The Mudd Club

by Richard Boch

  On September 2, Tom Baker died from a heroin overdose. Cookie Mueller was there and tried to save him but it was too late. Sunday afternoon, the following weekend, people gathered at One University to tell stories about Tom. I showed up with Lisa Rosen; we sat and listened and no one called me Richie.

  At the end of 1982, Mickey Ruskin fired me, but kept me around to scout locations for his next project. He remained a loyal and forgiving friend.

  No Longer a Reason

  Twenty blocks south, the Mudd Club was well past what Glenn O’Brien called “its later days when the cool crowd had kind of stopped going there.” Despite the deteriorating cool factor, Glenn still dropped by to check things out and so did I. It was hard not to.

  Finally, the slow fade started speeding up and I lost track of what was going on at 77 White. Steve Mass often stayed at home, watching what was happening at the door and elsewhere via closed-circuit security cameras—a pastime more voyeurism than distrust. The world of Mudd was getting smaller too, and if it were possible, even stranger. There was no longer a reason to stop the cab at White Street.

  Christmas party invitations and New Year’s Eve announcements never got mailed. Maybe Steve lost interest or maybe it was time. There was no swan song, no crash and no burn. The Mudd Club limped into January, and before long it was over.

  Then in the spring of 1983, everything fell apart.

  I was tired and lost and I felt like shit. The drugs and alcohol finally got to me, and people were starting to notice. I was unemployed and dating a three-hundred-dollar-an-hour call girl named Loren Desire. Generous to a fault but a bit delusional, she thought I was boyfriend material. She believed Valium and champagne could cure my gin and heroin “bug.” She thought we had a future; I didn’t.

  The Party Was Over

  Deep in the nod, I stepped back from the edge; I never wound up at the wrong end of a dream. On April 14, 1983, I woke up and heard the news: my friend Pete Farndon died in the bathtub of his London home from an overdose of heroin. He was thirty years old; his wife Conover phoned and told me what happened. A few hours later, it was on TV.

  Pete Farndon, dead in bath, the saddest day, 1983, courtesy Richard Boch.

  It had been just four years after I started working at the Mudd Club and a little more than three years since I’d met Pete. I already knew it was time to say good night but I kept waiting for a sign—and Pete Farndon’s death was the turning point. It’s when I started to see and hear, and finally started to listen.

  One month later, on May 16, 1983, Mickey Ruskin died during an early morning poker game at his apartment on West Twenty-third Street. His wife Kathy called to let me know. He was fifty years old and his next project was never going to happen.

  That night everyone headed for One University, but the party was already over. I stayed for an hour and headed home. It was the end, and survival had become less theoretical. One week later, I headed to Mount Sinai Hospital for a seven-day detox.

  On August 6 that same year, Klaus Nomi died of complications from AIDS. It was only five years earlier that he’d thrilled the crowd at 1978’s “New Wave Vaudeville” with a song from the 1877 opera Samson and Delilah. A year later, 1979, he was singing the “Nomi Song” and Lou Christie’s “Lightning Strikes” at the Mudd Club.

  For me, fear didn’t truly set in until 1985 when Rock Hudson’s death became front-page news. Closer to home it was Ricky Wilson of the B-52’s. By then I knew I was at risk and I had to do something different. I still had a chance. The next chapter was unwritten.

  Lucky

  It’s strange and unpredictable, the places we found and find ourselves. When the dust finally began to settle Steve Mass was dealing with tax problems and serving weekends in jail. Ross Bleckner, once again, owned 77 White Street, and I was starting over, still figuring things out.

  I was twenty-nine years old—struggling but still standing. I had my friends, my parents still loved me, and I somehow managed to hang on to my loft. I was looking for a job and trying to paint. I was trying to smile and occasionally succeeding. I was attempting to put things into perspective, make some changes and move forward. I put away the razor blade and the mirror, the needle and the spoon—and in 1987 I put the cork in the bottle. Considering the hours spent in bathrooms, basements and abandoned buildings, I was lucky to be alive.

  No Dry Eyes

  Cookie Mueller spent the rest of the decade writing about what she loved and what she didn’t. She died in November 1989 of an AIDS-related cause. Far from the last, the disease was ravaging the downtown community along with cities and countries around the world. A funeral service was held at the St. Mark’s Church; her lover and soul mate Sharon Niesp sang the blues. I sat in a pew with Gary and Anita Sarko. There were no dry eyes, no answers and as yet, no cure.

  On June 3, 1990, Richard “Ricky” Sohl was napping in his bedroom on Fire Island. He never woke up—his death the result of complications from an untreated childhood bout with rheumatic fever. Louie Chaban called me from the Island, I called Andi and she called Patti. Our hearts break.

  That spring, Steve Mass opened a restaurant on Church Street called Cannes 46. It was two blocks and almost a decade removed from where the Mudd Club stood. Three months later, and still very much thinking of Ricky, I celebrated my thirty-seventh birthday at Cannes with a dinner for twenty-five. Steve served the birthday cake and I blew out the candles. The guests included a number of people I came to know and truly love at the Mudd Club—that number, in my life today.

  The following week, I walked back to Cannes 46 and told Steve he should hire me as a manager. His response: “Why do I need a manager?” In less than a year, the place was closed.

  Steve at some point moved to Germany and, in 2001, opened a place in Berlin called the Mudd Club. I never went there, never knew much about it, and now it too is gone.

  I Still Get That

  My parents passed away in 2000. The loss was overwhelming and I still miss them. By that time Gary and I had been drifting apart for more than a decade. When the towers got hit on 9/11 I was asleep on Murray Street, three blocks away. My building shook and the windows rattled. The world became a different place. I sold the loft in 2004, after having lived there for twenty-seven years.

  Steven Davis, the young architect who jogged down White Street in 1979, helped design the National September 11 Memorial and Museum. He still loves New York and speaks with great enthusiasm about the Mudd Club.

  In 1995, the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum mounted a mid-career retrospective of Ross Bleckner’s work. A decade later, he sold the building at 77 White Street for six million dollars. The new owners converted the floors into luxury condominiums and the sales prospectus noted the building’s “historical significance.”

  In March 2009, Abbijane died suddenly. In October, Alice Himelstein died after a ten-month battle with cancer. Laura Kennedy died in 2011. We spoke on the phone a few times but hadn’t seen each other in nearly a decade. That same year, I walked into a restaurant in upstate New York and someone yelled, “Hey, Richard from the Mudd Club!” My friends looked at me and asked, “Do they mean you?” I laughed.

  “Yeah, I still get that.”

  Lost and Found

  It’s been a while but I still think about Pete, Mickey and Ricky. I think about the friends I lost, the friends I found and the friends who never went away. I think about life in New York City, how it changed, and how it continues. I think about how lucky I was. How lucky I am.

  I know my life would be different if I hadn’t seen that poster with the address 77 White Street. I’d be a different person if I hadn’t followed that winding road and eventually hit that wall.

  Thirty-odd years after the Mudd Club closed I still see the crowd waiting outside. I see myself running around the second floor, hiding out in the bathrooms and jumping around on the dance floor. I still remember how the place felt like home the first time I walked thru the door. The moment seems brief but for a few short year
s 77 White was the heartbeat—and the heart of the scene.

  Today I’ll hear a song and remember where I’ve been. I’ll hear another song and think about where I’m going. I open a box of old photographs and some things look familiar—other things don’t even seem real. A few of the pictures make me feel older and younger at once. I’ll recognize my family and friends, but sometimes it’s hard to recognize myself. That’s when I turn down the music, look away, and try to move forward. Other times I close my eyes and try to sleep.

  Heading south on Broadway, White Street flashes by. Time gets buried but the memories survive. I drift back and forth—then and now, now and then. I look at a painting from 1980 and recall standing before it in my studio on Murray Street. I’d light another joint and get ready for work. An hour later, I’d walk up Broadway to Franklin Street, cut thru Cortland Alley to White, and step inside. When the lights went down and the music came on, I’d light a cigarette, grab a beer and step out. Soon the crowd would be backed up into the street, Iggy’s “Lust for Life” pounding the dance floor. Today people walk past but have no idea.

  I went to see Joey Arias perform last summer. He laughed, saying, “We probably know each other longer than anyone else here.” I saw my friends, the Bush Tetras, celebrate thirty-five years of making music; Blondie recently celebrated forty. Backstage at Hot Tuna I said hello to Jack Casady. He lowered his glasses, smiled and said, “You’re still alive.” I laughed. “Looks like we both are.”

  I went to John Lurie’s opening in Chelsea and his paintings were beautiful. Michael Holman was there and so was Delphine Blue. I sat down for dinner with Lisa Rosen, Walter Robinson, Vicki Pedersen and filmmaker Sara Driver. It was Pat Place’s birthday; Linda Yablonsky showed up late. I ran into Robert Molnar on the street and he’s still amazed I’m writing this book. Louis Chaban offers enthusiasm and encouragement while Diego Cortez remains curatorially curious about the endeavor. David Azarch lives a few blocks from me on the city’s far Upper West Side, and Chi Chi and Johnny remain Chi Chi and Johnny. Joey Kelly is the singer in a band; he’s still a lovable guy.

  In October 2015, Anita Sarko said good-bye. In April 2017, Glenn O’Brien passed away after a long illness. For the rest of us and for the moment, time is on our side.

  I speak to Andi Ostrowe every day; she still works for Patti Smith and Patti still is. Phoebe Zeeman (now Fitch) has a place in upstate New York; she made me dinner on the eve of my last birthday. Claudia Summers lives in Chelsea with Amos Poe. Marcus Leatherdale has been living in Portugal.

  Lynette just sent me some 1980 Polaroids; she lives in Spokane and looks forward to a trip back east. Diane Dupuis, a nature-loving artist, is often seen chasing bears and squirrels in her rural Connecticut backyard.

  My friend Solveig is living in the Southern California desert and I’m godfather to Pat Wadsley’s daughter. I spoke to Jo Shane a few days ago and I saw Marcia Resnick a few weeks ago. A book of Marcia’s photos was released last year. Allan Tannenbaum just published his fourth book of photographs; I wrote the sidebar to the nightlife section. Bobby Grossman is busy working on a book of his own.

  My childhood friend Louis Minghinelli and his wife Jackie split their time between Long Island, Florida and NYC. Steve Miller, living in Amsterdam for five years, recently returned to the U.S. and is living in Connecticut. Teri Toye officially became Teri Toye, gave up her modeling career and returned to Iowa. Big Ron built a home in Mexico and still travels the world. Kate Simon is still taking pictures and still calls me RB. We often talk about life and what it all means.

  The guy who dumped me in 1977 with a late-night phone call is alive and well and living in San Francisco; we’re happy to have reconnected and occasionally speak on the phone. The cowboy from Chicago—never heard from again.

  Gary Kanner is an artist. He still lives in New York City. Today, after years of damage and needed repair, our friendship continues.

  Everyone else I see or speak to from time to time.

  The Phone Call Reprise

  November 2015. I’m cooking dinner and watching ABC World News when my phone starts ringing. I don’t recognize the number; neither does the phone. I pick up anyway and hear someone say, “Hello, this is Dr. Mudd.”

  Steve Mass arrived in town to lend his name and support to a Bowery Mission benefit aptly billed as a “Mudd Club Rummage Sale.” He’s asking for my help. Over the course of three weeks, and thirty-five years after the fact, Steve finally tells me what a great job I did working the door of 77 White. We talk about things we never talked about before. Our connection finally becomes a friendship.

  Today, Steve travels back and forth from Berlin, hoping to once again settle in New York.

  By now I’ve waited a lot longer than ten minutes. I took my time writing it all down. I look back without getting lost, happy to remember those twenty-one months. It’s taken a while but I finally stopped hiding and stopped worrying about fitting in. I look in the mirror and—other than a bit of age—everything is okay.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The encouragement, support and collective memory of all those friends and associates who made this book possible, I can never thank you enough. These pages keep us close and move us forward.

  Lori Barbaria was the first to tell me I could do this. Tim Broun, Andi Ostrowe, Kate Simon and Claudia Summers lent me their ear and never stopped listening. Ray Adams, Diane Dupuis, Phoebe Fitch, Michael Holman, Gary Kanner, Pat Place, Vicki Pedersen, Lisa Rosen, Jo Shane and Pat Wadsley were always there, then and now. Michael Wilde helped reacquaint me with the English language and Ira Silverberg encouraged me to keep writing. There would be no story to tell if it wasn’t for Steve Mass.

  Animal X, Joey Arias, Emily Armstrong, Patti Astor, David Azarch, Cedric Baker, Ivan Ivan Baker, Joe Barbaria, Ron Beckner, Edwige Belmore, Adele Bertei, Max Blagg, Dike Blair, Ross Bleckner, Delphine Blue, Mark Boone Jr., David Bowie, Fred ‘Fab 5 Freddy’ Brathwaite, Jerry Brandt, Ernie Brooks, Robin Bruch, Bebe Buell, Leo Carlin, Neke Carson, Louie Chaban, James Chance, Leee Black Childers, Don Christensen, Cheetah Chrome, Tessie Chua, Brien Coleman, Diego Cortez, Jayne County, William Coupon, Bruce Crocker, Ronnie Cutrone, Sharon D’Lugoff, Steven Davis, Edit De’Ak, Deerfrance, Brooke Delarco, Maria DelGreco, John Doe, Johnny Dynell, Sara Driver, Tim Ebneth, Suellen Epstein, Marianne Faithful, Melvone Farrell, Danny Fields, Jim Fouratt, Patrick Fox, Chris Frantz, Jane Friedman, Julie Glantz, Henny Garfunkel, Eric Goode, Bette Gordon, Bobby Grossman, Vince Grupi, Randy Gun, George Haas, Carrie Haddad, Debbie Harry, Kim Hastreiter, Shawn Hausman, Wayne Hawkins, Lisa Helmholz-Adams, Mona Helmholz, David Hershkovits, Gail Higgins, Rosemary Hochschild, John Holmstrom, Francine Hunter McGivern, Pat Irwin, Pat Ivers, Jim Jarmusch, Roxanne Jefferies, Jefferson Airplane, John Jennings, Betsey Johnson, Nathan Slate Joseph, Larry Kaplan, Lenny Kaye, Stephanie Kaye, Krystie Keller, Joey Kelly, David Kinigson, Lynette Bean Kral, Solveig Lamberg, Dory and Allen Lanier, Marcus Leatherdale, Judy Levy, Rebecca Litman, Hal Ludacer, Colette Lumiere, John Lurie, Marina Lutz, Valden Madsen, Gerard Malanga, Monique Mallory, Richard ‘Handsome Dick’ Manitoba, Marilyn, Maripol, Michael Maslin, Larry Mass, Debi Mazar, Dolette McDonald, Maureen McLaughlin, Legs McNeil, Taylor Mead, Barry ‘Scratchy’ Meyers, Sylvia Miles, Nancy Miller, Steve Miller, Louis Minghinelli, Eric Mitchell, Robert Molnar, Mary-Ann Monforton, Elliot Murphy, Michael Musto, James Nares, Natasha, Donald Newman, Nico, Klaus Nomi, Judy Nylon, Michael Oblowitz, Glenn O’Brien, Peter Occhiogrosso, Anita Pallenberg, Deb Parker, Rudolf Piper, Charles Patty, Nick ‘Berlin’ Petti, Dustin Pittman, Amos Poe, Dee Pop, Iggy Pop, Linda Psomas, Joann Pugliese, Howie Pyro, Ramones, Lou Reed, Marcia Resnick, Barry Reynolds, ‘Boy Adrian’ Richards, Lynne Robinson, Walter Robinson, Danny Rosen, Roxy Music, Colter Rule, Yvonne Ruskin, Anita Sarko, Kenny Scharf, David Scharff, Robert Schnur, Susan Sedlmayr, Scott Severin, Jackie Shapiro, Michael Shrieve, Dawn Silva, Cynthia Sley, Patti Smith, Stephen Dennis ‘Smutty’ Smith, Lisa Spellman, Phyllis Stein, Gretchen Stibolt, Walter Stedin
g, Justin Strauss, Betsy Sussler, SVT, Talking Heads, Allan Tannenbaum, Marvin Taylor and The Fales Library at NYU, The Clash, The Brides of Funkenstein, The Pretenders, Phyllis Teitelman, Regine Thorre, Tami Toye, Teri Toye, Bob Tulipan, Cathy Underhill, Chi Chi Valenti, Arturo Vega, Brent Ward, John Waters, Sally Webster, Tina Weymouth, Wendy Whitelaw, Bernie Worrell, Tom Wright, X, Linda Yablonsky and Paul Zahl—your recollections, words and music, paintings and film spoke to me, and helped piece this story together.

  Richard Boch, author, 2016, by Kate Simon.

  Emily Armstrong, Ron Beckner, Rhonda Corte, William Coupon, Lisa Genet, Bobby Grossman, Bob Gruen, Alan Kleinberg, Lynette Bean Kral, Marcus Leatherdale, Maripol, Eugene Merinov, Dustin Pittman, Eileen Polk, Marcia Resnick, Ebet Roberts, Kate Simon, Robin Schanzenbach, Chris Stein, Billy Sullivan, Allan Tannenbaum and Nick Taylor—your images document and celebrate the Mudd Club moment that was 1979 and 1980.

  Marina Lutz and Howie Pyro, your archives of pertinent and important miscellany are truly a gift.

  Tom Baker, Jesse Chamberlain, Pete Farndon, Alice Himelstein, Laura Kennedy, Cookie Mueller, Mickey Ruskin, Richard DNV ‘Ricky’ Sohl and Abbijane—you will forever be a part of me.

  To everyone—thank you.