Inside Studio 54

by Mark Fleischman

  Marie spent part of opening night sitting in my office watching the lunacy at the front door on the closet-circuit monitors.

  …his TV sets are on, and one sees so clearly in miniature black and white everything that is going on outside, every awful detail. It seems so safe somehow, up here in the quiet. The fists fly, but there is no noise; the police are on the way, but the sirens are like sound effects in a dream. Marc the doorman has taken to the sidewalk now, his hair askew, his bellhop’s jacket torn. The Studio 54 staff is shrieking piteously at him, “Come back, Marc, come back.” They know it isn’t safe for him either and their wails reverberate on West Fifty-Third. But Marc knows his duties. He turns around and bellows—as if it were his last sound on earth—“I can’t come back in. Steve Rubell is arriving. I have to be out here to let him in.

  Though everyone assured me that Studio 54 “was a success again,” I was still nervous. Hoping to overcome that, I drank a little more than I should have, and gladly obliged when people offered me cocaine, which was every time I turned around to meet someone new. Cocaine was definitely the star of the show—a valuable commodity. Finally, at 2:00 a.m., I started to calm down, relax, and enjoy myself after I swallowed the Quaalude that Steve gave me. Up until that night, alcohol, pot, acid (occasionally), and coke were my drugs of choice; Quaaludes were Steve’s. I soon discovered that women loved them too—making them feel all warm and fuzzy inside, breaking down their inhibitions. The same held true for guys.

  Studio was electrifying on opening night. DJs Preston Powell and Viviano were invited to hit the turntables after Steve had heard them spin in the Hamptons earlier that summer, and the one and only Robert DaSilva worked the lights. The excitement of several thousand beautiful and outrageously dressed people, dancing and moving in unison to the rhythm of the beat, made Studio 54 once again the only “place to be.” At one point, at the center of it all, Liza and Cher were photographed dancing together, and the picture went global the next morning. The party, with all the visual and special effects masterfully controlled by Studio 54’s tech crew headed by Neil and Harold Wilson, included insane amounts of confetti, fake snow, and glitter shot from cannons into the crowd repeatedly throughout the evening until our 5:00 a.m. closing. At the end, I was spent. When the house lights came on, I waded through a thick layer of confetti and made my way out the back door to my waiting limousine. I arrived home and collapsed, satisfied that I had pulled it off in spite of all the naysayers who said that disco was dead.

  Chapter Eleven:

  Cocaine and Quaaludes

  My good friend Rick James often referred to cocaine as a woman because, and I quote:

  “Only a wild and crazy bitch could have wreaked such havoc on the American Psyche.”

  Cocaine has been working her magic as far back as 3000 BC when the Incas of Peru, living at high altitude in the thin mountain air of the Andes, chewed on coca leaves to escalate their heart rate and stimulate their breathing. People in Peru today still share the coca leaves with tourists arriving in Machu Pichu when they’re hit with altitude sickness. When cocaine was extracted and processed from the leaf into a powder in the mid-1800s, Sigmund Freud got his nose into some of it and published an article touting its magical powers in treating depression and impotence. In 1886, John Pemberton introduced a new soft drink called Coca Cola that actually contained cocaine. Proprietors of drug stores and soda fountains all over America believed it to be, and I quote: “a valuable beverage containing the nerve stimulant properties of the coca leaf and cola (Kola) nut. It is not only delicious but exhilarating, refreshing, and invigorating—a Brain Tonic and cure for all nervous afflictions, neuralgia, hysteria, and melancholy.” Cocaine remained an active ingredient in the Coca Cola formula for the next seventeen years. From 1910 to 1920, the silent movies produced in Hollywood portrayed cocaine in a positive light to millions of movie goers. By 1905, cocaine use had become popular, but more and more incidents of nasal damage as a result of snorting were reported. In 1914, the Harrison Narcotics Tax Act outlawed cocaine in the US.

  In 1974, The New York Times Magazine ran an article with the headline, “Cocaine: The Champagne of Drugs,” making the culture of cocaine sound glamorous, an essential part of the fast-track to success. The article went on to say that cocaine was “a good high achieved without the forbiddingly dangerous needle and addiction of heroin.” Coke’s euphoric effects, as well as its association with wealth and status, were also lauded in magazines such as Newsweek and Rolling Stone. Cocaine started out as a wealthy man’s drug for elite members of Wall Street and the film, music, and fashion industries. But that would soon change when college students who could afford it would blow some coke and hit the books.

  Cocaine and the era of sexual freedom could be felt everywhere I went. Doing some lines of coke at a party was nothing out of the ordinary now. Woody Allen’s 1977 film Annie Hall took the humor of the cocaine culture to Middle America when Woody’s character sneezes all over some lines of coke worth about $2,000, blowing it into nothingness. I remember going to a party at a movie producer’s apartment and partaking from a silver platter heaped with what must have been $10,000 worth of cocaine sitting on a coffee table for all to enjoy and Robin Williams remarking, “Cocaine is God’s way of telling you that you’re making too much money.”

  At most parties, people would carry their own stash in a tiny oblong glass vial, available at almost any newspaper stand. It was about two inches long and a quarter of an inch in diameter, with a little black lid from which a tiny metal spoon hung down. It was a brilliant design. There was always a line to get into the bathroom at parties and clubs; most people couldn’t afford to share so, rather than doing it out in the open, people would go it alone or take their date to the bathroom and do their hits together. The culture of cocaine was the opposite of the drug culture of the 1960s, when we would willingly pass a joint around and drop psychedelics together, wanting to share the experience of enlightenment. Cocaine changed all that. Generally speaking, guys shared their coke either to impress or to get laid. It was too expensive for a collective experience. It was anything but inclusive—it was the “all about me” drug, but we didn’t see it that way. We believed coke would be to the 1980s what marijuana was to the 1960s. We were blinded by the snow.

  Taking a Quaalude was guaranteed to pleasure you with a four—to six-hour “love trip.”

  All your inhibitions and fears disappeared and you were enhanced by a deep appreciation and love for music, sex, friendship, and all of humanity. It was glorious from beginning to end.

  Then it wore off, you got tired, and you went to sleep. No hangover. Perfect!

  The sexual revolution of the 1960s united with society’s “on-again” love affair with cocaine and the love drug Quaalude of the 1970s to form the perfect storm. They unleashed an era of unbridled sexual behavior like nothing American society had seen before.

  It was party time all across America.

  Chapter Twelve:

  Bombs Away

  The first thing that went through my mind the morning after my grand reopening of Studio 54 was, “How the hell am I going to do this night after night? How do I maintain the same level of excitement and enthusiasm that I experienced last night?” Yes, it was outrageous and the people were dazzling, but every night? People were already comparing the new Studio 54 to the old Studio 54. Could I make the regulars—the crowd of the late 1970s—happy? I was committed. It would be my mission to maintain the charisma that made Studio 54.

  The second thing that went through my mind was, “I’m going to need a shitload of coke.”

  Luckily for me, I had my Virgin Island connections. The coke in St. Thomas was of incredible quality, as close to pure as it got. St. Thomas was my source for the good stuff that got served to the celebrities at Studio. The fact that St. Thomas was an American territory allowed me to carry coke back into New York without passing through customs, and if I c
ouldn’t make the trip, I’d send an assistant who’d be thrilled to visit the islands.

  In the months after the opening, that fall and winter, I kept my eyes open for party opportunities. Whenever I met a well-known personality—an artist, writer, Broadway actor, movie star, fashion designer, member of the Eurotrash set, or anyone with a following—I’d suggest that Studio 54 host a party in his or her honor. In the beginning, the guest of honor gave me a list of their friends to receive complimentary admission, but soon we were also printing up invitations that could be mailed or given out by the honoree. It meant a lot of free admissions, but served to keep us busy and prominently placed in the press.

  Studio opened each night at 10:00 p.m., and on many nights I’d schedule one of these private parties, which we referred to as “Cut Drop Parties.” Several hundred invited VIP guests gathered behind the scrim (drop), a semi-transparent heavy mesh curtain that descended from the ceiling and divided the dance floor. The invited VIP guests entered through our backdoor stage entrance on Fifty-Third Street, gave their name to security, then joined the other guests behind the curtain dancing and treated to complimentary drinks. By 11:30 p.m. the dance floor in front of the scrim would become crowded with patrons, some of whom had been selected by Marc Benecke. Selected guests then paid the cover and entered through the Fifty-Fourth Street front door entrance, and others who had gained admission by being on the complimentary guest list didn’t pay. By midnight, when the dancing was at a feverish pitch, the curtain dividing the two areas of the dance floor would be lifted with much musical fanfare and electrifying theatrical lighting effects. The two parties would then merge into one huge celebration with everyone screaming while onlookers watched from the balcony. I orchestrated this scene every night during the first few months, and although I was having fun, it was turning out to be more difficult than I expected.

  It didn’t take me long to figure out that each night was going to be a delicate balancing act between great fun and total chaos, and, most of the time, the direction it took was up to me and my ability to protect the VIPs. In front of the scrim there was a mass of over a thousand people dancing, drinking, and enjoying a wild scene. On the other side were one to two hundred people, including the guest of honor and their friends, enjoying a private, high-energy, complimentary cocktail party. I was trained over many years in the hospitality industry to be concerned about every guest in my establishment, but this experience was beyond anything they taught at Cornell. I had security—big, burly, and tough but polite sons of bitches who guarded each side of the scrim between the main dance floor and the area holding the celebrities. These men could and would handle anyone who got out of control. I knew this, and yet I worried about the precarious balance between controlled chaos and an utter riot.

  The VIP guests could see the throng of patrons on the other side of the sheer curtain, while still enjoying their private party, and they would inevitably ask if I could keep the curtain down longer, pointing out what a good time they were having just amongst themselves.

  And they were having a good time, but like me, they were also a bit nervous about how things would go once that scrim was lifted and the party on the other side enveloped them. Often I would choose to indulge them in one more round of drinks and an extra half hour before getting on with the night’s planned events. All this did was prolong my anxiety, but I knew it would make them more comfortable.

  As we prepared for this nightly ritual, I scanned the room, making sure the women were alright and had grabbed their purses, and gave myself ample time to get any celebrity who was vulnerable out of the area and into a secure place such as my office or one of the protected silver banquettes. I couldn’t assign everyone a personal bodyguard—nor did they want one—but I kept a discreet watch over any vulnerable partygoers as best I could. During one such party, we featured Flamingo Road leading lady Morgan Fairchild, who was a huge star at the time. She and I sat on a swing that was lowered off the bridge above the crowd as the scrim was raised. Morgan wore a shimmering silver dress, I wore an elegant tuxedo, and we were both slowly lowered onto the teeming dance floor in a move orchestrated by our creative general manager, Michael Overington. Morgan had a blast, hung out for the entire evening, and returned to Studio whenever she was in Manhattan.

  On the other hand, New York Jets football star Mark Gastineau was one of my guests who you would think did not need protecting. He was a big, strong, five-time Pro Bowl linebacker who was famous not only for being part of the much feared and vaunted Jets pass rush (which had been dubbed the “New York Sack Exchange” by the press) but also for doing his signature “sack dance” whenever he brought down an opposing team’s quarterback. One night, around 1:00 a.m., after a Cut Drop Party honoring several of the Jets, Gastineau decided to hang out at the main bar. He and friends enjoyed a round of drinks. Manager David Miskit instructed bartender Scott Baird to give Gastineau the next round, compliments of Studio 54. After Gastineau and friends finished their drinks, he requested another complimentary round. Scott explained that he couldn’t do that and then bartender L. J. Kirby suggested that Scotty, who was much smaller than the football giant but vey muscular, arm wrestle for it. If Gastineau won, his drinks were on the house. L. J. had seen Scotty bring down some of the most powerful guys you can imagine. Soon, a crowd gathered and began to take sides, cheering for either Gastineau or Scotty. I was busy attending to something else, but I heard the match went on for some time and the two appeared to be in a dead heat until slowly and steadily Scotty took Gastineau down.

  Not happy, Gastineau left the main bar and headed out toward the front door. That would have been the end of the story, were it not for a Jets fan who followed Gastineau out and for some reason started to heckle him. This man had to be either drunk or simply out of his mind. What else could have compelled him to behave in such a manner as to make fun of a drunk NFL linebacker? Gastineau turned around and smashed the guy in the face, inflicting significant physical damage. I was unaware of all this until I saw several security guards dragging Gastineau toward the front door. He was trying to fight them off, kicking and struggling to break free. Not realizing what was going on or what I was getting myself into, I blocked the pathway to the door and shouted at the guards, “Mark is my guest! Let him go!” Gastineau broke loose and there was much confusion. Now everyone was in it, and I ended up flying through the air and landing hard on my back.

  Naturally, the newspapers had a field day covering the story over the next several days, including an editorial cartoon in The New York Post depicting two men being tossed out of Studio 54. The caption read, “Why go all the way to the Meadowlands when you can catch the Jets in action right here?” I don’t remember how much it cost in legal fees, but it was probably worth it, except for my injury. Stories like that, as well as the daily celebrity sightings and photographs kept Studio 54 in the papers, which was always good for business.

  Over the next three years or so, I exerted enormous energy orchestrating extravagant parties for the rich and famous, while entertaining illustrious actors, fashion designers, sports stars, and politicians with cocaine and champagne. The crowd on the dance floor was happy to be one with the music and thrilled to be a part of the phenomenon that was Studio 54. My small second-floor office wasn’t designed to be a party room, but it became just that—a jam-packed replacement for the larger, more comfortable basement scene run years earlier by Steve Rubell. But nobody ever complained, and I think the intimacy of it all broke down the inhibitions of many celebrities, fostering sweet, touching moments.

  Mick Jagger was a regular in my office. He was very fond of my assistant Hilary Clark. Both of them were from England, and they entertained us regularly, serenading us with songs from their homeland, especially the song people sing every November 5 on Bonfire Night. Prolific film producer Lester Persky, nicknamed “Pester Lursky” (meant in the most loving way), would howl with laughter when Mick and Hilary put on their various skit
s, sometimes joined by People writer Peter Lester, another Brit. I remember the delight and laughter from Diane von Fürstenberg watching a very happy Liza Minnelli teaching Goldie Hawn some dance moves. Later that evening Liza invited George Martin and Hilary back to her apartment to see Judy Garland’s red sequined shoes from The Wizard of Oz, which she kept on display.

  Conversations could turn political—like the night that Desi Arnaz Jr. was in the office with Mario Van Peebles, Phoebe Snow, Nile Rodgers, and David Bowie. Denise Chatman walked in with Luis Somoza, the nephew of Anastasio Somoza (former president of Nicaragua) and Jose Ramon Lorido aka Monsi Lorido, named Miami’s Most Eligible Bachelor on the cover of Miami Magazine. (His sister Marivi is married to actor Andy Garcia.) It didn’t take long for Desi and Monsi, two Cubans, to immediately “connect,” as Cubans do, and the conversation turned to Fidel Castro. Within minutes, courtesy of my guests, I was snorting some of the best cocaine I have ever had and laughing my ass off. Not that I found talk of communism and dictators to be that funny, but watching David and Desi and Monsi reminded me of I Love Lucy, with David in the role of Lucy.

  Then, Rick James walked in and turned the room upside down with his presence. I told Rick we were talking about dictators and Rick responded, “Oh, you mean like the motherfuckers over at MTV who won’t play my videos?” Rick was impressed with how David had taken on Mark Goodman (a VJ on MTV) in an interview. During that interview, Bowie started in on Goodman about how MTV didn’t play black artists. Goodman tried to explain that MTV was founded as a rock format idea. Bowie wouldn’t give an inch. And Goodman knew he didn’t have a leg to stand on, as it was a hot topic amongst MTV’s staff. Initially, everyone was on board with the rock format idea. But once the channel started playing Spandau Ballet, which was essentially a white R&B act, they felt there was no reason not to play black R&B acts.