlie Watts set him up on a date with Mick. A tourist he’s not.

  Jagger’s another of those onetime teen phenoms. The last time I saw him at Mudd he was incognito, bearded and in the company of Iggy Pop. Tonight he’s cleaned up and clean-shaven, dressed in jeans and a sport jacket, and headed straight upstairs. A stop at the bar and a few girls circle for a closer look—heads turn but nobody really cares. Five minutes later, he’s in the bathroom, an hour later, he’s gone.

  Running around, uptown and down, Shrieve calls it a “New York nightlife roller coaster.”

  How Long

  When I tried to slow that coaster down I looked forward to paint, eat, sleep. I thought the Mudd Club would always be around and I planned on surviving a seventh season; I was looking forward to another new and happy year. I couldn’t see any further, but that was far enough.

  Opening the chain, asking how many, I stood there staring into the headlights of a cab coming down Cortland Alley. After a while, Nico came outside looking for her friend, the Squat Theater’s “entertainment curator,” Janos Gat. I lit a cigarette and kept staring down the alley. Minutes later, I wandered upstairs and found Ricky and Teri in full glam dementia—lipstick, dark shadow and black velvet berets. They were standing near the front windows, leaning on some invisible means of support, talking to Marcia Resnick. Steve walked over, said something and the four of them disappeared. The bartender passed me another beer, and I went back outside. Nico was still looking for Janos. I stood there wondering how long I’d be staring down Cortland Alley.

  Richard Sohl and Teri Toye perfectly accessorized, second floor Mudd, 1980, by Marcia Resnick.

  Finally, John Lurie steps outside to get some air and I snap out of it. He lights my cigarette and I stop wondering, start working and we keep talking.

  Boris Policeband is standing in the street at the back of the crowd, a head taller than everyone else. I give him a wave to come inside and he shakes
his head no. I wave again and he shakes no again. John cracks up and goes inside. Boris seems happy where he’s standing but I’m not sure if I am.

  Now, not even 1 A.M. and it’s busy. The streetlight’s bright and it feels like a sunny day. Gary and Alice get out of a cab at Broadway and wander toward the door. Kirk Baltz, the actor who loses his ear in Reservoir Dogs, arrives with Alice’s neighbor, Billy Gross. Five hours earlier, we all started the night with dinner at her place: vodka and pot, spaghetti, salad and garlic bread, but now I’m hungry again. I need a hot dog from Dave’s and a few lines of coke; whichever comes first, but preferably in that order. In the meantime, I’ll keep working, staring at the usual variety of a hundred-odd people I don’t know and never will. Before finishing that thought, the captivating, often sweet but occasionally scary and bottle-smashing International Chrysis saunters her way thru the crowd. Besides looking particularly glamorous in a beyond-trans, beyond-gender kind of way, she’s one of the few faces I’ve seen before. Chrysis seems relatively calm, and I let her in. Former Rolling Stones producer Andrew Oldham, visiting White Street for the first time, gets out of a cab a minute later. His is a face I’ve never met so I introduce myself and take him upstairs. Another legend and Mudd regular, Giorgio Gomelsky, whose earlier involvement with the Rolling Stones and the Yardbirds included promotion, management and production, is already inside. Talking to both of these guys makes me feel that I was there; everyone else makes me feel here and now.

  Artist Judy Levy, who’s at the club every night, arrives with author and former High Times chief Larry “Ratso” Sloman. Steven Davis, a young architect who jogged by in spring ’79 and wondered what’s going on, follows them in. (Back then we hadn’t yet seen a jogger inside and I thought perhaps we should.)