The Mudd Club

by Richard Boch

  When I turn around Keith Haring is in front of me on the other side of the chain. Maybe I can ask him to get me a hot dog and I’ll try and forget about the coke.

  Tonight’s turned into the kind of New York night that gets me hungry for more than sex, junk food or drugs; it’s another beautiful bright-light constellation coming together at 77 White.

  October 1980, Saturday morning, 6 A.M. I’m headed home alone but I’m not feeling lonely. I’ll start a new painting, and try to sleep. I’ll eat something when I wake up. Then I’ll head back to the Mudd Club—and so will everyone else.

  That’s when we heard the news.

  Closed

  The original Danceteria, Jim Fouratt and Rudolf Piper’s legendary joint on West Thirty-seventh Street, closed on October 5, 1980. It never seemed any more or less illegal than any other unlicensed late-night club with blocked fire exits, but that didn’t seem to matter. The police and the fire departments, the State Liquor Authority and maybe even the FBI raided the place and shut it down. Jim and Rudolf safely circled the block in a limo; stage manager Rico Espinet escaped out a back door, hopped in and provided the grim details to Danceteria’s fearless leaders.

  I was working on White Street when the news landed on the front steps. The staff spent a night in jail and twenty-four hours later they were back in play, flooding the nightlife job market. Poet and writer Max Blagg, handcuffed to Keith Haring as part of an employee roundup, chain gang-style, lived to tell and kept on writing. Haring had a brief stint at the Mudd Club door in his future while Danceteria “admissions director” Haoui Montaug followed his own celebrity doorman trajectory. Danceteria’s fall season never happened but Jim and Rudolf already had another plan. All I could say was “Good luck.”

  Missing

  A week later, the story of a nightclub raid and closure was already old news and Haring seemed unfazed by the handcuffs and the night in jail. He’d been in New York for about two years when Danceteria opened and closed but didn’t sit still for long.

  Arriving from Pittsburgh in 1978, Keith wound his way thru the School of Visual Arts and became one of the original “members” of Club 57. He’s been showing up at the Mudd Club, on his way to becoming a hero and frontrunner of the new guard. He’s a sweet guy, and just like Jean-Michel, he’s a star before he’s a star.

  Eventually reaching a wider audience than anyone could’ve imagined, Keith commandeered the black unused ad panels on the walls of New York’s subway system and the art world took notice. Large-scale playground murals followed, along with a show at the newly opened Tony Shafrazi Gallery in SoHo; in 1983, Haring was included in the Whitney Biennial. One year later, he spotted me in Little Italy, sharing a pizza with Gary. He ran home and came back with two printed bandannas: invitations to the first “Party of Life,” May 16, 1984, at the Paradise Garage. They’re beautiful and I still have mine, but so much else is missing.

  Different Speak

  Haring and Basquiat were part of a world we knew; two blocks south of Canal was heart and home. The moment was brief but its consequence and revelation still rule; still speaks to the now. Standing at the door of 77 White, I was part of that moment and that world. Despite my own doubts and confusion, I watched lightning strike one more time.

  The Mudd Club was ready to ride the next wave—the entire New York art scene on the cusp of reinventing itself—again. Happening in and on the street, it’s what Diego Cortez predicted and hoped for. Patti Astor, an early champion of Hip-Hop, was only months away from setting up the first Fun Gallery while dealer and Mudd regular Tony Shafrazi already was seeing dollar signs and planning his next move. There seemed no limit to possibility and no end in sight. Punk moved Post and Post was moving New Wave. The “writing” of Rauschenberg and Jasper Johns was the cursive of a different era. Graffiti and Hip-Hop was a new language and a different speak; Haring, Basquiat and the kids from the Bronx and Brooklyn moved it forward. White Street was still in play and the Mudd Club had a full cycle left.

  I keep showing up for the job but there’s surely more to me and, hopefully, my future. I need to get out of whatever I’ve gotten into but ambivalence leaves me trapped and cocaine has me jumpy—heroin and equivocation helps me hide whatever else is going on.

  White Street, Murray Street and One University Place aren’t the problem and I can’t even blame the drugs. It might feel like high school, but it’s not. Maybe I need a fresh approach to my job and to leave the basement and bathroom hookups behind. Maybe staying out till 9 or 10 A.M. just doesn’t work. Maybe I’m thinking too much or maybe I’m not thinking at all. There are a lot of maybes but as yet, no answer.

  Summer 1980 is over and my birthday party in Montauk was one short month ago. I’m only twenty-seven and everything should be easy—shouldn’t it? Tomorrow’s another day but so was yesterday and today. Tonight I’m back for another round, standing at the door of 77 White. I’ll be fine.

  Mudd Times, crushed groupies and Steel Pulse, 1980.

  Steel Pulse, first show in the USA, Mudd Club 1980, by Allan Tannenbaum.

  One Spliff Down

  The fall season marked the return of the long tweed coat. Other than adapting to the cool weather, my routine remained the same. I slept till the afternoon, worked on a series of messy new paintings, smoked a lot of pot and got hungry. I was unsuccessful when it came to avoiding heroin.

  Wednesday, October 22, 1980. I finished dinner at One U, hailed a cab, headed south on Broadway and got out at White. The street was still quiet—just a small group of people outside. An hour later I was hard at work.

  I should’ve known what was coming, considering the minor chaos that accompanied Burning Spear, but the crowd showed up early and caught me off guard. The chains were open and twenty people started talking to me at once, explaining why they should be on the guest list. Then someone handed me a monster spliff; someone else handed me another one. I held onto both, politely told everyone “Get the fuck off the steps.” I closed the chains and started negotiations.

  Steel Pulse, the Rastafari roots Reggae band from Birmingham, England, was making its American debut at the Mudd Club. Their alignment with British Punk gave them a reputation and a following. The dreads, the smoke and the Rastaspeak were out in force by midnight, and by 1 A.M., the sweet-beat rhythm carried a message of love and revolution across the floor and through the room. Back outside I fired up the first spliff. The music kept playing and I couldn’t tell if I was stoned, losing my mind or just enjoying myself. One spliff down, but it was early.

  Uncompleted One A.M.

  The rest of the night I was in a state of lost and sometimes found. I was home before daylight; Thursday 11 P.M. back at the door. Friday I played it on repeat but the weekend was still mine. Gennaro was still at the door and a sense of joy still fueled the Mudd Club dance floor. More times than not, that joy was contagious.

  The week happened fast and it’s Wednesday night again. SVT arrive after a gig on Long Island and Jack Casady’s already upstairs. The band’s van is parked in the alley and, according to drummer Paul Zahl, it feels as though they’re “on a late-night Kamikaze raid.” With “two admittedly loud amps, drums and a microphone” the stage is set and ready. Brian Marnell’s mission—that the band doesn’t leave town until they play the Mudd Club—is nearly accomplished.

  The second floor’s crowded, and Danny Fields is near the bar telling Casady that he “came to see the best dressed man in Rock ’n’ Roll.” Jack looks sharp in a sport jacket and black shirt, but it’s a look far removed from Jefferson Airplane’s 1968 heyday when Jean-Luc Godard captured their thwarted-by-the-cops New York City rooftop performance. Like a night at Mudd, Godard’s uncompleted One A.M. (which deciphers as One American Movie) was a trippy slice of a soon-to-be lost golden time.

  The French New Wave, Psychedelia and the Mudd Club: three decades and zero degrees of separation. Now it’s 1980, 3:30 A.M., I turn around and walk over to Steve. The band needs more drink tickets and it’s almos
t showtime.

  Ten minutes later, I grab Tina L’Hotsky, float downstairs, and move toward the front of the stage. The steel security gate curtain rolls up and Jack’s bass lets out a growl that rattles the building—the Mudd breakfast crowd has no idea what they’re in for. SVT opens with “The Last Word,” and, as Paul Zahl likes to say, “We tidal wave the place.” Forty minutes later, they close it down with a beautiful version of Marnell’s “Heart of Stone.”

  SVT are in the van by 6 A.M., headed for San Francisco. I’m gone by 7, headed who knows where.

  Noon Every Night

  October is passing by for the second time in my Mudd Club career. DJ David’s getting itchy about something, and I’m getting crazier by the minute. Steve’s getting more reclusive, elusive and vague—calling on the wall phone and speaking in tongues, appearing and disappearing. The weather’s getting cold and the long tweed coat is making regular appearances at the door. I’ve been staying out till noon almost every night.

  Two years after the club opened, a lot of the regulars were still coming around. A few gave up; some got lost along the way. The ghosts, the no-name kids and the one-night stands—sometimes I remember them all. Mudd was still crowded and the drugged-out morning haze of the second floor was thicker than ever. I stood near the bar watching what Jo Shane called the gorgeous swirl of Mudd Club gestalt and it seemed to be out of control. I wasn’t sure what was happening or whether it was just me.

  Anya and Diego. Then is where we came from, 1979, by Bobby Grossman.

  Later that night, Pierre came by and we went downstairs. He offered me a few lines of his brown, allegedly Persian dope. I walked out of the basement, across Eric and Shawn’s trompe l’oeil marble floor, and went back to the door. Seven seasons and counting, time was trying hard to stay on my side. I wasn’t cooperating.

  Shitty Grade-B Movie Star

  Tuesday, November 4, I was busy working the door and Ronald Reagan was busy getting elected. The well-meaning peanut farmer was on the way out. Apathy, drugs and a touch of lunacy left me blind—tears admittedly came in retrospect.

  Jimmy Carter was a good man who sucked at being president. Reagan was America’s perfectly awful choice. I voted for Carter and we all lost, I did another line and ordered another drink. I was back to work on Wednesday as if nothing had changed. The new administration was a relapse waiting to happen, ready to move against any line of freethinking. The moral hypocrisy of conservatism was mounting a new assault, and Reagan’s soon-to-be royal court was lined with deep pockets. Politics was losing its service ideal while offering the conservative right a new hero; everyone else faced a problem.

  “I Had the Real Thing”

  Several nights later, freethinking icon Robert Rauschenberg stopped by the club. We avoided talking politics and went directly for the trash. I’d met Bob several times prior and had been to his house on Lafayette Street, but this was one of his first visits to the Mudd Club. I got him a drink, introduced him to Steve and the three of us went up to the third floor. I smiled, sitting in the company of one of the greatest artists of our time while he and Steve made small talk. When all realized that the coke on hand was limited, the conversation slowed and we went our separate ways: Bob went back downstairs, I wandered back outside, and Steve did his usual thing and disappeared. Rauschenberg remained one of my heroes; getting acquainted didn’t fuck that up. Steve later complimented me for my ability to “recognize Rauschenberg arriving at the door dressed like a bum.”

  Out on the street, a crowd was still waiting. Anita Pallenberg was walking out the door when she turned around and spit out the words, “I don’t need this shit, I had the real thing.” She headed for a cab with a wounded and pajama-clad Richard Lloyd trailing and flailing behind her. I didn’t even try to say good night.

  A short time later, SoHo News editor and future Paper magazine publisher David Hershkovits wandered off in the direction of home after another long night of “drinking, dancing to Blondie songs and chasing girls.” It was already late when Chris Parker and French Chris arrived and headed upstairs. Parker, newly minted star of Jim Jarmusch’s Permanent Vacation, was talking fast, gesturing about something, while French Chris wasn’t doing much of anything other than smoking a cigarette and looking pretty.

  Actress Rosemary Hochschild and director Michael Oblowitz were leaving when Rosemary stopped and said something I couldn’t decipher; Michael asked out loud if she told me and I answered, “Told me what?” but they already had disappeared. Lynette came outside a minute later and asked what I was doing.

  I didn’t have an answer.

  The night was doing its best to keep going and so was I. The street was getting quiet until I heard the grunt and cry of drunken sex coming from Cortland Alley. I had to laugh; the grunting sounded familiar. I refused to look.

  By now, it was well after 3 A.M. Andi was pouring herself into a cab, Lori and Joe were leaving and I headed inside to see what Ricky and Teri were up to. Jo Shane was still upstairs, and Gary was deep in conversation with Vicki. He was asking her about the guillotine and she was telling him that she never learned how to knit. I felt as though I’d been here before and didn’t get involved.

  I went downstairs, talked to DJ David. He told me Jim Fouratt and Rudolf were trying to put something together in midtown; he told me I should talk to Jim but I had my doubts and should’ve held on to them. Problem was, I hadn’t yet figured out there’s no such thing as should have.

  I walked onto the dance floor and stood there looking around. White Street still felt like home; what wasn’t always clear was how I felt about myself.

  Angel

  I know it’s coming but I just can’t see it. I’m too busy working, painting and getting high. Trying to sleep, I finally doze off and it’s already time to get up.

  Somewhere in between all that and everything else, there’s a new place to cop. Poet Gregory Corso, a member of the Beat Generation’s inner circle, has a furnished room on the second floor of the Chelsea Hotel, complete with a bathroom, a TV and a heroin dealer named Angel. Gregory’s about fifty, a little crazed and more than a little manic. Angel’s a good-looking tattooed Latino who sits on the bed with the drugs, the money and a gun. Together they offer a kind of old-school bohemian charm that’s missing from most shooting galleries and crash pads around town. The room becomes the place to get off, nod out and catch up with old friends; for a small group of artists, musicians and Vogue cover girls who love heroin, it’s as close to perfect as it gets.

  I stop by before work—I’m there and I’m gone. I stop by after, I have more time to get high, lie around on the floor and stare at the ceiling. If the nod doesn’t take me too far away, I’ll be home before the morning rush.

  Luckily for those involved, the Corso Room had a short shelf life and only lasted two or three months. There were no sad good-byes, and Angel never had to shoot anyone; considering the fucked-up dead-end scene, that was a miracle. Gregory stopped by the club on occasion but I never saw Angel again. It would’ve been nice, but I didn’t really care. I was starting to feel that way about a lot of things.

  What Just Happened

  Walking to work, the November nighttime cool keeps me moving. I have a moment to myself but my mind won’t stop talking. I step inside the door, look around and the place is empty. It’s early but something’s different. DJ David looks over and smiles.

  Little more than a week after the Mudd Club’s second anniversary, DJ David Azarch told Steve he’s leaving—and now he’s telling me. He’s taking a job with Jim and Rudolf, who are reopening the Peppermint Lounge, hoping to put a new spin on the birthplace of the Twist.

  I hear what he’s saying but I’m having a hard time processing it. Listening to David talk about his conversation with Steve, I’m fading in and out, and all I can say is “Wow” and “Really.” David’s my friend and has been since the beginning. He says I should come with him. I can barely speak but I tell him that we’re part of this place.

 
; I reach across the bar, take hold of the bottle of Rémy Martin and fill a plastic cup. The bartender looks at me but I’m well past responding. I walk away and stop at the foot of the stairs. I step outside and take a deep breath. A minute later I ask David to tell Jim I’m ready to leave the Mudd Club.

  I have no idea what just happened.

  The Only Thing Left to Do

  Later that week, David had another meeting with Jim and Rudolf. He told them I wanted to talk and Jim just smiled; the following afternoon, I went to West Forty-fifth and had my conversation. The only thing left to do was talk to Steve. I went home, tried to take time to think about what I was doing, but I didn’t have it. I went to work that night, and it all went down.

  I was alone at the foot of the stairs, just inside the front door, when Steve walked in. I told him we needed to talk and he stopped. I looked at him and said, “I’m leaving in two weeks to work the door at the Peppermint Lounge.” It just spilled out of me. He never saw it coming, and I’m not sure I did until I said it out loud.

  Steve turned away, turned back, and asked, “How much are they paying you?” There was no plan and all I could say was, “It’s a done deal.” After nearly twenty-one months and the phone call that changed everything, the conversation lasted less than ten minutes. I lit a cigarette; Steve walked away and disappeared. I stood there trying not to cry.

  I stuck around those next two weeks, and stayed close to the door. I still couldn’t believe what was happening. I wasn’t sure if I saved myself or fucked everything up, if it was about the money, or the drugs I couldn’t stop doing. Maybe I needed a change or maybe that gorgeous swirl of Mudd Club gestalt truly was out of control.