We arrived at The Loft at a quarter past midnight, and for half an hour after that were the only customers there. Vince Aletti didn’t have to show an invitation to get into The Loft. The doorkeeper knew him and greeted him this way: “Hi, Vince, what’s happening?”
The Loft is not like any other discothèque we’ve ever been to. It is made up of two floors. The downstairs is a recreation area. It has sofas and a bar, where fruit juices, fresh and dried fruits, peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, and cookies are served without cost. Upstairs is where everyone dances. There are pretty, big balloons and paper streamers hanging from the ceiling. Above the dance floor, in a booth fashioned after an old Wurlitzer jukebox, is the disc jockey, whom we could see from below dashing around and arranging records. Vince Aletti told us his name was David Mancuso and that he was the proprietor of The Loft. Vince Aletti then led us up a narrow stairway to meet him.
Vince Aletti disappeared.
David Mancuso told us, “I have tried to make this place like a club I used to go to ten years ago called the Territorial Club, on 125th Street. I had just come to New York from Utica, and that club was just like what I thought a club in New York would be. It had a very warm and sincere atmosphere. The people were nice, the refreshments were nice. It was halfway between a bar and someone’s house.”
At half past twelve, David Mancuso played the first record of the evening. He said it was a song called “Sweet Sixteen” and that it was written by the Diga Rhythm Band, which is headed by someone who was and sometimes still is the Grateful Dead drummer. People started coming in. Vince Aletti reappeared and said, “I feel like I’m on a receiving line, because everybody who comes in here I know them, and I’m just greeting people.” Then a song called “You Should Be Dancing” was played. Vince ran off to dance. Months ago, he told us that this was one of his favorite songs.
By two o’clock, the upstairs was filled with dancing people. Downstairs had many fewer people, and we went down to get a look at some of the guests. Quite a few people were wearing track or jogging outfits in bright colors. We saw one man dressed in what appeared to be the uniform of an officer of the Royal Navy, a couple dressed as Bedouin Arabs, and one man dressed in white ladies’ platform shoes, white girls’ knee socks, white jockey shorts, and white undershirt. We went back up to the dance area.
The record that was then being played wasn’t by any group we recognized. It was just the sound of drums—about what you would expect to hear in a documentary film about primitive people. All the lights were off and people were dancing and making funny noises in the dark. The lights went on and everybody cheered. Then they went off again and everybody laughed. Then the music changed to a song by a group called Double Exposure. We saw Vince Aletti, and he was dancing vigorously to Double Exposure’s song. He also danced vigorously to a song by a singer named D. C. LaRue and a song by the Emotions. He was less enthusiastic about a song by the Spinners called “Rubber-band Man.” He said, “I like it when the Spinners get into it, ’cause it’s kind of cute, but then it gets too cute.” Then the disc jockey played a song by a group called Dr. Buzzard’s Original Savannah Band. It is now Vince Aletti’s favorite song, and when he danced he got so excited that he clenched both fists and thrust them into the air.
—September 27, 1976
Notes and Comment
A friend of ours, a young woman from Antigua, was here in the States for a short visit, and since we hadn’t been to Antigua in more than ten years we asked her what things were like there.
“It’s just like up here,” she said. “We have everything down there that you have up here. Same fashions, same music. Except for Colonel Sanders. We don’t have a Colonel Sanders. But I know that if we did, it would go over very well.”
We asked her if there was an EST or an Arica Institute or any other kind of consciousness-raising group there.
“What are those?” she asked.
We explained as clearly as we could what those are.
“Oh,” she said in an overly polite tone of voice—a tone of voice (we remembered it from past conversations with this young woman) that she uses to people when she thinks they are being really silly, or going too far.
We asked if The Fonz was popular there.
“The Fonz,” she said. “What’s that?”
We told her that The Fonz was a popular character named Fonzie, in a popular American television show. We told her how he styled his hair and the kinds of fifties clothes he wears, and we showed her his thumbs-up gesture.
She brightened up at this and said, “Well, we haven’t heard of him yet, but even if it takes years we’ll know about him. We pick up all the really good, stylish American things.”
—October 25, 1976
Notes and Comment
We’ve just received a message from a friend—a very young woman, born into a world of air transportation. She writes:
Half past ten at night on the first of January, 1977, at the Amtrak train station in Cleveland, waiting to catch the eleven-five to New York. But the eleven-five will be at least an hour late, so I join the rest of the roomful of travellers in cursing the people who run the trains. At twelve o’clock, the train actually arrives, and everyone tries to get on first and so possibly install herself or himself in a window seat. I manage to get a window seat, but my overhead light doesn’t work and I am not able to read. For the first ten minutes that I am in my seat, the seat beside me remains vacant. I throw my coat in it, so that it will look as if the occupant just went for a stroll into another car, and then I put on a tremendous frown, hoping to look so unpleasant no one will say to me, “Is anybody sitting here?” This way, if I feel like it later on, I can curl up and sleep comfortably. My little ruse doesn’t work: a young woman comes along and asks, “Is anybody sitting here?” She sits down, and I look out the window. It has been snowing for days, so there is much snow on the ground, and it is white and beautiful and the night is clear and beautiful. I look at the woman seated next to me. She has open on her lap a large textbook, and I can see that it has something to do with natural childbirth and progressive child care. The woman turns to me and asks me my destination. When I tell her, she says, “That’s where I am going, too,” and then “Do you know that it took them three hours to get from Toledo to Cleveland?” And, without knowing what the normal time is for getting from Toledo to Cleveland, I join her in criticizing the people who run the railroad.
At half past two in the morning, the train makes its first stop since leaving Cleveland—at Erie, Pennsylvania—and many people get off, but I don’t see anyone boarding. From the train I can see nothing with color in Erie, Pennsylvania, except, in the distance, two glowing golden arches. The woman who was sitting next to me has gone off to find a double seat she can sleep in. I decide to walk around. The car ahead of mine is in complete darkness. All the blinds are drawn, and all the people are sound asleep. It is very snug and warm in this car. Later, the conductor tells me that the lights in this car don’t work at all, whereas the heating works too well. I walk up to the dining car, which is four cars away and open only for lounging. There are two waiters in the dining car, and the moment they see me they start saying almost crude things to me. I am not flustered at all—I just look at them and start barking like a dog. They shut up and leave the car. To myself I say, “Those two men are lucky I am not God.” The train, which is going much faster than before, seems to be the only thing alive at this early hour of the morning. I go back to my seat to try to sleep. I take a pillow from an overhead rack. The pillowcase is white, but it looks and feels exactly like Handi-Wipes. I fall asleep, and this is what wakes me up: a man going through the car saying over and over, in a singsong way, “First call for breakfast.” I like the way he says this so much that I would like to be able to push a button and have that very man appear and say those very words whenever I want. This is the first time I can actually feel myself having a good time on the train. And then I remember how much I like trains: that I like trai
ns because they seem to be one of the more civilized ways to travel with a lot of other people; that I like to say to people, “I’m going by train,” just because of the way it sounds; and that being on a train makes me feel important, and the nice thing about this feeling of importance is that no one need ever know about it and so ruin it for me. I go off to have breakfast, and find waiting on me the two waiters who were so rude the night before. And now they are addressing me as “Ma’am” and “Miss.” For breakfast, I want to have pancakes, but when I see that they are regular-size pancakes, and not the silver-dollar size, I order French toast. The French toast arrives—three huge triangular hunks of crustless bread soaked in eggs and milk and then deep-fried. I eat it, and in a way it is the worst French toast I have ever eaten and in a way it is the best French toast I have ever eaten. It is the worst French toast because it is just plain not good food. It is the best French toast because the time is half past seven in the morning and I am on a train that is on its way out of Buffalo and heading for New York.
I get to New York fourteen and a half hours after boarding in Cleveland. I know that people can go to Europe and transact business and return in that span, and I think that’s very nice. But I have had a neat old time just sitting at the train window looking at snow-covered farmhouses, frozen rivers, and miles and miles of snow-covered roads as they went by. And I have enjoyed myself so much that at the end of my trip I forgive the people at Amtrak for not running the trains on time, for not having good food, for not having the nicest waiters, and for just generally not being on the ball, and the next time I go anywhere I want to go by train.
—January 17, 1977
Interests
We have a friend, an easily excited young woman, who from time to time likes to develop an abnormally intense interest in the most normal people and things. We have known this young woman for years now, and we have noticed that the intense-interest span is brief. We have here a list of some of the things that have interested her:
Nu Grape soda.
The television commercials for the Hotel Collingwood, on West Thirty-fifth Street.
The television commercials for Lenny’s Clam Bar, a restaurant in Queens.
Fat girls. (She said that she had heard a comedian say to an audience at the Apollo Theatre, in Harlem, “Ever notice how all fat girls think they are fine?” and that the audience, which was about seventy-five per cent fat girls, laughed and laughed.)
Margaritas.
Macadamia nuts.
Ginseng Bee Secretion, a questionable tonic made in Red China.
Circle skirts and saddle shoes.
Tom McGuane novels.
Ordering through the mail unusual household utensils she has seen advertised in women’s magazines (such as a set of little gadgets that are useful only when dealing with lemons).
We got a call from this young woman the other day. She was much excited. She said, “I have just been to Macy’s. I have been going to Macy’s every day for the last two weeks. I am very big on Macy’s. I mean, it’s such a big store. They say it’s the biggest department store in the world. And there are always lots of people there. Ordinary people. I am very big on ordinary people. I got interested in Macy’s when I read somewhere that Queen Salote of the Tonga Islands attended Queen Elizabeth’s coronation in 1953 wearing an outfit that came from the tall girls’ shop at Macy’s. And I got interested again when I read somewhere that President Tubman of Liberia had his plumbing furnished and installed by Macy’s. I read that about two weeks ago. Since then, I have bought a bed there, and a peach-colored bed ruffle for it, and peach-colored pillowcases, and peach-colored sheets, and a peach-colored comforter. I love peach. Then I bought bath towels and wineglasses and water goblets and a set of knives for carving and pots and pans and a stereo set and an umbrella and straight-leg corduroy jeans and a leaf-green linen shirt made in France and huge mugs made in Italy and a Poly Hot-Pot (in avocado green, which is another one of my favorite colors, and which used to be the most popular color in the country) for making tea in my office, and chicken and sheep cheese for a dinner party I was giving, and nightgowns, and then I got one of their credit cards, because I was out of money. But the thing I like most about this particular store is how everything I buy there is something I really need. I am the one person I know who doesn’t have to participate in meatless days, because I am not doing anything, such as over-consuming, to unnecessarily deplete the world’s natural resources.”
We could have asked her to explain that last line of reasoning, but we had never asked this young woman to explain any of her intense interests or the reasons she gave us for them, and we had no intention of starting now.
“Of course,” she went on, “they have things other than what I need, and I know where it all is. I know, for instance, exactly where girls’ T-shirts are kept and where boys’ T-shirts are kept. I know where to find ladies’ undergarments, men’s leisure suits, school clothes for boys, school clothes for girls. I also know that in a single year Macy’s New York uses up sixty-nine hundred miles of poly twine, three thousand miles of gummed tape, nineteen hundred miles of Scotch Tape, eleven thousand miles of packing tissue, twenty-five million paper bags, and five million gift boxes. Also, I know that Mr. Macy was a whaler from Nantucket before he decided to start selling things.”
—May 16, 1977
Charm
For the last twenty-nine years, Ophelia DeVore, through her Ophelia DeVore School of Charm, has taught thousands of young black women how to do just about everything properly. She has given them lessons in Essentials of Good Grooming, Social Graces, Visual Poise, The First Step into an Adventure of Loveliness, Positive Thinking, Microphone Technique, and Figure Control with Fencing and Ballet. She has had some famous successes. Diahann Carroll, the singer-actress, is a graduate of the Ophelia DeVore School of Charm. So is the WABC newscaster Melba Tolliver. The actress Cicely Tyson used to be an instructor.
We recently visited Miss DeVore at the school, which is in midtown Manhattan, for a chat and a tour. She greeted us with a cheery “Hi!” A strikingly beautiful woman, with a smile that is both ready and winning, she wore a smartly tailored blue suit, a brown blouse, a brown scarf with blue dots, gold earrings, two gold rings on each hand, and brown shoes. Miss DeVore told us, “I started out as a model in New York in 1946, when I was sixteen years old, and then it was very hard for a black girl. In 1946, there were very few good, sophisticated career jobs for the black girl. In 1947, I started doing this. I had my first class in a photographer’s studio in Queens. I rented the space. Then I fixed up the basement of the house my parents and I were living in, in Queens, and I became so successful that in 1950 I had to move in to Manhattan. I had my whole family working for me. My husband was doing one thing, my children were doing others. I became an adviser to industry. I had to tell them how to use blacks without offending whites. I had to create from scratch, because there was no place for me to go to find out. I created fashion shows and beauty contests for my girls, so that they could get some experience in how to handle themselves. I made them feel special. At some point, all this will become extinct. As black people integrate, they won’t want to do the special little things that they needed to do in an earlier time to get them across.”
Miss DeVore showed us a big black book that was filled with photographs and newspaper clippings of her and of some of her famous students. Some of the photographs had captions. We saw a picture of Diahann Carroll. It had a caption that read, “At fifteen years of age, Miss Carroll came under the Influence of the Magic Touch of Miss DeVore.” We saw a picture of Miss DeVore modelling nylons. We saw a picture of Melba Tolliver modelling baby-doll pajamas. We saw a picture of LaJeune Hundley, who at the Cannes Film Festival in 1960 became the second black girl (Cecelia Cooper was the first, in 1959) to win the title of Miss Festival.
Next, Miss DeVore took us into a classroom, where two small girls were being instructed in wardrobe planning as part of a Little Ladies course. They were l
earning to tell the difference between Lounge Wear, Sportswear, Dressy, Casual, and Formal. Then we sat in on a class for older girls. They were studying Good Grooming and Health, and displayed much enthusiasm. Then we sat in on Makeup III—Corrective. The women in this class were studying when to highlight and when to shadow parts of the face. The teacher, Mrs. Phyllis Branford, told them how to get “the hungry look” (“Highlight the cheekbones, shadow the jawbone”), how to slim the nose, and how to put on makeup for the stage. “Girls, remember,” she said. “Mascara is a must, must, must.”
—June 6, 1977
Garland Jeffreys
We have just had two enjoyable encounters with Garland Jeffreys, a thirty-four-year-old New York songwriter and performer. The first was at a concert in Alice Tully Hall, at Lincoln Center. We had heard his recordings—particularly a song called “Wild in the Streets”—but had never seen him perform. He came onstage wearing black pants and a tailored gray pin-striped jacket (he removed it during the performance), a black T-shirt, and a tan Stetson hat. He danced around the stage for about five minutes before singing anything. The audience stood up and cheered him. He danced on as if unconscious of the cheers. Then he started to sing. He sang songs—all of them his own compositions—about New York, about his mother and father, about interracial love, about growing up in New York, about his own efforts to succeed as a songwriter, about teen-age rebellion, and about politics. He sang some of the songs to a rock-and-roll beat and some to a reggae beat. Whatever beat he used, he used it very well, and we came away from the concert feeling pleased and excited.
Talk Stories Page 6