Rivington Was Ours

by Brendan Jay Sullivan

  “I love tech problems. Tell me about them.”

  She cocked her face to one side. “The stage was made of these matched risers, gaffer-taped at the legs. Starlight had feedback in everything and the speakers vibrated her turntables.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “People were screaming, shouting while we have our limited time on the stage. It was awful.” The room before us at Beauty Bar disappeared and Gaga stared back at the empty stage of Lollapalooza and the passive listeners sneering at the feedback coming from her direction as they went from stage to port-a-potty to food truck. That year the traveling festival had moved to Chicago’s great Grant Park after many aimless summers of pitching an outdoor concert at fairgrounds and airfields. It still had the overcrowded bill and gaffer-taped wires. “And I’m standing there behind my synth with a microphone in front of me and every minute that goes by is one less song I can play.”

  “What did you play? ‘Blueberry Kisses’?”

  “Yes, but I had bought these new turntables with the advance on my record and they gave us a folding table to put them on.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  She caught herself and looked up at me. “No. Every time I danced the stage would bounce and the record skipped.”

  “That happens here. Watch.” I stood up and stepped on this one spot on the way to the door. Ten feet away in the DJ booth, the record skipped. The DJ squinted at the turntable, couldn’t figure out why it happened, and looked up at me. I smiled.

  Gaga was angry. “Why does that happen?”

  “Couple reasons. Come in back and watch where that doesn’t happen.”

  Together we walked through a narrow hallway where a bench from an old barbershop lined the walls. Old beauty products from yesteryear stood in glass cases next to the old price list from Thomas Beauty Salon, where you could still get a beehive hairdo for eight dollars. I led her to the dark, roped-off back room, whose empty checkerboard dance floor menaced the DJ booth in the back room. It was empty except for us and a small bar that opened on weekends and special late nights. She turned around twice to see if we would get in trouble.

  “Your tour kit needs to get set up like this,” I said. I showed her the two turntables suspended by elastic cord in the private room. Her eyes widened and I showed her a couple of things—how to avoid feedback, etc. Not groundbreaking sonic theory, just the basics of setting up a band like I’ve done at a hundred shows, mixed with the basics of setting up a DJ booth (which would be reliably torn up). “Walk me through the show.”

  “Starlight and I came out on stage in dresses and then stripped down to bikinis, performed the whole show, and lit a hairspray can on fire.”

  “That sounds crazy!”

  “It would be here at home with the lights and the fog machine going. But it’s, like, three in the afternoon and it’s Chicago and windy. I don’t give a fuck what anyone says about why they call it the Windy City. Fucking place never stops blowing in your face. We’d blow the smoke machine and in about a second it’s gone. The day before was kinda sunny, but we just had these gray Chicago clouds over us.”

  Tech problems are part of a show. And if the show must go on, the tech problem must get extinguished. We talked about stagecraft and wires and the like until we’d vanquished any future tech problem.

  “LOOK, I’M PUTTING TOGETHER a new party,” I told Gaga when she finished.

  “Oh . . .” She sounded even more deflated. We’d both gotten used to knowing one person who always had the day off.

  “It’s at Pianos.” I mentioned the name of the rock club between Stanton Social and St. J’s.

  Her eyes lit up. “You’re kidding. Can you get me booked? Ohmygod. I’ve always wanted to play at Pianos.”

  “Here’s the deal. I’ve got Sunday nights and I can book the bands, the DJs, whatever. But I need something big. It’s so dead in there the barback calls it ‘Suicide Sundays.’” I ran some figures with her and she went over the plan with me. This little girl had the business acumen of a mafia don.

  “So if we can double what we put in the drawer up front, we can do anything we want in back.”

  “Exactly. And no nickel-and-diming. I’ll cover the door charge, the sound guy, everything. The bands get to pick how much they want to charge and every cent will go directly to them.”

  “This could be good.”

  “So you’re in?”

  “I’m in. I just want to play. I’m ready.”

  “Good. So, look, I might have something for you before that . . .”

  THING ABOUT GAGA WAS SHE physically needed to perform, but she had to perform big. Her social intelligence, the way she could talk at your level no matter who you were, meant that she couldn’t fake it with a half-interested audience. A DJ on the other hand can work up to the enthusiasm, build it up. A good DJ should read the crowd and lead the crowd. I told her I had something for her next week. Something different.

  Real different.

  Gaga called me later the next Wednesday and I pulled over the Vespa to answer her call. I had twine-wrapped a garbage barrel to the rear passenger seat and filled it with paint, party supplies, glue sticks, pink caulk, and a sparkly paper tablecloth. “You get everything?”

  “Yep.”

  “We still meeting at nine?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are we really doing this?” I could hear in her voice a tremble of intimidation. Why would the crowd at Beauty Bar treat her any better than the one at Lollapalooza? Bombing as a young artist is something you never, ever forget. No matter how many shows you nail because of it. If people in this scene found out about me and Nikki’s breakup day-of, imagine what they might say about your band.

  “Yep.” I hung up the phone and spent the rest of the day in my backyard trying to turn a (clean) trashcan into a cake that read “Happy birthday, Mike!” in pink bathtub caulk. More on that in a minute.

  SOMETIMES YOU PLAN A PARTY so well that it can’t go wrong. But nothing can stop rain. Nothing can stop the Yankees from playing a number of games well in a row. Or a new game show where amateur singers audition in front of professionals and get voted off. Our biggest competition in nightlife wasn’t just other parties but the slow, crushing approach of adulthood and responsibilities that kept people from staying out night after night.

  But by ten the back room filled. Dino showed up with Gaga in a trench coat and I was so glad to see him. Dino played bass and guitar in a couple of projects. I’d known him for a few years, but this was the first time we hung out off Rivington. Sometimes at these parties you have to deputize someone as security so the back bathroom can be a dressing room, or hand someone your camera so they can be your photographer. I needed Dino to be her roadie.

  “Whatever she needs, man. I need you to do it,” I said.

  “Got it.”

  “Gaga, do you know your cue?”

  “When the announcer calls out ‘President.’”

  “Right, anything else?”

  “Do you expect me to fit inside of this cake?” I realized then that we had a big problem. I had gotten too small of a barrel. This one barely went up past her knees.

  “Are you going to be able to?”

  “I’ll make it work.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Dino?”

  “We got this.”

  AT MIDNIGHT I CUT THE music right before the second chorus of Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction” (try it sometime: “I can’t get no / NO NO N—”). Everyone looked straight at the booth and I grabbed the microphone. “Hello everybody, don’t you all look beautiful tonight. Can I have a moment of your time? I would like to honor a very special friend of mine tonight. He’s brought joy and happiness to all of us over the years, and when I was just a kid looking to make it as a DJ I turned to Mike and he gave me a chance of a lifetime here. And just to show my appreciation, Mike, please stand right in front there because this cake is going to really blow your candles out. Dino?” I handed the mic to Dino and hopped i
nto the DJ booth to put the record on.

  “Mr. President”—Gaga’s hand pierces through the paper icing on the cake as the record begins. The track played and Mike took her hand gingerly, like a man helping a lady out of a horse-drawn carriage—“Marilyn Monroe!” No one had any idea what was going on. But they wanted to. They all stared agape at this tiny trashcan with a whole woman inside. Dino handed her the mic and she stepped onto the plywood go-go platform.

  The crowd couldn’t believe it. This was the first time anyone in Manhattan had seen this Lady Gaga, the new performance artist. I played the original recording and her voice shimmered over on top. Her voice destroyed Marilyn’s. She belted into that cheap carny mic. “Happy birthday . . . Mr. President. Happy birthday to you!”

  The thunderous cheer resuscitated the Lady Gaga I knew. Instead of Lollapalooza, where she put herself on stage, hoping that people would come over and check her out, she put herself in a can and didn’t ask anyone to see what’s inside. But they wanted to know. She stood radiant in the light of the disco spotlight, her chest heaving as she stood with perfect soloist’s posture, looking down from her two-foot go-go cube at the birthday boy, smiling. Laughing.

  Just as she stood there, about to take a bow to the cheering audience, on the cusp of maybe getting off the tiny stage, I threw on a song with a hard four-on-the-floor beat. “Birthday” by the Beatles. And she go-go danced her ass off, singing the whole time as the exasperated room danced along.

  “You say it’s your birthday? It’s my birthday too, yeah!”

  Mike and his twin sister were thanking her, posing for pictures, dancing helplessly. People crammed huge tips into her garter belts and she put on a big show, bending over and having them stuff her opalescent sequined bra. I wanted to hold the mood right there, so I threw on “The Clapping Song,” a sixties favorite of mine by Shirley Ellis (B side of “The Name Game”). Gaga got everyone clapping along to the school-yard beat. It was Mike’s thirty-eighth birthday, but it might be his fifth if I could keep the music right.

  Gaga walked across the backroom to the bar, pulled two dollars out of her bra, said something to the bartender, and walked to the DJ booth, carrying two shots of Sauza Hornitos in one hand. She handed me one, rammed her glass into mine and hollered, “I love you, VH1—here’s to rock ’n’ roll!”

  The next DJ was about to go on and I couldn’t wait. After spending all day on this damn cake I didn’t have any time to eat. I thought I had enough time to go next door to Bite, maybe try and make the counter girl cry real quick. Just then someone came up to me. “Twig the Wonderkid can’t stay. We need you in the front booth.”

  I packed up my operation in back and got in the front booth, thinking I might be there for another hour. I told Gaga I needed to go up front and she gave me this little puppy dog look. I promised her I’d be back.

  Antonio (Twig’s human name) is there, slightly out of it as usual. “What’s up?”

  “I gotta go home,” he said. Every single time I saw Antonio anywhere he was always wearing the same leather jacket and with yesterday’s dried eyeliner. It hadn’t occurred to me that he had a home.

  The DJ trade-off shouldn’t be difficult, but people like to get comfortable back there, to spread out. I saw that he had on a bunch of CDs, so I pulled out my 45s case so he could clean up from the CD trays. I kept my records, even my 45s, categorized by tempo. So I pounded out something to meet up with the Bowie song he had going. Something in the backbeat made me count extra—even though I knew I shouldn’t. I didn’t even put on my headphones yet—with the two of us crammed into the DJ booth like two guys at a busy deli trying to share off one cash drawer—but I watched for the green light on the mixing board as I cued up the little record. The light went orange. Even better. “You ready?” I dropped the guitar in. Bryan Adams sang, “I got my first real six-string.”

  When Gaga heard “Summer of ’69” she sprang out from the back room and leaped into the DJ booth.

  She sang, her hips bumping up against mine, forcing me to dance. And smiled. She sang over the words, “ . . . me and some guys from Rivington High School had a band and we try real hard!”

  Everyone in the whole bar had one eye shining on her. I hoped she never played outdoors ever again. She had a new spirit in her. One tied to the freedom of music and a carefree zest. Even we forget: This is supposed to be fun.

  “I don’t like the music those boys are playing back there,” she said. “I just wanna be your go-go dancer. I’m not for lending out.”

  “Okay, babe, but there’s no go-go stage up here in the main room. There’s no dance floor either.”

  “I’ll make do.”

  She hopped up on the bar, hoisting herself on the brass of the beer taps and wearing nothing but fishnets, bloomers, and her bikini top. The fishnets barely reached her crotch. I looked over as she pushed people’s drinks aside. She reached over and grabbed a bar rag to wipe the surface while Justin was not looking, and in one swanlike motion she rose up on her white leather heels.

  I never did get that dinner break. I didn’t leave the booth for more than a minute the entire night. The only thing I did do was join Gaga on the bar to dance whenever her spirits would fade. I earned an extra fifteen dollars this way from people cramming money in my belt. On my final time up to the bar I was so out of it that I crawled up some girl’s chair and when I went to put my foot on the bar I ended up kicking a full glass of whiskey-on-the-rocks right at the bartender.

  “Hey!”

  “Sorry, man!”

  “You better watch it.”

  I looked up at Gaga, who had the biggest smile on her face. Mine too. Even though I’m supposed to be heartbroken and miserable. That night, that summer seemed to last forever. And if I had a choice, I’d always wanna be there.

  “Those were the best days of my life.”

  The music that they constantly play says nothing to me about my life

  For the first Suicide Sundays show at Pianos I hired Guy to DJ and Gaga got a band called Semi Precious Weapons to open for her.

  I started talking to my barback, St. Michael. He’d had a very successful band in the nineties and did five records and endless touring. Now thirty-six, he found himself checking IDs at bars in the LES and doing awesome things like collecting and auctioning Motörhead merchandise online. He’d been sober for fifteen years, but he made a great bartender. He had full-sleeve tattoos and once a month had to grow his beard out to play Lemmy in his Motörhead cover band.

  “How’s my young Tolstoy this week?”

  “Working hard. But it’s driving me nuts.”

  “Did you talk to your girl at all?”

  “I did. But it doesn’t get me anywhere. It’s just aggravating. It’s like she’s thrown up a brick wall in front of herself. Like the girl I loved disappeared. How’s things with Amanda?”

  “She’s moving in this week.”

  “I’ll try not to turn my envy into a jealous rage.”

  “Let me tell you something.” He reached an arm out and touched mine. I flinched. No one had touched me in months. He looked at me with his honest eyes. “Your anger is just little Brendan crying out—because he wants to be held.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “No buts. No anything. That’s what it is. You might even hate her for it, but it doesn’t change how you feel. Let it sink in.”

  St. Michael was right.

  STARLIGHT CAME IN, BUZZING SOMEWHAT, with fresh makeup ringing her eyes. Gaga strolled in behind her carting a keyboard. Dino acted as their roadie.

  “Are you excited?”

  “Yes, I can’t wait. This is going to be the best show ever!” She gave me a big hug and I felt an electric pulse kick through me. We work in the business of happiness. Sometimes I play records for people who need to hear “Jet Boy Jet Girl.” Sometimes I put on shows for people who need a gig. And this is what we all hope for. And that day, my heart, which felt like it could explode every time I thought of Nikki, grew
three sizes bigger. The bigger heart could handle the stress and the excitement.

  “Did you work everything out with the opening band?”

  “Yes, but Starlight has to work tomorrow at nine. So we’re going on first.”

  That came as a surprise. Everyone had clamored over Gaga these past few months, but most hadn’t been able to see her play. Tonight would be the first time—for me, at least.

  I told her the deal: “Like I told you at Beauty Bar, you can charge whatever you want at the door, because it all goes to the bands. Normally I have a guy doing the door and he writes down who is there to see which band and you get the full cover. But tonight he’s DJ’ing upstairs for this new party called Red Light District and Tali De’Mar is go-go dancing.”

  “No cover. No money. I just want to play,” Gaga said.

  “And the other bands are okay with that?”

  “Yes.”

  Right then, Justin Tranter, singer of Semi Precious Weapons, walked in with this guy who owned a clothing boutique in Greenpoint called Alter. I looked straight through Justin’s soul. Here stood this contrived man in heels, two pairs of panty hose, and a ripped shirt. I could just feel people picking on him when he was a kid. Perhaps some kind of summer-camp exchange had exported my same bus-ride hecklers to make fun of him. He had dry, self-bleached hair and half a pound of eyeliner on, both of which made him look like a truck stop waitress. I loved it.

  “Can you believe I got them to play?” Gaga shrieked with joy.

  ABOUT HALFWAY THROUGH THE NIGHT everyone at the bar disappeared. Sometimes these shows get a little out of hand. Or the front gets so busy that St. Michael has to come in and help out. Not tonight. I looked out the window to busy Ludlow Street. If tonight didn’t go well they wouldn’t keep letting me book the acts. Will, the door guy, leaned on his stool, chewing gum, the flat brim of his hat cocked to one side. He shrugged. “What can you do?” I went over to the window and saw the crowds in and outside of all the other places on the street. The smell of wet pencils rose up from the rough-hewn floorboards of the empty room. When you can smell the filth down here, you know something’s up.