This was the 1970s Times Square of raunchy porn and peep shows. This was XXX-rated funky junky New York City at its downest and dirtiest.
Ground zero was Forty-Second Street, our destination. Larry said he knew just the spot. He led me to a run-down building. We walked up to the fourth floor and knocked on a door. The madam looked like Bela Lugosi in drag. A long cigarillo dangled from her mouth.
“Wait over there,” she said.
We waited on a broken-down couch that smelled of cat piss. A scrawny white cat leapt up and landed in my lap. Not the pussy I’d been dreaming of. There were magazines on a half-collapsed coffee table. Incredibly I remember the whole fucking strange collection—Argosy, Gun World, and Good Housekeeping. Other guys—older men—were also waiting. It was like we were waiting for the dentist, except this time we were the ones who wanted to do the drilling.
I got to pick out the girl, a hot Puerto Rican with big tits and a plump ass. Before we entered her bedroom, though, she frisked me—not in a sexy way, but in a way where she expected to find a hard weapon on me. My built-in weapon couldn’t even think about getting hard, not when she brought me into a tiny room the size of a closet. It was like a doctor’s examining room. She put me on a bed that looked like an operating table. She then examined my dick to make sure I didn’t have cooties. When she touched it, it recoiled. Rather than stand up and proudly present itself, my cock crawled back into my body cavity and went into hiding.
“Look,” I said, “keep my ten bucks. I’m outta here.”
And that was it. Larry and I left without saying a word to each other. In a hurry, we walked through the neon night, eager for the safety and security of our Brooklyn homes.
I silently vowed never to go to a professional again—and I never have. Then and there I decided that the sex has to be real. The woman has to really want me.
UNDERCOVER COP ON THE MOD SQUAD
AS A TEENAGER, I was an early shaver with a thick growth. I decided to grow a beard like Al Pacino in Serpico. I also decided to wear a dashiki, the same kind that Pacino wore in the film. I grew my hair long and bought a pair of extra-dark, extra-cool sunglasses. I became unrecognizable to the point that one teacher, whose class I’d taken the year before, summoned me over to him in the hallway.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Security,” I said in a deadpan Pacino voice. “Undercover officer investigating reports of drugs in the classroom by students and teachers. I’m afraid that everyone is a suspect.”
When I told him to put his hands against the wall and spread ’em so I could frisk him, he didn’t argue. He actually thanked me.
• • •
During May of that same year—1973—I gave a performance that changed my life. I was a junior at James Madison High playing in two bands—the orchestra and the dance band. At the spring concert, I had a featured spot in our closing number, “The Mod Squad Theme.” It almost never happened.
A few months before the concert, Mr. Musiker, the band teacher, handed out our assignments. I knew the kick-ass drum solo in “The Mod Squad Theme” would come down to either me or my friend Larry Schwartz. We were both good drummers, but Mr. Musiker liked Larry better. He was an A student, captain of the basketball team, and an all-around good citizen. I was the class clown. I especially liked to torment Mr. Musiker. I’d make snide comments in class and get everybody laughing, or throw my drumsticks in the air and try to make them stick in the ceiling, or bang a timpani drum in the middle of a ballad. I tortured the poor guy. I guess I shouldn’t have been shocked when he chose Larry to do the “Mod Squad” solo, but I was.
I was not only shocked, I was crushed. Larry was a fine drummer, but he played by the numbers. He didn’t have my showmanship, and that’s what the drum solo called for—a performance. You had to blow the audience away. I knew Larry didn’t have that in him. Larry knew it, too. He tried, gave it his best shot, and then after the second or third rehearsal, he went up to Mr. Musiker after band practice and told him that I should be the one to play that drum solo, not him. What a class move. Mr. Musiker said he’d think about it, and then the next day he told me, reluctantly, that Larry had graciously given up the Mod Squad solo and that it was now mine.
I was thrilled, but I still wanted to mess with Mr. Musiker’s head. During practice, I’d flub certain sections of the song on purpose and pretend like I was lost. I made Mr. Musiker a nervous wreck. He begged me to go home and rehearse more. I did just that. I rehearsed like crazy. But the next day at school I’d pretend I was lost again. I’m sure Mr. Musiker second-guessed himself, wondering if he’d made a huge mistake by giving me the solo. I just wanted to keep everyone’s expectations way down and build up the drama. No one was prepared for what I was about to do. Everyone thought I’d flub it.
But I wasn’t about to flub it. I was up onstage, sitting tall and proud behind my drum kit. I looked out into the audience, and in addition to every kid and teacher in the school, my parents and sister were right there in the front row. The Originals were in the house. I was ready.
Time for “The Mod Squad Theme.”
I kicked it off, the band blasted the melody, and I was deep in the pocket when it was time for my solo. That’s when I went nuts. I went into a zone. I became a whole ’nother person. I turned the drumsticks into magic wands. I was a natural wonder. All my preparation paid off. All those months of carefully studying and combining bits and pieces of Ginger Baker’s Blind Faith riffs with the funk of Sly and the Family Stone’s drummer, Greg Errico—man, it came together like gangbusters. And if that wasn’t enough, on top of the white rock and black soul, I gave ’em a taste of Buddy Rich’s West Side Story remake: putting on the brakes to where it sounded like I was playing in slow motion—one agonizingly slow beat after another until you think the train has come to a halt—and then the explosion! The colossal rolls! Bombs bursting everywhere! I was going crazy! It looked like I had four arms, all in motion at once. I was bringing back the beat and rocking out so hard that the train was roaring down the track at a hundred miles an hour, and every kid and teacher in my school was up and cheering and giving me a standing ovation.
“You wiseass,” Mr. Musiker said afterward. “All the grief you put me through—and all the time you knew just what you were doing, didn’t you?”
I just smiled.
• • •
The drumming continued. After that performance, I started playing in wedding and bar mitzvah bands. I was determined to be the next Buddy Rich, another Brooklyn boy. My dad was always supportive. He’d drive me to the gigs and drive me home. But he was always realistic.
“I know that you’re great at this, Andrew, but there’s only one Buddy Rich,” he said.
“I’m gonna keep practicing.”
“And you should. But Johnny Carson, he keeps practicing too. Johnny can play the drums. But when he has Buddy Rich on his show, Johnny doesn’t even try. You understand what I’m saying, sonny boy?”
I did. I was a good showman, but no one can rival Buddy. Besides, the days when a drummer could lead a big band were long gone. Buddy was the last of that breed. For me drumming was about rock, funk, and disco. In that world there were few, if any, real solo stars. You were stuck being a sideman.
• • •
Senior year, Artie Blau took over for Mr. Musiker. He heard the energy I brought and put me out front. For the senior concert he placed me at center stage and set up the band around me. I was really feeling my oats. If I’d been good during my junior year, my senior year was off the charts.
My grades, though, were also off the charts—in the downward direction. I failed math, and it looked like I wouldn’t be graduating. But then Mrs. Cohen, my math teacher, surprised me by saying, “Andrew, I was going to fail you because your grades are unacceptable. But after watching you perform at the senior concert, I can see you have a talent and a future. Everyone in this school can see that. With that in mind, I’m going to pass you and let you graduate. I�
��d like to recommend that you attend summer school, but what’s the point? You’d never show up.”
SUMMER OF LOVE
I’D JUST GRADUATED high school and didn’t know what I was gonna do. My odd jobs were getting me nowhere. My drumming gigs were fine, but few and far between. I’d broken up with Cheryl from Sea Gate and was dying to know what it was like to actually fuck a female.
When I answered the phone I was surprised to hear it was Larry Schwartz, the drummer from my high school. He wasn’t happy. In fact he was pissed off and yelling.
“You want a job playing drums? ’Cause I’m getting the fuck outta here.”
“Of course I want a job drumming. Where are you?”
“The Delmar Hotel.”
“Where’s that?”
“The Catskills. It’s the Borscht Belt. You know, between Grossinger’s and Brown’s. I’m in a trio with our old music teacher’s son. I can’t stand the guy.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“You’ll see. Look, either you want the job or you don’t.”
“I want it. I’m coming.”
That same day I packed my bags and drove up to the Catskills.
This was when, for the first of what would be many variations, I changed my name around.
“If I’m gonna be a famous drummer,” I said to Dad, “I don’t think Andrew Clay Silverstein is the right name.”
“You might be right,” said Dad, always understanding. “After all, Louie Bellson was originally Luigi Balassoni.”
“And Ringo Starr was Richard Starkey.”
“How about Andrew Starr?” Dad asked.
“I don’t wanna copy no one. I was thinking Clay Silvers.”
“Clay Silvers sounds good.”
“Clay Silvers it is.”
So now Clay Silvers was walking through your typical Catskills hotel, the kind of place where, to get in, you had to have either a heart condition, a history of strokes, or major prostate problems. When people asked where it was located, the answer was on Route 52 halfway between death and disability. The average guest was ninety. The house comic didn’t tell jokes; he had to scream jokes, ’cause no one in the audience could hear.
The band was led by Lee Musiker, son of our high school music teacher. Lee was only nineteen. He was a musical genius who would one day wind up working with Buddy Rich and Tony Bennett. He was a pianist and arranger who could play and write anything. I saw why Larry Schwartz hated Lee, because Lee was a perfectionist. During our first rehearsal I went off on a little drum tangent and Lee started yelling at me to follow the written charts.
“I go by feel,” I said.
He stood up from behind his piano, grabbed his schlong, and said, “Feel this.”
The whole band broke up laughing, me included. Lee and I became great friends that summer because we dug each other’s musical talent and sense of humor. Being close in age helped too.
Next to Lee in the band was Wally Rosen, the sixty-five-year-old tenor saxophone player. There was also Lee Lawrence, a really good singer in his thirties. Lee Lawrence became a big booster of mine. In fact, I wound up calling him Uncle Lee.
“Kid,” said Uncle Lee, “you have more talent in your left pinky than most drummers have in both hands.”
To keep the old Jews happy, we’d play shit from the forties. To keep the sprinkling of younger couples happy, we’d play a disco version of “The Summer Knows,” the theme song from the movie Summer of ’42. And I sang a lot of the disco songs myself. Of course we were also playing “Feelings” and “Love Will Keep Us Together” and “Laughter in the Rain.” Lee Musiker knew how to cover the Average White Band’s “Pick Up the Pieces” and I could pick up the funky drum groove right away, but our sax man was lost. That was okay, because most of the dancers were lost.
My parents came up for a weekend that summer to hear us play. They sat in the front row and for our entire set held hands like a couple of newlyweds. At one point we went into “On a Clear Day You Can See Forever” and I took over the vocals. My father beamed, and my mother leaned her head on my dad’s shoulder and started crying, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. She loved when I sang. She always got choked up.
After the weekend, my dad went back to the city for work, and my mother stayed on for a few more days. One morning after breakfast she said, “Let’s go sit by the pool at Brown’s.”
Brown’s was a big fancy resort next to the Delmar.
“They won’t let us in,” I said.
“Why not?”
“You have to be a guest. They’re really strict. They check you.”
“So, that’s it? You’re gonna give up? You’re not even gonna try?”
She shook her head, rummaged through her huge beach bag, found some lipstick, applied a fresh coat, puckered her lips, gathered up her bag, stood up, and strolled toward the poolside entrance of Brown’s. She oozed confidence. Trying to act nonchalant, I caught up to her as she walked right up to a beefy security guard. He looked like a no-nonsense former cop. He wore an ID badge with his name: Ralph Paulino.
“Good morning, Officer Ralph,” my mother said, knocking him back with her dazzling smile. “It’s going to be a hot one today. Too bad you can’t get out of that sweaty uniform and into a bathing suit.”
“I wish,” Ralph said, laughing, his face turning sunburn red.
“Well,” my mother said, “stay cool.”
We started to walk past him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “What was your name?”
She whirled back on him. “Oh, Officer Ralph, shame on you. I’m Mrs. Silverstein. We went through this yesterday. You forgot me already?”
“Oh, no, not at all, I apologize,” Ralph said.
In a blink, Mom and I were set up ringside at the pool, wearing sunglasses, slathered in sunscreen, soaking up rays and sipping drinks with tiny umbrellas, lazing in our lounge chairs.
“I can’t believe we got past Officer Ralph,” I said.
“Sometimes you just do things first and ask questions later,” my mother said.
I took those words in.
I would live by them.
FINALLY!
THIS IS THE summer when I met Laurie, the daughter of the Delmar’s house singer. The house singer happened to be in love with the Delmar’s house comic. But the Delmar’s owner, Max Jacobs, was also in love with the singer. Turned out that the singer was fucking both guys—the comic ’cause he made her laugh and the owner ’cause he gave her money. Meanwhile, I sneaked off with Laurie for what would be the sweetest gift a woman can give a man.
At that point I was starting to seriously doubt whether I would ever have sex with something that wasn’t fur-lined and 60 percent cotton, 40 percent polyester, never mind with a real girl and someone as sexy as Laurie. She had long blond hair, a killer body, and heart-shaped, succulent lips. I had become a major make-out artist, and while I was far from Casanova—hell, I was still a freaking virgin—girls always told me I was a terrific kisser. Great. So I could hit a solid single. I wanted to round the bases and slide into home.
So, a couple of weeks into the summer, Laurie and I were lying on my bed in my little room in the back of the hotel, as usual making out like crazy. But that night the kissing seemed hotter and the petting went further. I put my hand under her shirt, and this time she didn’t stop me. In fact, she unhooked her bra. And then she started to gently take over. Our kissing became slower, more intense and even hotter, and then with gorgeous, generous, luscious Laurie guiding me each incredible step of the way, I suddenly felt as if I’d fallen completely inside her, but not just her body, her entire being. I felt spirited away, lost, like I was on some kind of drug trip. Then I felt locked inside her, literally, and I exploded. I saw stars. Planets. Constellations. It was like my head blew off. I don’t know how long I was gone, probably seconds, but then I opened my eyes and saw that her eyes were open, too, and we started laughing, like two happy drunks. I knew it wasn’t her first time, bu
t I didn’t care. I felt grateful. Laurie was kind and gentle and special. I’m not sure, but I think I whispered, “Wow,” and then, “Thank you.”
• • •
Laurie had a beautiful free spirit. It didn’t feel like we were using each other—just enjoying each other. Whether fooling around in the pool, walking in the woods at night, or hanging out in my room or hers, we loved the touching and the friendly feeling, but mostly we loved the fucking.
Between playing with Lee Musiker on the bandstand and playing with Laurie in bed, it was the best time ever. It got even better when Larry Winocor, my friend from Brooklyn, came up to visit. Just as a goof, he brought me a big gas-charged BB gun complete with a shoulder holster. I put it on and paraded around the pool. Max Jacobs, the owner, yelled that I was scaring the eighty-year-old swimmers. But I kept parading anyway.
I wasn’t exclusive to Laurie that summer. Lee Musiker set us up with older girls, telling them we were twenty-one. One date didn’t go so smoothly. Driving down the highway, he had to swerve the car to avoid a deer. We all got bruised and wound up at the ER, where—here came another embarrassment—in answering the doctor’s question about my age, I had to admit, “I’m seventeen.”
Before the summer was over, my sister, Natalie, checked into the nearby Raleigh Hotel, where she watched me do a belly flop off the high diving board.
I heard some of the Catskill comics that summer—notably one guy named Sal Richards, who somehow got an audience to give him a standing ovation with one good joke. The guy was a great showman, and I was happy to run into him years later in L.A., but I can’t say he influenced me. I can’t say any comic really influenced me back then, ’cause I was thinking in terms of music, not comedy. And even when I did start fooling with comedy, it wasn’t other comics that I modeled myself on; it was rock-and-rollers like Elvis.
WELCOME BACK TO BROOKLYN
BACK IN BROOKLYN, I started college on a Monday and ended it on a Friday. But I held on to my odd jobs—working at clothing stores, playing in dance bands. In the coming months I’d fall in love—along with the rest of America—with Gabe Kotter, Arnold Horshack, Juan the Puerto Rican Jew, and, of course, Vinnie Barbarino in Welcome Back, Kotter. John Travolta as Vinnie took over the show. He had the charisma. He had the happy-go-lucky attitude. He had the confidence. He had the look. And he had the voice. Early on I saw that I could imitate that voice perfectly. With Saturday Night Fever and Grease, Travolta would soon become the biggest star in the country. Along with Stallone’s Rocky, Travolta’s characters would inspire me to do things I never thought possible.
Filthy Truth (9781476734750) Page 4
