by Richard Boch
A minute later I step outside, Robert steps out of a cab, Joey strolls around the corner and Gretchen appears out of nowhere. The crowd waits and it’s almost happening when I duck back inside and move halfway down the stairs. I snort up and lick whatever’s left in the paper fold in my back pocket. Back outside a few people start looking better and Robert starts sending them in. Gretchen smiles, collects their three-dollar cover charge, and Kraftwerk’s “Trans Europe Express” slowly pushes the night forward. Now we’re happening.
At 5 A.M. I walked home. I slept, woke up and left the house by early afternoon. I bought a sport jacket in a thrift store on West Fourth Street and smoked a joint in Washington Square Park. I started thinking, gave up and walked down West Broadway toward Murray Street; I passed White Street, kept walking, went upstairs and rolled another joint. It was just over three months ago when Steve Mass called, looking for a new doorman. I’m not sure if it was luck or fate but I was home and answered the phone. I had no idea what I was getting into. Heading into my first Mudd Club summer, I just kept showing up and made the job mine.
5. SUMMER ’79
Tina L’Hotsky, Mudd morning after, 1979, by Alan Kleinberg.
By now mid-June and summer not quite official, the weather turned warm and the air conditioning was working. I stood outside facing the crowd, sucking down a Heineken, trying to keep cool. It was still early but the bar was busy and the dance floor was full. I felt like I knew half the people inside. The other half was what paid the bills.
Below Canal Street was still an underground oasis when the Mudd Club opened. Betsy Sussler, the future publisher of Bomb Magazine, and Lindzee Smith were already living in the neighborhood. Actress Rosemary Hochschild and director Michael Oblowitz were my neighbors and lived above the Murray Street aquarium store. Filmmaker Bette Gordon remembers birds singing outside her open window. There was an actual beach just west of the World Trade Center and not a hint of the suburbanization to come. By 6 A.M., the sun was shining and the air was pretending fresh. Most of us were just getting home.
Staring at the crowd, I really was judge and jury, subject to bribes, tampering and influence. If you looked at me sideways I’d look back and wonder (almost out loud), what the fuck? To this day, my ability to snap and decide remains both asset and liability.
I stood at the door of the Mudd Club wearing a pair of orange painter’s pants that I bought at Canal Jeans when it was still on Canal Street. I wore a Hawaiian shirt with a tropical fish pattern and a pair of white Converse sneakers that only stayed white for a minute. The shirt had a few holes but no one cared or noticed.
My Marlboro box was next to my drink on the step of the unused door behind me. Everything I needed was in that box except for what was left in my pocket. If I ran out of cigarettes, I’d grub a Winston from the discriminating but generous accompanist Richard Sohl, an old-school Camel from iconically cool John Lurie, or a Gauloise from neo No Wave White Street beauty Lisa Rosen. Everybody smoked and cigarettes were still cheap.
I must have been busy bumming or smoking when I overlooked a journalist from the Queens College newspaper. He didn’t like waiting—or maybe I didn’t like him—and didn’t get in. The paper’s mention of the club was brief but managed to squeeze in a cheap shot about the guy at the door in the orange pants. I read it twice and liked that he singled me out. If he’d worn orange pants or at least introduced himself, he might have made it inside.
Controversy surrounding my summer wardrobe wasn’t the only thing going on. The Murray Street loft soon was doubling as a morning hot spot and occasional crash pad, depending on the liquor, the drugs and the company. The 7 A.M. energy was slow-burn electric; the music was loud. Again, I thought this was normal.
Another of my roommates was Wayne Bernauer, a friend from New Hyde Park Memorial High School. We shared the Bleecker Street apartment in ’76 and moved downtown in ’77. Wayne loved Rock ’n’ Roll, CBGB’s and wandering around the West Village—the only problem was his day job. By the end of ’78 he was already getting buried by the late-night/early-morning shuffle and by summer of ’79 I was bringing the Mudd Club home.
Wayne might have liked the access my job provided but after a while the upside-down schedule got to be too much. I was spending most of my time with Gary, and Wayne and I started drifting apart. When Teri Toye crash-landed and became a semi-permanent member of the household all bets were off. Wayne stuck around just long enough to appreciate some of the craziness and noise that a stoned and stupefied Grace Slick referred to as “morning maniac music”—the difference being, that was Woodstock 1969. Our morning mania was killing a near-innocent bystander who had to be at work by 9 A.M.
Combat Love Party invitation (reverse), 1979, courtesy Marina Lutz.
Wayne couldn’t keep smiling and moved a hundred blocks north to the Upper West Side. He came back once, stayed for a few weeks, but that was it. It was my loss and still is.
Love
The Mudd Club also had a few changes going on. The façade of 77 White, previously a nondescript noncolor, was repainted green camouflage and draped with a monument-sized American flag. It was Wednesday, June 20, 1979, and we were getting ready for a night of Combat Love.
A fierce sense of patriotism was running rampant on White Street, service before self and Mudd Wanted You. Though my own sense of duty was muted at best, Steve Mass couldn’t control himself. Appearing on Glenn O’Brien’s TV Party, he noted his original intent of offering employees of nearby government offices a place to come, relax and unwind. That idea sounded exciting enough, but Combat Love quickly took flag-waving, service and civic-mindedness to a whole new level.
War Games, Combat Love Party, 1979, by Allan Tannenbaum.
Combat Love Party Invitation, 1979, courtesy Marina Lutz.
Louie and I stood watch as men and women in uniform arrived at the door. Standing shoulder to shoulder with other young Americans, they were hungry for glory, and looking for a drink. Victor Bockris remained in position on the first floor while helmet-wearing Debbie Harry, walkie-talkie in hand, discussed offensive strategy with Steve. War correspondent and photojournalist Kate Simon arrived out of uniform, wearing jeans and a striped boat neck pullover, passing thru the lines undetected. She approached the door and requested permission to enter.
Ten minutes later I walked inside. I headed for the second floor, looked up and saw Nuke ’em till they glow along with a Hiroshima-like blast emblazoned on the stairwell wall. I paused, took a deep breath and started rethinking everything I once believed. A shrine dedicated to the recently departed John Wayne was surrounded by people bidding farewell to a hero. A Jane Fonda protest doll, set up for target practice, received more than “her” fair share of attention. Security was tight, frequencies were scrambled and the Mudd Club was ready. It was a great time to be alive and feel good about America—a good time to feel some Combat Love.
When Debi Mazar, actress and former Mudd employee, reminded me, “So much of what we felt back then was love,” I smiled, not quite sure if this was what she meant.
Brands of Cool
By the end of June, the summer stopped fooling around. It was getting hotter by the day and the crowd outside was getting restless. Euro-ish South American transplant Rudolf Piper surely felt the heat dressed in a studded dog collar, white dinner jacket and snug black tee. Pointy shoes, wraparound shades and slicked-back hair completed whatever No Wave, New Wave or non wave look he was aiming for. I just opened the chain and said nothing, remembering I was the one who wore the orange pants.
Rudolf was friendly and polite but distant, “Euro” in a strange but German kind of way. He greeted the door with an oddly accented “Hello” and paused a moment to flirt with Gretchen. The girls loved the whole Rudolf thing but from my middle-distance vantage point it didn’t translate. Whether it was his off-brand of cool or strange sense of fashion, I wasn’t sure; the only thing I was certain about was that his style, peculiar magnetism and determined eye on New York’s nig
htlife left Steve Mass feeling a bit cold. I always took care of Rudolf but it wasn’t until much later that we exchanged more than a few words.
Vince, Mudd Club ID, 1980, courtesy Vince.
A minute later, Rudolf disappears and Gretchen is back to playing cashier and drinking vodka. It’s busy and Louie’s inside, lost on the dance floor or in the bathroom—I’m alone, staring at a crowd that’s gotten larger over the last hour. Gretchen’s trying to keep track of the money and the doorway’s jammed. When I ask what’s going on she reminds me, once they get past the chain they still have to get past her. My response: it’s difficult to make change when you’re snorting a line of coke, sipping a vodka rocks and smoking a cigarette. She laughs; I smile and grab my beer. Right now it’s still early, I’m still on duty, and Vince Grupi is headed toward the door.
Vince is a good-looking Italian kid from out in Sheepshead Bay. He shows up every night, well-dressed in Rockabilly gear or a slick, forties-style suit. He drives a ’72 Buick convertible, LeSabre option.
I open the chain, Vince says, “Hey Rich” (an outer boroughs version of my name) and heads inside. I check to see who else is coming my way when Larry Kaplan appears out of nowhere. He’s a Bay Ridge greaser, and like Vince, drives a Buick; some nights he rides a motorcycle.
An hour later when I wander upstairs, Larry is at the bar. Vince is in the bathroom taking a piss and Cookie Mueller is standing at the toilet next to him. Her dress is hiked up and she’s pissing too. I smile because I’ve seen it all before. Vince smiles as well, figuring any girl who can piss standing up is okay by him.
By 2 A.M. Vince Grupi is onstage introducing Buzz and The Flyers, a Rockabilly band that plays the clubs and hangs out at Mudd. Larry Kaplan is on the dance floor and Cookie’s still upstairs. By 5 A.M. I’m out the door.
Thirty years later I told those guys, “I never used the word greaser because I thought it might be an insult.” Larry explained, “It was about rebellion and style,” not to mention hair.
Funny how I missed that one.
I might’ve been out of the loop on greaser but missed very little when it came to French. When I heard the name Edwige, it sounded very. Then I heard she had arrived from Paris and that Jedd Garet, the modern-day surrealist painter, was throwing a small party at his loft to mark the occasion. Having been invited, Marcus Leatherdale and I stopped by.
Style to spare, short blonde hair and a healthy spirit of rebellion, Edwige Belmore was a Façade and Interview magazine cover girl with an interesting résumé and a fascinating name. She modeled for Gaultier and Mugler and was photographed by Helmut Newton and Pierre et Gilles. Her first trip to New York happened after meeting Andy Warhol in Paris. She was both artist and muse and Andy crowned her “Queen of the Punks” (whatever that meant). Her greaser period came much later.
Most New Yorkers had no idea, but in Paris, Edwige was a big part of the scene. She left her job at the door of Le Palace to work at Les Bains Douche, the club of the moment, and considering what I was up to at the Mudd Club, I thought it was time we officially met. When she arrived at the party I wasn’t disappointed.
Edwige responded to cool and was struck by the sense of community centered on White Street. She “loved the way people like John Lurie and Chi Chi Valenti looked” and the way they carried it off. Years later, I told her, “So did I.”
“You’re so interested in all this history,” she responded.
“It’s important.”
She smiled.
Forever fierce and fearless, Edwige offered singer and underground film star Adele Bertei a hand when she noticed a “big guy and a little girl fighting it out on the Mudd Club dance floor.” She tapped Adele on the shoulder, asked “Can I help?” and jumped right in.
Steve Mass liked Edwige and gave her three hundred dollars to buy a ’62 Fender Telecaster. Ever the art patron, Steve had the money and Edwige, a beautiful woman with a French accent, wanted to make music. Sometimes that’s all it took and sometimes it took a lot more. Decades later, Edwige is the first to say, “The Mudd Club, it’s one of my roots.” That’s when I look across the table and think mine too; I was just twenty-five years old when the club opened, and today was far away.
Then memory takes me back and I wind up on White Street; I’m staring at the crowd and she’s a hard one to miss.
Oh good, he’s at the door. That’s how Colette feels when she sees me because she knows she’ll get right in. Looking like a Punk Bo Peep dressed in white ruffles and fluff, she’s part of the attraction and energy that brings people to the club. She got a little weird with me when I first started at Mudd but it was a miscommunication, a one-time glitch. Since then she’s been a sweetheart. When she tells me a bit about herself I try to hang on and listen. Some of it I still remember.
Colette left Tunis and headed for Nice; in 1969, she arrived in New York. Still a kid, she gravitated toward the city’s art and music scene, hanging out at Max’s Kansas City. She began creating a simple series of “Street Works” around 1970, both signaling and echoing the outlaw spirit of graffiti. Her Real Dream installation famously appeared at the Clocktower on Leonard Street in 1975, two blocks from the Mudd Club door.
I open the chain thinking Colette but remind myself that Justine is her new persona: the Beautiful Dreamer album by Justine and The Victorian Punks, the latest chapter. The distinction sometimes confuses me but I’m way too busy to think about it.
Sarcasm and Misfits
It’s a Saturday, June 1979, not even midnight and already more than a hundred people are milling around outside. People arrive by 11:30 thinking that it betters their chances of getting in. I tend to think the opposite. Busy this early means a scary night ahead.
A few regulars—Roxanne, Boy Adrian, Boris and Hal—slide in along the front of the building. They’re easy, and they know the chain’s going to open. John the Greek, a polite kid who lives on Great Jones, comes by every night, stands off to the side and waits barely a minute. Kim Hastreiter with Branca, her SoHo News associate, squeeze in behind him. I step down and grab Betsey Johnson as she gets out of a cab, point to a few people in the street and they follow us in. The crowd in front looks restless and I don’t like it, so I run inside, get Betsey a drink and throw down a Rémy before I head back out. Two hundred people are now in front of me and fewer than fifty are coming in.
There’s a guy at the chain that keeps asking questions and if he’d just shut up he might have a chance. I finally tell his party of four, “Not right now,” and he comes back with the classic line, “Studio 54 always lets us in.” I easily respond, “So go there, it’s a real graveyard.” The foursome leaves and probably heads for Xenon. A couple standing close by smiles and a few minutes later I let them in.
Sarcasm gets me in trouble but the unavoidable in here versus out there vibe fortunately stops short of creating a mob mentality. People get anxious but rarely physical. Peacefully impatient is hard enough; I need a break.
Tonight I’m working with Robert Molnar. I turn around, tell him I’ll be right back and head for the upstairs bathroom. One of the Russians offers me a line of coke and I tell him to give me a few more. Ronnie Shades, the missing link between Belushi and Aykroyd’s Jake and Elwood Blues, is in the corner with Leisa Stroud. He steps over and offers me a sniff off the tiniest coke spoon I’ve ever seen. I walk downstairs, take a spin on the dance floor with Abbijane and lose myself in a Motown mash-up. Ten minutes later, I hear Abbi yell, “Hey, snap out of it!” and head back to the door.
I send in two guys from the Misfits and Robert rolls his eyes. Between their elaborate “hawks” and the spikes and studs on their gear I can’t imagine getting much closer than mildly curious. Maybe with enough alcohol and cocaine I’d change my mind, but probably not. The whole package is just too Halloween.
I let in a cute young couple, a few cute boys and a few cute girls. The door’s wide open and DJ David’s cranking up the Sex Pistols’ “Holidays in the Sun,” I step inside and feel th
e dance floor moving. It’s a busy night. I’ve got everything under control.
A Line of Heroin, Thinking It Was Cocaine
Some people I saw all the time but had no idea who they were. I saw them waiting in the crowd and I saw them inside the club. I’d see them at Dave’s or Crisco’s or on the street. They’d say hello and I’d say hello. There were other people I’d see once and never see again. Ghosts and one-night stands, no-names and tourists—they paid to get in or maybe not, then they were gone.
The ’70s going down for the count, parts of the city still lawless frontiers: cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, good guys and bad. Times Square, Alphabet City and the West Side piers offered a self-indulgent feast set against a backdrop of structural decay; all of it dangerous, but for many, hard to resist. There was plenty of “something for everyone” but never enough. I kept going until I found more. That was my problem.
Below Canal was different; a nether region, more void than specific. Walking the streets was safe haven and home turf, mine and anyone else’s who showed up at Mudd—or lived in the neighborhood. I identified with feeling far away and found comfort in the desolate nine blocks south of White.
Walking into the club, I’d step into a “surround” of nearly anything goes, a home very different from the one I once knew. I wondered what it was about passing thru the doors that left its mark: Was it something you brought with you or something that happened when you got there? Was it the music and the dance floor or the quick comfort of whomever you met, hung with and fucked till noon? Was it alcohol and Quaaludes or did you snort a line of heroin, thinking it was cocaine?