In the early ’70s it became the first graffiti wall in history. The entire apartment was like a psychedelic trip, smelling of incense and weed.
One night Fritz had a party at his loft on Canal Street. While there, I reciprocated by painting a modern abstract on one of his doors, not stopping to eat, drink, or sleep for two days. That’s how I did things back then and still do today, to some extent. I hardly sleep. To me sleep is boring. I go to bed when my head falls down and the minute I open my eyes I jump out of it. To show his gratitude for my painting and my dedication to finishing the work Fritz gave me one of his paintings that he said represented me—a five-foot-by-five-foot, surrealistic, modern visual that from a distance looks like a series of lines, colors, shapes, and forms, but from closer up, those lines, shapes, and forms become parts of hundreds of human faces and heads. He called it Head of Heads. He was dead serious when he said, “You are Head of Heads. You should have it.”
It has since hung on our living room wall, more than forty years. It reflects a time in my life when I was truly obsessive. Not that I have changed much: back then, there was nothing I wouldn’t do or try. And if I didn’t die, I would do it again with a reckless abandon. I had no fear. Taking the road less traveled has always excited me. Much of that character remains. The difference is now I approach all things with some skepticism, always, as the saying goes, keeping one eye open as I sleep.
Patti Smith
In the late sixties, before I met Charli, one of the early rock clubs, even before CBGB’s, was Max’s Kansas City on 23rd and Park Avenue, a two-story building that truly reflected the times and mirrored our generation—what we looked like, listened to, and believed in. It was the gathering place for New York’s underground society, frequented by artists, poets, rockers, and punk rockers, like Patti Smith, The Sex Pistols, and The Velvet Underground. Bob Marley once opened there for Bruce Springsteen.
Max’s had several areas to hang out in. The main room had the big round table reserved for special guests. Upstairs was smaller and intimate, and reserved for live music. Then there was the famous dimly lit, red-lighted, and very private back room, reserved only for the inner circle of very special guests.
I hung out at Max’s at least once a week, when not at the Fillmore or other Village bars and clubs. The physical club was a living act in and of itself with its own personality, where people gathered to feed off each other, like a mob developing its own mentality and agenda that changed each night. I always went in ready for something amazing to happen.
I first saw the punk rock group The Senders at Max’s. Not so surprisingly, years later I became their manager. They became the opening act for Mick Jones and The Clash, and Sid Vicious, Johnny Rotten, and The Sex Pistols. One night, just before the end of The Senders’ opening set, I realized I hadn’t seen Johnny. I searched and finally found him in the bathroom slouched over the toilet, semi-coherent. I tried to bring him around and worked on him for several minutes until he became more conscious. Suddenly he got up, calmly combed his hair in the mirror, walked out on stage, and did a great show as if nothing happened.
One of the great early performers at Max’s was punk rock poet Patti Smith. Back then in the early seventies I didn’t know who she was, but everyone who saw her knew she was destined to be a star. She had a unique style, not only what she sang but how she sang it. Years later, Michael Lang, or maybe it was Artie Ripp, I can’t remember who—anyway one of them brought in some photos to the office for the album cover of a “new” artist the music industry was abuzz about—The Patti Smith Group. The same Patti Smith I had seen years before at Max’s. The photo was black and white, Patti was dressed in a very large men’s white dress shirt and black suspenders. She had short punk-type black hair and looked like she weighed about fifty pounds. I saw her again a few years later, in 1974, this time on line at the Ziegfeld Theater with her boyfriend Robert, waiting to see our movie Ladies & Gentlemen: The Rolling Stones. This was another ball I’d grabbed and ran with, but we’ll get into that later.
In the pre-Charli days of the late sixties to early seventies I would often ride my motorcycle to raconteur promoter Bill Graham’s Fillmore East, a narrow, brick-front building on Second Avenue in the East Village, near St. Marks Place. It turns out my father, as a kid growing up a few blocks away, was a stage hand/curtain-puller there before it was the Fillmore. The inside could have been a rowdy theater from the days of Shakespeare. Fans filled the rows of seats and pressed to the front of the low stage, always dancing to the music. Others stood on the balconies to the left and right of the theater stage, swaying and leaning over the railing. The upper balcony was straight up, so high you could get a nosebleed. But it didn’t matter. The Fillmore was packed every night. Instead of sonnets, the walls shook with the top bands of the day backlit with Joshua’s psychedelic liquid light show.
The Fillmore East was another incubator for our culture during the time of turn on, tune in, drop out, and sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. I definitely fit the bill—very long hair tied in a ponytail with a long straggly beard, dressed in faded dungaree pants and hand-embroidered dungaree jacket (now called jeans; my kids laugh that I still refer to them as dungarees), standing in the back looking for the next opportunity. In those days, when invoking my natural sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, I almost always had a choice—color, size, and shape. Women followed me home, sometimes staying for several days, often with minimal food and water, unable to break the spell, never wanting to go. That’s how I like to remember it, anyway. In any case I often met women who wanted to utilize my photographic skills, which I’d honed at Richard Steinberg’s studio. Young girls, aspiring actresses and models, were once again paying me to take their photos and put together their portfolios and have sex. What a life. On one occasion, the police arrived in the middle of the night looking for the girl who had stayed over for two days. Her mother had called the cops, who had somehow traced her back to my place.
This short-lived but iconic Village venue was a special place for me. I had many extraordinary moments there in the late sixties, sometimes as a spectator in the audience, other times in a dressing room or hanging out backstage. One night in September 1970, I was standing on the backstage staircase talking to a girl.
Everyone seemed to acknowledge she was Jimi Hendrix’s girlfriend. She leaned in close to me so I could hear her over the music. Suddenly the place erupted in a buzz like a disrupted hornets’ nest. Jimi Hendrix was dead. The shrill went through the building, then, like a bolt of lightning, through her. She broke down and ran away. I’ll never forget that vivid moment. Walking out of the Fillmore in a daze I somehow wound up in the Village at the Café Figaro. I had the same melting, dazed feeling while at Parsons when word spread through the halls and then boomed over the loud speaker that President Kennedy was dead.
On another occasion walking the back halls of the Fillmore I found myself drifting around and wound up in Bonnie Bramlett’s (of The Bonnie and Delaney Band) dressing room. She invited me in and I fell in love. Bonnie was a true blonde bombshell with a Southern, deep, raspy voice. We just started talking like we’d known each other forever. I noticed little round red marks on her arm, some with scabs. She told me they were from lit cigarettes, some game, or something she played with the band. Just then Delaney stuck his head in the room, asked if she was okay and said, “Let’s do it.” The next time I saw them was in 1972, with Charli at Madison Square Garden, opening for the Stones.
My time at the Fillmore East can be summed up with one night. I parked my bike outside on 2nd Avenue. I was there to see Elton John’s first show in New York. He wore a big yellow hat with a giant daisy stuck on top. I was standing in my usual spot in the back leaning on the wall just behind the last row of seats when a cute, curly-headed girl approached me. That’s how it was then. Guys picked up girls and girls picked up guys. We were free.
“Hi, I’m Nancy.”
“I’m Frank.”
She smiled, “Great name.�
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We hit it off immediately. Nancy claimed she was at one time a girlfriend to Bob Dylan. Not only did she have a great smile, she had a seriously funny sense of humor. I told her my real name, which I didn’t do most of the time. She was something special, Nancy Cohen. Now, she calls herself Lola Cohen, much like Suzy calling herself Antoine on the way to Dominica. I never did ask either of them why. We dated for a while until I met Charli. Nancy was cool about it.
When Charli moved in, I gave up looking for the grass to be greener. I knew I had something special. So did she. It felt and still feels right to this day. As I always say, the grass may be greener on the other side, but you have to make sure it’s not Astroturf.
Nancy introduced me to her friends, two sisters, Carol and Barbara Rossenou. Carol was more of a bohemian, hippy type, with her silver and turquoise jewelry, beads, and silver earrings. She often traveled to the island of Ibiza. Her sister Barbara was younger and a bit less flamboyant. Both were seriously connected to the underground movement and introduced me to Neville Gerson.
Neville was six feet tall, a lanky guy, with longish, straight combed-back dark brown hair. He looked like a young Harrison Ford and prided himself in his preppy, expensive Brooks Brothers look. Neville and the girls considered themselves underground activists. They knew everyone: John Lennon, Abbie Hoffman, Jerry Rubin, Allen Ginsberg, William Kuntsler, John Wilcox. Neville had just been voted Cosmopolitan magazine’s most eligible millionaire bachelor of the year. Invited as a guest on the Mike Douglas TV show, he showed up in snakeskin boots, long hair, and very tan skin. Through projects like our erotic sheets, we became great friends, like brothers. Still are to this day.
CHAPTER 9
Erotic Sheets
Life was good living at the Chatsworth. Charli became a constant partner, joining me in grabbing every ball that came along, always encouraging me to do whatever presented itself, especially when Neville visited and introduced his idea for the erotic sheets.
Even before he spoke, I could see his excited expression.
“Hey, Frank.”
“What’s up, Nev?”
“I’m good. In fact, I have an idea you’ll be interested in. We should make and sell erotic sheets and pillowcases.”
Understand this was 1971. The sexual revolution was at its height. Young people were experiencing a crescendo of sexual freedom that would not climax until the dawning of AIDs more than a decade later. At that time, the thought of naked people wrapped around you every night was as American as apple pie. I totally embraced the thought. There it was, another ball floating in the air, ready for me to grab. Immediately, I pictured pitching Neville’s idea to Penthouse magazine. We had work to do. Neville and I created a company, first called Blueberry Hill, named after our favorite Fats Domino song. We then changed it to Yandolino, Gerson, Inc. Its sole raison d’être, at least initially, was to design and sell our creations. Neville had a lawyer friend, Dick Massina, whom we visited at his office at Kroll and Massina on Park Avenue. After revealing our idea, they gave us the entire office complex to work out of. For free. To make erotic sheets and pillow cases. This could only happen in New York.
After setting up shop our first order of business was to come up with a theme. I was not happy with calling them erotic sheets and pillowcases, even though it was that description that got everybody’s attention. Instead, we focused on the elements—earth, air, fire, and water. The look would be classic exotic, not erotic, stylized after the famous masters: Klee, Renoir, Klimt, and Rousseau. Neville and I sorted through artist after artist, interviewing them until deciding on four that we believed could execute our vision. Then it was time for the important stuff: money. Neville convinced Barbara and Carol, who loved the idea, to invest, and then we presented the opportunity to Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin, who agreed to do it too, as long as we never told anyone. The ultimate anti-establishment duo made a capitalistic investment; they collectively put up $10,000, a lot of money in 1971.
In Charli’s Words
Frank and Neville were working on the erotic sheets. This was the first time for me to see Frank the art director really direct. I was home when Frank invited the four contemporary, well-known artists into our apartment. One by one, they showed their portfolios. They were great talents. He spoke to them with conviction; I could tell they respected his insight. He would tell them what he wanted and send them on their way. Once Frank has a vision, you can’t stop him.
The artists would return the next week with what they thought was finished work. Amazing work. Then, without the slightest hesitation, Frank would change things, rearrange colors, facial expressions. You name it, he changed it.
I’ll never forget what he said to Nicholas Paladino, the artist who painted air: “I don’t like the way the legs are turned. Can you change it to the other direction?” Oh my god! Nicholas’s face fell, but he returned the following week. Again, Frank directed a change to the position of the arms. I felt bad for Nicholas, but Frank did the same with all of them. The artists were like workers next to the art director. I was amazed when they each thanked Frank for pushing them to do a perfect job on their painting.
After all these years, I have seen a lot of artists come and go presenting many different types of work—paintings, photographs, stories, music. Whatever Frank worked on, if he didn’t do it himself, it had to be done as he saw it, no matter whom he was working with. The keen eye and confidence of the art director, the captain, is what made him special. Frank was blessed with the amazing gift of a very critical eye and strong convictions.
Many years later, on December 10, 2012, Charli and I visited our old friend Barbara Rossenou at her apartment, and we were talking about her sister Carol, who had passed away several years before. We reminisced about a story that is now New York underground folklore, regarding a certain famous celebrity from across the pond, an English mega male songwriter, producer, singer, band member, legend, icon, superstar, who at the time of this tale ran in that underground circle that liked to get high. On a particular day in the early 1970s, his yellow brick road led him to a party at the historic apartment owned by Jerry Rubins, which Jerry inherited from the folk singer legend Phil Ochs. The same apartment was frequented by famous lawyer William Kuntsler, Paul Obst, Abbie Hoffman, Jay Levin, and poet Allen Ginsberg, who on that very day was witnessed making out with Julian Beck. As they say, all roads lead to Rome, and back then, Rome was drugs and the roads all led to Jerry’s apartment, 6H.
As legend tells it, that night at the party this certain rock star and his long-time Japanese girlfriend showed up. Carol had been staying there for a while, and I believe Barbara and Nancy were there as well. It’s been reported by several on the scene that the rock star liked Carol a lot. They shared the same drug of choice and disappeared into a back bedroom to score. He scored all right, with Carol. Everyone in the adjoining room heard it, too, including his Japanese howling singer girlfriend, who the world loved to hate. She was pissed as she waited at the door for her boyfriend (of course I’m talking about John Lennon) to come out.
As usual I was searching for a ball to grab. Neville set it up to meet in New York with members of Elephant’s Memory, John Lennon’s new band, who were recording and doing shows together. Stan, the sax player, and Rick, the drummer, were considering signing a management agreement with me, so I went to several of their rehearsals and studio recordings. On one occasion, there was John in the recording studio behind the glass window, surrounded by musicians. Soon after, John was gone, shot and killed outside on the street in front of his apartment at the Dakota. Dion’s song says it best, but you can now add: Has anybody seen my old friend John, Bobby, Martin, Jimi, Janice, Michael, Whitney? And on and on.
While I was hustling up investors, manufacturers, and distributers for the erotic sheets, putting various balls together Charli once again performed her magic.
In Charli’s Words
One day I showed Kathy the erotic sheets and pillowcases. She liked the ide
a and arranged for us to meet with Guccione. We met at the Drake Hotel in their multiroom suite. It was lavishly decorated with plush couches, sitting areas, flowers, photographs, paintings, and mirrors; crystal, gold, and silver were everywhere. Frank and Bob connected immediately, and later spent a lot of time together.
Bob Guccione was a handsome older man who reminded me of actor Victor Mature in Samson and Delilah, with very curly black hair, very Italian eyes, and long eyelashes. Guccione always wore an opened to midchest fluffy black or white shirt, and what seemed like fifty gold chains and trinkets on his neck. He liked my erotic sheets and asked me what else I had done. I told him everything I could think of. He was impressed, saying, “Maybe you could help us with our new project.” He then explained the concept of VIVA magazine.
It was to be an offshoot of Penthouse dedicated to couples—men and women, not just for men. But this visit was all business. I wanted their involvement in our erotic sheet venture. Guccione, though, was more interested in having Charli and I pose as a couple in the nude for VIVA. That was not going to happen. I did, however, grab the VIVA ball and run with it.
After several meetings, Bob asked me to come up with ideas for the look and logo of his new magazine. As I started work on the design, I knew Penthouse and everything it could offer me was the golden opportunity. This was a ball I would work till all the air came out of it and it looked like a Dali clock. Charli worked on Kathy like a true talent agent, talking up my skills and experience. She did a good job following this credo I always use: if I stick my foot in the door, my head will follow.
Generally, I follow this rule. But, as a rule, I don’t always follow rules. So sometimes when I grab the ball, I go ahead and do it the other way around: I stick my head in the door, forcing my feet to follow.
Frank & Charli Page 10
