Inside Studio 54

by Mark Fleischman

  I couldn’t believe my ears. I invited them in and excused myself to call Roy from another room. Roy said, and I quote, “Tell them to go fuck themselves.”

  I smiled to myself, but unlike Roy Cohn, I was not blessed with brass balls (and besides, as shrewd a lawyer as he was, I still remembered the sight of Steve and Ian stewing in jail), so I took a more diplomatic tack. I explained to the Feds that because Studio 54 didn’t advertise, it was important that we give free parties for celebrities to keep our name in the press. I then showed them numerous press clippings from Roy’s birthday dinner event, including a drop in Earl Wilson’s column in the New York Post that described Roy’s birthday as having both class and comedy. Ethel Merman sang “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” and Cindy’s husband Joey Adams, now deceased, was hilarious as the emcee. One of his jokes was, “Roy’s a good lawyer. I got a traffic ticket and he got it reduced to manslaughter.” I also showed the agents the picture story in the New York Post that showed Roy with Claus von Bülow who had just been released on a $1-million bond following his arrest for attempting to kill his wife, Sunny. He was still making the scene at all the best parties. Luckily, my explanation appeared to convince the federal agents that it was a legitimate marketing expense and, more importantly, that I had done nothing wrong. The Feds left me alone after that, but the IRS and other federal agencies never stopped stalking Roy until the day he died on August 2, 1986, of AIDS.

  The key to keeping us hot was making certain that the name Studio 54 was featured in newspapers and magazines as often as they were published. To achieve this, I gave permission to key photographers (now called paparazzi) to hang out in the club, provided they abide by the cardinal rule: never take a picture of a celebrity unless they had my explicit consent (or that of the celebrity). Back then, and the same holds true today: some celebrities liked being photographed, while others didn’t, and some got into it only once they’d loosened up with a few drinks. We respected their wishes. Our guests felt secure enough to dance, party, and get high openly. Unflattering photos were never published, and believe me there were plenty. After a night of partying hard, some of them looked zonked out of their minds. They were never photographed in uncompromising situations either, like the night one of the world’s most famous designers passed out, her face in the planter of a palm tree.

  Jayne Anne Harris shared this with me: “My first night working at Studio in the coat check was spent in the smaller VIP coatroom in the back of the club by the offices, which catered to guests attending private Cut Drop Parties, entering at the stage door entrance on Fifty-Third Street. Besides checking and guarding the coats, one of my duties that night was to help the world-famous wife of a world-famous rocker, up off the stairs where she lay, passed out in her fur coat, after having a bit too much fun. I took her to the back door to where cabs were always waiting to take celebrities home. She was put in a cab and arrived home safely. The next day there was an envelope with my name on it, left with Melina Brown in the reception office, and inside was a fifty-dollar tip.” No photographs. No gossip. Studio 54 was her playground.

  These trusted photographers included Robin Platzer and Sonia Moscowitz of People magazine, John Roca, Dick Corkery of the New York Daily News, Felice Quinto of Associated Press, Doug Vann of The Village Voice, Robert Roth of UPI, Richard Manning (RPM) of the New York Post, Rick Bard copublisher of Studio 54 Magazine, a few others covering international publications, and the up-and-coming Adam Scull and Patrick McMullan.

  Some parties at Studio 54 were just for fun, and in many cases word of mouth could be better than press. For instance, Michael Fesco continued his tradition of Black Parties with “A Night Aboard The Titanic.” Everyone wore black—our guests and the entire staff. The balcony, bars, walls, and DJ booth were covered and wrapped in black gauze. The invitations for the evening, as well as the swizzle sticks and cocktail napkins, were emblazoned with the Cunard White Star’s original logo. That’s the kind of detail a master party-thrower like Michael Fesco would pay attention to. At midnight, Peter Allen appeared on the catwalk above, showering everyone on the dance floor below with a fire hose. The crowd went crazy, attempting to get under the stream. When the lavish Titanic set sank, another set opened to reveal Eartha Kitt and a six-piece orchestra. The Diva began her thirty-minute performance with “I Want To Be Evil” and then disappeared to thundering applause. There were no inhibitions at this party. As it was every Sunday at Studio 54, the writhing bodies danced all night amidst the overwhelming aroma of amyl nitrate, emanating from small canisters worn around the neck. Contrary to rumors, I cannot take credit for pumping amyl nitrate through the air conditioning ducts at Studio.

  Marci Klein celebrated her sweet sixteen at Studio 54. The details were overseen by Ian Schrager, and much of the design was a collaboration between florist Robert Isabell and our General Manager Michael Overington. Each of Marci’s dinner guests received an invitation, hand delivered by one of our very good-looking employees working in the Studio 54 Mailroom. They each arrived wearing a white tuxedo and were driven to their destinations by limousine. The invite was a clear plexiglass box with “Marci” printed on the outside and inside were sixteen white candles.

  Marci’s guests entered through the main entrance on Fifty-Fourth Street hours before we opened to the public. When they stepped inside they saw six gorgeous guys dressed in tuxedos, seated at and playing six white baby grand pianos, lined up one after another down the grand entrance hall. Upon entering the main room and to the delight of Marci and her guests, they were treated to a vision of seven-foot-high birthday candles lighting up each of our twelve-foot-long banquettes, which were wrapped like giant birthday packages in huge swaths of ribbon and enormous four-foot bows. Everywhere, except the dance floor, guests walked through thousands of gift bows—the kind you peel off the self-adhesive backing and put on a present. Guests were sticking them on their faces, all over their clothes, and all over each other. The dance floor was set up with dinner tables, draped in white and illuminated from underneath. It was gorgeous. Upon arrival at 5:00 p.m. the bartenders, busboys, and waitstaff were taken out the back stage door entrance to an eighteen-wheeler truck, the inside of which had been transformed into a makeup studio. The makeup artists did their thing on each of them—they then changed into white tuxedo shirts and ties. It was all very dramatic. After dinner and some time around 11:00 p.m., the mirrored mylar back walls parted, and thirty female dancers in top hats and tails performed, like a Busby Berkeley musical, on a steep plexiglass staircase. It was so over the top. Marci’s guests watched in wonder as Marci and her father, Calvin Klein, appeared on the staircase above the dancers and descended down the steps together. One thousand friends and acquaintances sang “Happy Birthday” as tons and tons of white sparkling confetti rained down twelve-inches deep and hundreds of balloons floated around from above. It was wild—and then the dancing began. It was breathtakingly beautiful, dramatic, and a very sweet sixteen birthday party. Earlier in the week, bartender L. J. Kirby asked Calvin Klein, “What are you going to give Marci for her birthday?” Calvin smiled and replied, “A party she will never forget.” Marci went on to become a senior producer at Saturday Night Live and then an executive producer at NBC’s 30 Rock, winning four Emmy Awards for her work on both.

  Sometimes, a celebrity would insist upon a dinner being served in their honor at my penthouse before their party at Studio 54, and rightfully so, if we were going to use their name to garner publicity. Typically, I would host one or two of these dinner parties every month, ordering cases of expensive champagne from the club. This became a source of irritation for my budget-conscious partner, Stanley Tate. Even though he was probably enticed into the Studio 54 deal because of the celebrities and glamour of it all, he never stopped kvetching about my spending on celebrity-driven events. In spite of the fact that I usually prepared the modest buffets myself to both keep costs down and to personalize it, Stanley still objected. My guests enjoyed the
se parties immensely, but Stanley pointed out that the costs for the good champagne, food, and cocaine were mounting. I responded, “So is our gross.” Events such as these were a significant part of our marketing budget, as we did no advertising, not even a listing in the Nightclub section of New York magazine, like many other venues did.

  I pointed out to Stanley that Steve and Ian actually paid cash to PR people who delivered celebrities to Studio 54. I had read the Henry Post article in Esquire a few years earlier that confirmed Steve had secured stars using a sliding scale. Publicist Joanne Horowitz was quoted as saying, “Cher and Sylvester Stallone are one hundred dollars each, Alice Cooper is less, but Stevie gives me more if it makes the papers.” They provided unlimited amounts of cocaine and Quaaludes for the private VIP parties, a practice I continued, though not as openly, not in the basement, and not with as much coke. While I always tried to placate Stanley by keeping the costs of the food, beverages, and cocaine down, I never thought twice about spending money on celebrity events, because I knew that the name value of A-list or even several B-list stars was always good for business.

  Stanley was a numbers-man by nature, and even though the sales numbers proved me correct, he couldn’t accept the fact that my methods to attract and maintain our relationship with celebrities and the press were responsible for Studio 54 making money. It was a constant battle. However, he loved beautiful women and made exceptions for his favorites. Whenever Liliane Montevecchi walked into the club, Stanley was all eyes and served her and her guests our best champagne, on the house. He was crazy about her. And whenever Elizabeth Taylor was our guest he could not have been more charming, always offering her and her guests Dom Perignon. He had met Elizabeth previously, when she was the wife of Senator John Warner, at one of the many social events he attended in Washington, DC.

  Sweet and irresistible with a fresh and natural all-American look describes supermodel, Shaun Casey. She graced the covers of Harper’s Bazaar and Glamour many times. She was one of Calvin Klein’s first models and the Estee Lauder girl from 1979 to 1984. Stanley was crazy about Shaun Casey and enjoyed being in her presence; she enjoyed conversation with him as well. He was a very good-looking, successful businessman, always impeccably dressed in a suit and tie; he’d travelled the world and lived an interesting life. One night Shaun walked into the club with some girlfriends and Stanley spotted them at the main bar. Shaun introduced Stanley to her friends and Stanley then said to L. J. Kirby, “Champagne please for Shaun and her friends.”

  Shaun then put her hand on Stanley’s shoulder and very sweetly said, “Thank you Stanley…but not the cheap shit. I’d rather pay for the good stuff myself.”

  Stanley laughed and said, “L. J., a bottle of Dom Perignon for the ladies’ please.”

  Stanley reminded me of my father, who likewise never understood many of the marketing decisions I made. The conflict with Stanley over my so-called “extravagant” spending reached a point where he actually asked my father to help keep me in line. I never knew about this until just a few years ago, when I interviewed Stanley in Miami for this memoir. He told me how distressed my father was, seeing me so out of control—a meshuggener (crazy), not just about reckless spending, but so deeply involved with drugs and alcohol. It saddened me to hear that, because the truth is, I did give my father tsuris (trouble), as he would put it in Yiddish, instead of nachas (joy).

  Convinced that I was on a roll, stubbornly, I wouldn’t listen to any of Stanley’s arguments, which caused a rift between us over the years. Even when actors with the stature of the great Peter O’Toole were on the receiving end of my largesse, it was an issue with Stanley. Peter was attending a cocktail party at my penthouse one evening when he discreetly found his way into my bedroom, just as I was separating the pure cocaine from the not-so-pure. I heard someone enter, looked up and saw a tall man with flashing blue eyes. Before even saying hello, he politely asked me in his refined English accent, “May I have some?” Should I have said, “Oh, hello Lawrence of Arabia, I am the new owner of Studio 54, no you may not have some of this very expensive coke because my partner believes that celebrities like you are not worth it—even though Studio is going to get a shitload of press tomorrow thanks to you hangin’ with us tonight?” Peter and I got high and partied through dinner, then into my limo and on to Studio for hours. “Peter O’Toole at Studio 54” hit the newspapers the following morning, capturing the attention of all. Peter was so interesting and sweet and had an outrageous sense of humor. We had a lot of laughs that night. It was a great honor to host him at Studio.

  Christopher Atkins, an up-and-coming actor who had just starred in The Blue Lagoon with Brooke Shields, often attended parties at my home and soon became a real drinking and drugging buddy of mine. Studio 54’s male bartenders and female staff all had crushes on him—two of which claim to have spent one glorious night with him in a threesome they will never forget. He was a wild man, and then he had the good sense to give it all up and has been sober ever since.

  Robert Duvall was at one party and I remember him and Tanya Tucker deep in conversation for the entire evening. Robert wanted to know everything there was to know about life as a country and western star before filming began on his movie Tender Mercies. Tanya must have given him some great insight into his character because Robert Duvall went on to win the Oscar for Best Actor at the Academy Awards in 1984.

  While reviewing issues of various Studio 54 Magazines, I came across a blurb about a dinner party at my penthouse I had completely forgotten about. It was for Clive Davis, who had recently published his memoir, The Soundtrack of My Life. The magazine went on to say:

  Key figures in both the film and music business gathered at Mark Fleischman’s Manhattan home to honor Clive Davis, the legendary music figure who helped launch the rock era, signing Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Billy Joel, Santana, Aerosmith, Chicago, and many others… The party went on to a resplendently turned out Studio 54 and the performance of one of Clive’s new groups, ‘A Flock of Seagulls.’

  In the last chapter of his memoir, Clive tells the story about his first gay sexual experience with a man he met at Studio 54. Studio 54 was liberating to many.

  The dinner parties held in my apartment often culminated with a quick ride to Studio 54 in a big yellow school bus, arranged by a friend of Carmen D’Alessio, where the party would continue on. Ahmet Ertegun did the same, years earlier, picking up friends and taking them down to The Peppermint Lounge in a big yellow school bus to twist the night away. Our guests loved every minute of the ride to Studio. We usually made the morning papers after one of these celebrity events. My ideas were in place and working. We were attracting the right people and the right press; people were paying to get in and I was having the best sex ever. I know I was burning it at both ends but I was having so much fun. I was dancing and getting high with people I had always wanted to meet and here they were in my club, hanging in my office till six in the morning, telling me their stories. I was spending a shitload of Studio 54’s money on drugs for these people but the truth is, not all of them were worth it to Studio in press value—but hearing their stories was worth it to me. Some were totally full of shit—unknown, hangers-on—unaccomplished leeches. But they were attractive, well-mannered, and cultured characters—essential to the magic that was Studio 54. I rationalized, justified, and defended my behavior to myself and to my partner, Stanley.

  The positive and negative effects of Studio 54 were a part of the nightly offering. Both played with the psyche. Some people were attracted to the positive. I embraced the path promising the wild and kinky. I fueled my journey with cocaine, alcohol, Quaaludes, and any other exotic combination of drugs I could get my hands on. Had I been given the chance to go back to the night I reopened Studio 54 and do it differently I would have shouted “No way, I’m having too much fun!”

  Chapter Twenty-One:

  Studio 54 Magazine

  In early 1983, I introduced
Studio 54 Magazine. Rick Bard, who published a nightlife magazine in New York, approached me with the very creative concept, suggesting that advertisers would be interested in placing ads with a magazine that used Studio 54 as its hook, rather than just focusing on generic nightlife as a whole. He was right—the advertisers loved it. The magazine always opened with great stories, gossip columns, and nightlife pictures. There was even a Mark After Dark gossip column, which I cowrote with Rick. Parts of the magazine are reproduced at the end of this chapter.

  Rick, a creative publisher/photographer/writer who held a BA from MIT and an MBA from Harvard, had the idea of having each issue feature a celebrity guest host that I was to secure to act as a concierge into the world depicted on the pages of the magazine, and it worked. He now publishes the successful Manhattan Brides magazine.

  Each issue would open with the host sharing their greeting, and the two I remember most clearly were Morgan Fairchild and Peter Allen. When Peter was the magazine’s host in 1982, he said, “You’d think New Yorkers would be so tired after getting through a New York–day that they would just want to go home to pass out for tomorrow. So how come Calvin, Halston, Liza, Patti, and so many other New Yorkers stay up all night and still make millions the next day? It’s because it’s just more fun to go out than to stay in. I like Studio 54 because they give me free champagne. My favorite bartender is Paul. He keeps promising to take me up in his plane. I always promise to play tennis with him. What I like most about Studio 54 is you can go there and be quiet—sometimes the most interesting people are in the offices—or you can go there and be wild.”

  Meanwhile, when Morgan Fairchild hosted the magazine in 1983, she opened the magazine with, “New Yorkers are always celebrating, having fun, and going out all night. In New York I always get into trouble because I stay out until all hours. In California, I never do. As a dance maniac, I especially love New York because it’s the center of the world for modern dance and ballet. I love to dance all night, which I can’t do in California because it shuts down so early. So it’s always fun to go to Studio and let myself go. The music, the nonstop excitement, and interesting people make me feel great, and Mark always gives me such a warm welcome. It’s like a house party.”