Inside Studio 54

by Mark Fleischman

  Ian Schrager, always a ladies’ man, soon developed a crush on Hilary. Ian of course knew his way around the club so he would take the passageway under the dance floor, come up the back steps, and open the service door at the back of the bar, where he’d yell to me in his raspy voice with a thick Brooklyn accent, “Hey Mark! Mark! Can I see ya for a minute?”

  I’d respond, “Okay Ian, what do you need?”

  Sometimes, he’d have something important to say—telling me there was an issue he spotted that needed taking care of—but more often than not he’d say, “Can you do me a favor? Can you let Hilary off early?” Ian had a lot of time on his hands since he was no longer running things at Studio 54.

  I tried to accommodate Ian. We’d developed a relationship beginning with our time during negotiations in jail and then throughout preparations for the club’s reopening, so as soon as I could, I’d let Hilary go, usually at 4:00 a.m. She’d tell me with a big smile, “I really like Ian!”

  Then, a year or so later, Tony Curtis developed a crush on Hilary. The Tony Curtis of Studio 54 days didn’t look like the tan and handsome Hollywood hunk with curly black hair and tight muscular body of the film Spartacus. He was drawn, pale, and sickly white. He often slurred his words, a result of his constant drinking, and he appeared to be stoned most of the time. Tony did a lot of coke. His reckless lifestyle really got the best of him. I don’t remember who or what it was that finally convinced me, but I agreed to let Hilary accompany Tony to the Manila Film Festival. Tony had begged me for permission to take Hilary, saying, “I promise nothing will happen, I’ll take care of her. She’ll be safe—we’ll be with Imelda and her husband Ferdinand Marcos, the president of the Philippines.” I knew Tony was scheduled to be the Guest of Honor at the film festival, and I understood that he wanted to look good with Hilary on his arm. She was young and beautiful, a hot commodity. When Hilary personally begged me for the time off, I said yes. All I know is she didn’t return with a drug addiction, pregnant, or ill. I had kept my word to her father.

  While I was doing my thing at the main bar with Hilary or attending to a visiting celebrity in my office, my other assistant, Shelley Tupper, could be counted on to take care of whomever or whatever. Shelley said in a recent interview:

  “Mark couldn’t be in two places at the same time. Typically, I was out in the front of the club, close to the entrance hallway. I’d review the guest list with Chuck Garelick, our head of security and Marc Benecke at the front door, greet celebrities, get them situated, order their drinks, or I’d just show them around and introduce them to folks. They liked that. I’d keep the photographers at a distance, which made them feel safe and comfortable. They trusted me. Sometimes they just wanted to get out of the spotlight and chill, so I’d invite them up to Mark’s office. After a while they’d go back down to the club and enjoy the scene. And then I could dance. I did a lot of dancing. Mark relied on me to run all over the club. I did a lot of running. I’d run through the basement under the dance floor to get to the front door to greet celebrities—then up to the Rubber Room, back down to the basement, up to the Cut Drop Party—out to the front door—back to Mark’s office—down to the dance floor—all over the club and fast. I was Mark’s buffer.”

  The lack of cell phones made it far more difficult to function, but it also made Studio 54’s atmosphere of “no one will know tomorrow what you did here tonight” possible. Studio couldn’t have existed in today’s world unless we made it mandatory to check all electronic devices at the door.

  Shelley continued: “One night, I was in the office with Mark, reviewing the guest list when Michael Johnson, owner of Studio Instrument Rentals, located just down the street from Studio, called me to say that Pete Townshend of The Who was with him at SIR and that he wanted to bring him over to Studio. ‘But he’s not into the disco scene, Shelley; you’ve got to make it interesting,’ Michael said. Sylvester Stallone was expected at the front door at any minute and then Chuck called and told Mark, ‘Stallone is here, he’s walking to the main bar with Hilary.’ I told Mark, ‘You go take care of Sly and I’ll deal with Pete.’ Five minutes later I was waiting at the back door when Michael Johnson arrived with Pete Townsend. It was around midnight and the club was jumpin’ hot and packed. I gave Michael a kiss and I introduced myself to Pete and told him, ‘Relax and follow me…I’m taking you both to a place that’s fun and quiet.’ At that moment, Mark walked up with Sly and we all stood there for a minute talking and I noticed that Pete wasn’t paying any attention at all—he was mesmerized by the dance floor, which was visible through the metal mesh curtain separating us. Mark headed back to the main bar with Sly, while Michael, Pete, and I headed down the back stairs to the basement. I kept them both close to me as we passed through the busy mailroom and down another flight of stairs through another basement that had fake chickens hanging from the ceiling everywhere. Pete was fascinated. We went through a dark room and then down a ladder into another dark room and then into a recording studio, Charlie Benanty’s Soundworks, Inc., under Studio 54. Pete looked dazed—this was not where he expected to land. Immediately he walked over to the baby grand piano, sat down, and played for me. No photos, no press, just a cool moment away from the spotlight.”

  The Sodom and Gomorrah scene at Studio 54 was made possible thanks to the many nooks and crannies throughout Studio which were perfect for sexual interactions: the backstage area, the basement (for those with access), the Ladies’ Lounge, and the second-floor balcony were very popular. There was a small bar up there and Calvin Klein and Halston liked to hang up there with Steve. It wasn’t as crazy as the main bar. The closet near the bar was a favorite secret spot of Steve’s. The legendary Rubber Room was the dark balcony and bar area, seventy-five or so feet above the dance floor at the very top of Studio 54. It was decorated with high-tech industrial black rubber trim and flooring that could be easily washed down. Without fail, every night after all the lunacy, the busboys would find discarded rubbers, poppers, and panties all over the floor—a testimony to the night’s fun and games. Alec Baldwin, who had worked there as a busboy back in the day when he was a struggling young actor, said he finally had to quit Studio 54 because seeing the sexual interplay night after night left him perpetually horny. No problem, there were hundreds of young hot boys waiting to replace him.

  Then there was the famous DJ booth, adjacent to the second-floor balcony and partially suspended high above the dance floor. It provided a bird’s-eye view of the entire dance floor.

  The booth was a popular stop for almost every major celebrity and visiting DJ. I remember one particular night when author and acid enthusiast Dr. Timothy Leary tripped out in the booth. Earlier in the day when I heard he was coming I cooked up a surprise of Special K, a dissociative anesthetic that makes patients feel detached from their pain and environment. It’s prepared by cooking liquid ketamine in a spoon with a lighter, which then turns into an off-white powder. You store it in a little glass vial until you snort it and then, BOOM! When Timothy arrived we hit the Special K first and then the dance floor. A few minutes later I saw Dr. Leary standing on the top of the DJ booth waving his arms, screaming, “This is the center of the universe!” as lights flashed wildly over his head. What a night!

  The DJ booth was an oasis of sorts. It was a safe haven for Michael Jackson, who always danced to his own beat, and one night he did just that on the bridge with the crowd screaming for him below. Incredibly shy, he was the biggest star in the world and we did our best to make him comfortable; he often dropped in after attending such events as the opening night of Yul Brynner’s Broadway revival of The King and I, the Broadway opening of The Wiz, and whenever else he felt like stopping by. Michael liked the DJ booth more than any other spot in Studio: that’s where he felt safe and comfortable. He could see everything. It was his perch.

  DJ Robbie Leslie, who played at Studio on occasion for Michael Fesco, had this to say: “Most of the celebrities had no
clue as to the workings of the DJ booth. They’d park themselves right in front of the turntables to look down on the crowded dance floor. Halston was notorious for this and I honestly believe he did it on purpose to vex the DJs. They’d browse through your records while you were trying to pick the next song, oblivious to the fact that we were actually working. And the booth was the perfect place for them to pop a Quaalude or do a stealthy snort of coke if you knew all the sight lines.”

  DJ Leroy Washington had a different take: “I welcomed Halston in the booth. For years I did all the music for Halston’s runway presentations during Fashion Week.”

  Many people liked to sit and watch the DJ work his magic. People hanging out on the second floor balcony or in the Rubber Room were offered unobstructed views of the DJ booth, making it very difficult, but not impossible, for the DJ to get a blow job once in a while—too open and exposed, not an enclosed booth off to the side, like at some other clubs.

  The Ladies’ Lounge was like no other spot in the club. The posh velvet chaise lounges and dimly lit atmosphere made you feel as if you had walked into another period in time. One evening I escorted a well-known Broadway celebrity to the ladies’ bathroom. As we made our way through the Ladies’ Lounge, crowded with tuxedos and gowns, we headed for the stalls. I saw Nile Rodgers just ahead of us as he slipped into a vacant stall. I could always spot Nile, he loved black leather pants and beautiful women. I smiled to myself. He referred to this area as his office. I quickly grabbed the door of the next available stall and held it open for my gal, thinking I would then return downstairs to the hot brunette I left waiting on one of the silver banquettes.

  But my Broadway gal surprised me when she said, “Please, don’t leave,” as she sat down on the toilet. “Do you have any coke?” she asked. I pulled out my gold spoon and gave her two heaping servings; then, as I was putting the spoon up to my nose, she began to slowly pull down the zipper on my pants, gazing coquettishly up at me with those gorgeous eyes and big smile. Trying to make no noise and stay discreet (there were dozens of people within earshot, including Nile who I could hear talking and snorting in the next stall), she gently began to tease me with her lips and tongue. Then she got more and more into the action, all the while looking up at me standing above her. Although I didn’t plan on going that far, she was so fucking hot and the way she was looking up at me drove me so crazy, so I exploded in her mouth. She smiled. Together we returned to the main bar.

  Henry Eshelman, who worked in the mailroom, wrote a short piece back in 1981 for a local publication, entitled “The Toilet.” It stated:

  Wait a minute—do all those people have to go at once? Why, there’s men in that line too… At Studio 54, perhaps the most potentially mundane activity one might perform in a club has been elevated to the status of high art. The Ladies’ Lounge in the club is a scene upon which many personal dramas are played and is as exciting and convivial a gathering place as any in the club. You come into the outer lounge and feel like you’re on the set of a Noel Coward play: men and women in black tie and evening dress exchange witticisms with an air of urbanity and sophistication.

  In the first few crazy months after the reopening, I developed a routine that made the chaos seem “organized,” at least from my point of view. Unless I was required to wear a tux, I almost always wore a sport jacket over a shirt or sweater, jeans, and my Adidas. My limo, which I shared with my friend and attorney Eric Rosenfeld (until Eric realized that, once I took over Studio 54, I needed it from nine at night until ten o’clock the next morning), would pick me up from my apartment and take me to Mortimer’s, Elaine’s, or Café Central, where Bruce Willis tended bar and Paulie Herman orchestrated a nightly scene with regulars Robert De Niro, Joe Pesci, Christopher Walken, and a then relatively unknown Kevin Spacey. They often ended up at Studio 54 after the restaurant closed at 3:00 a.m.

  Sometimes I stopped at Le Cirque when it was still in the charming Mayfair Hotel on Sixty-Fifth and Park Avenue. And true to its name, it was a circus of the most dazzling sort. The jewels, fashions, pedigrees, and attitudes in one room on any given night were electric. I’d work the room, inviting people to Studio 54; sometimes I’d enjoy a light dinner and chat with Sirio Maccioni, the owner. Whenever he requested that I put some of his clients on our guest list, I would oblige, make the arrangements, and then head over to my office at Studio. I discovered in my conversations with Sirio that most people in New York were still afraid of being hassled and embarrassed at the front door of Studio 54. I would assure all the people I had extended invitations to throughout each evening that they would be on my personal VIP guest list. Upon my arrival at the club each evening, I’d review policy issues and other details for that night’s events, including the all-important guest list, which closed at 6:00 p.m. but somehow kept evolving until 9:00 p.m. for mere mortals and never closed to the “chosen ones.”

  Life at Studio 54, for me and everyone who worked there, was all about the coveted guest list. Whether I was dining out and inviting people to stop by later that evening or monitoring anyone with access to it—it was all about the guest list. People would pay big to get on it. My assistants were offered cash, furs, drugs, plane tickets, use of private limos, tickets to sold-out concerts and Broadway shows, jewelry, and designer clothing. During the first few months at Studio 54, a former beauty queen and friend was my assistant. I trusted her to field the hundreds of calls coming in each day from hopeful guests. She would give me the requests for the list and at about 6:00 p.m. I would check off those that I approved, and she would then call those people back. One day, several months later, I noticed her office was full of orchids and unopened gift boxes from Bergdorf Goodman, sent by wealthy Arab princes who normally didn’t make the list. I replaced her immediately.

  Melina Brown, a young, smart, and very pretty brunette, with a take-no-bullshit personality, was the gatekeeper of the Fifty-Third Street stage door reception office during the day. She screened every person wanting access to the club through that door and personally answered every phone line coming in to Studio—before the fourth ring. That was the rule. If a public relations person or manager or agent wanted their client on the guest list, they went through Melina. She would then transfer the call to one of my assistants working in my upstairs office at Studio or to one of my assistants at my penthouse. The backdoor operation was controlled insanity. It was the only way in or out during the day, and it was used by everybody for everything; employees, deliveries, people arriving for meetings with staff members, musical guests arriving for sound checks, models and actors answering casting calls, bartenders, busboys, DJs dropping off cassettes, liquor salesmen, food deliveries, painters, caterers, carpenters, agent, and managers. Everyone had a résumé to drop off, hoping for a shot at something at Studio 54. Around 8:00 p.m. it could get crazy. Sometimes Melina’s blonde bombshell sister Snoogy Brown would help out. But Melina always had it under control, so whenever she called me at home we knew it was important.

  Early in the day of a private party for Phil Collins, I sent a memo to my staff stating, “Absolutely no more additions to the guest list this evening.” Phil Collins’ smash hit record “You Can’t Hurry Love,” was burning up dance floors around the world and in heavy rotation on MTV. It was a hot invite. At 5:00 p.m. Melina called me saying, “Denise Chatman is requesting Robert Dalrymple plus three for the guest list tonight. She said please don’t freak out, she’ll explain when she arrives. She tried calling you several times at the penthouse but all the lines were busy. Mark, it’s been insane here. What should I do?”

  I soon found out the addition was Princess Farahnaz Pahlavi, the twenty-one-year-old daughter of The Shah of Iran. She would be accompanied by her date, Robert Dalrymple, a friend of Denise, and he needed a “plus-two” for the required security detail. Robert requested that her name not appear on our guest list, for security reasons. Much to her chagrin, the princess was prohibited by her family from venturing anywhere outsid
e the family’s Manhattan residence without a mandatory three-person security detail. Her father had died in 1980 after being overthrown and forced to flee the country with his family. She was a young and beautiful princess who just wanted to experience Studio 54, and possibly a twirl around the dance floor, and that she did. With confetti raining down and the Man in the Moon taking his hits of coke, the princess enjoyed her Studio 54 experience—the music, lights, and energy were off the hook.

  Chapter Fourteen:

  Hook Up the Promoters

  Marc Benecke, and later other doormen, did the nightly picking and choosing at the red velvet ropes. The guest list, which guaranteed entrance, became a great way to measure status in Manhattan. Determining who got into the club on any given night, whether or not they were treated as a VIP, and how many guests they were allowed to bring with them, was a source of major power at the time. It made people grateful if handled properly, and vindictive if not. It was easy to make enemies.

  I never liked the original front-door policy at Studio 54, but I understood why it was a necessary evil. It was an integral part of what created “the stir” from the very first night Studio 54 opened in 1977. As Andy Warhol liked to say, “It was a dictatorship at the door and democracy on the floor.” Apparently Truman Capote agreed, because he was fond of saying, “It’s totally integrated—both socially and ethnically. Anything goes. Boys and boys, girls and girls, girls and boys, nudes and fire hydrants.” That’s true. It was poor, rich, black, white, gay, and straight. Studio 54 was democratic.

  As time went by, I developed my own sense of a pecking order at the front door. Most everyone who called to be on the guest list wanted to add an additional three to six friends to get in free, so I created a new rule of thumb. A movie star could bring unlimited guests, a prince or princess could invite five to six guests, counts and countesses four, most other VIPS three, and so on. Once the guest list was finalized and all other arrangements were set, I would make my way through the club, making certain everyone was in place and ready to go for that night’s festivities. We’d dim the lights and unlock the front doors. If we had a Cut Drop Party, the backdoor host would be stationed at our Fifty-Third Street entrance with the VIP guest list, a single security guard, and coat check, if necessary, depending on the weather.