Inside Studio 54

by Mark Fleischman

  The crowd went crazy when all the photographers flashed on Brooke Shields reaching into an ice cream cart—pulling out I Love Central Park T-shirts for everyone. Since the event launched, the I Love Central Park logo, created by Brian Moss, has been declared one of the most innovative designs of the twentieth century. It was a great night for me, since I spent most of it with Allison Steele and Frankie Crocker, drinking champagne and listening to two of the most recognizable voices in broadcasting history. They both had already achieved legendary status in the radio community, having played the records which reflected the musical tastes of the counterculture in the 1960s and ’70s on their respective radio shows, blazing a path for the new sound of FM Radio.

  We hosted a birthday party for Paul Jabara, who wrote the song “Last Dance” for Donna Summer and “Enough Is Enough,” a big hit for Donna and Barbra Streisand. Paul surprised everyone that night with the world premiere of his next big hit, “It’s Raining Men.” The Weather Girls delighted the crowd, singing what became an iconic song from that era. They performed it that night on the bridge for the first time anywhere, backed up by a cast of characters, including my assistant Shelley Tupper who tore it up as she was known to do, along with all the other dancers. I assure you anyone who was there will never forget seeing The Weather Girls and all the dancers wearing yellow plastic raincoats, singing and dancing on the bridge to “It’s Raining Men.” Some songs grow on you after hearing them day after day on Top 40 radio and then there’s that song that you fall in love with the first time you hear it and you want to hear it over and over, again and again. And that’s how we all reacted to hearing “It’s Raining Men” for the first time. We all went absolutely crazy, screaming and jumping up and down. Play it again. Play it again. After The Weather Girls left the stage, the DJ played it again and once more later in the evening. It will always remain one of my favorite nights at Studio with my good friend, Paul Jabara. I miss him dearly.

  Actor, singer, dancer, choreographer, and Tony Award winner Lee Roy Reams hosted a birthday party for Liliane Montevecchi, the very beautiful and talented film actress, singer, and star of Broadway. This event remains memorable to me and many of my guests that evening because after feeling helpless for so long, we were finally able to do something that would help the fight against AIDS, the horror that was killing so many of our friends and loved ones. A portion of the proceeds from the event that night went to benefit the AIDS Medical Foundation. Liliane Montevecchi had just won the Tony for Best Featured Actress in a musical for her performance in the smash hit on Broadway, Nine. Tommy Tune and the entire cast attended. Robin Williams and Christopher Reeve were hanging at the main bar and when Liliane walked over to greet them—they both lost all control and without missing a beat they sandwiched Liliane between them and proceeded to sensually dance and grind around her. Liliane had that effect on men. I will never forget it and neither will anyone else who was lucky enough to be there. She was not only beautiful and possessed great talent but she had a wonderful sense of humor.

  Giancarlo Impiglia and nine other painters and sculptors hosted “A Night In Celebration of the Italian Visual Imprint on New York,” featuring a musical performance by Laura Branigan singing “Gloria.” The evening was to benefit the Order of Sons of Italy in America, New York, which I could relate to, being the grandson of immigrants from Europe. The Order was founded in 1905 to help newly arrived Italian immigrants assimilate into American society. Umberto Tozzi, a handsome Italian singer and composer from Turin, Italy wrote Laura’s smash hit “Gloria.” It remained on Billboard’s Hot 100 for thirty-six weeks and earned Laura a Grammy nomination for Best Pop Female Vocal Performance. The dashing Ahmet Ertegun of Atlantic Records was there, partying behind the mesh curtain with John Travolta, Sylvester Stallone, and the one and only Luciano Pavarotti. Then, Keith Richards and Janice Dickinson, who’d been downstairs working on a song together for Janice in the recording studio Soundworks, appeared to the delight of all. At some point much later that night, Janice lost a magnificent ruby and diamond ring. Shelley Tupper thinks it was a gift from Mick Jagger, Denise Chatman remembers it being from Keith. We did everything we could to help her find it, short of asking DJ Leroy Washington to turn off the music and asking the crowd to join the search. At 5:00 a.m., doors closed, club empty, we continued the search, but it was never found.

  Studio looked wild on the night we hosted a party for model and actress, Margaux Hemingway. She was a six-foot-tall, statuesque beauty and a very sweet and kind person. Margaux was awarded a $1-million contract by Faberge, the first of its kind to a model, to be the spokesperson for the perfume, Babe. She was on the cover of Time, Vogue, Cosmopolitan, Harper’s Bazaar, and ELLE magazines. Michael O. and his crew went all out for Margaux, decorating the club with enormous stuffed animals—I don’t mean plush stuffed animals, I mean taxidermy-style stuffed animals. The crowd marveled at the towering nine-foot-tall polar bear, black bear, wolves, deer, and fox that were positioned throughout the club. It was a sight to behold, in homage to Margaux’s grandfather Ernest Hemingway, author, wildlife hunter, and big-game fisherman. In 1954, he won the Nobel Prize in Literature for The Old Man and The Sea. Margaux Hemingway died in 1996. She is buried in the family plot in Ketchum, Idaho.

  We hosted a performance by Bow Wow Wow, which drew a hot crowd. I remember almost nothing about the night except that Rod Stewart, Tina Turner, Cher, Sonny Bono, Valerie Perrine, and Treat Williams were all in attendance, which to me was unforgettable.

  I don’t remember any of the details about the birthday party for Matt Dillon but I heard everyone had a good time. Denise Chatman remembers nothing except being surrounded by Tom Cruise, Vincent Spano, Patrick Swayze, Ralph Macchio, Rob Lowe, and Matt Dillon as she counted out drink tickets for each of them. Beth Ann Maliner told me the only thing she remembers is Matt coming up to her office to pick up all his presents at the end of the evening and giving her a kiss.

  I hosted a party for Debbie Reynolds. She was the star of the 1952 film classic Singin’ In The Rain and the mother of 1980s film icon Carrie Fisher—Star Wars’ beloved Princess Leia. Debbie was celebrating her sold-out Broadway run in Woman of the Year. Debbie had been divorced from handsome crooner Eddie Fisher for more than twenty years, but she still gave me very explicit instructions barring her ex from entering Studio 54 on the night of her party. In one of the most talked-about divorces in Hollywood history, Eddie Fisher left Debbie Reynolds and married Elizabeth Taylor, Debbie’s best friend. (Carrie Fisher died on December 27, 2016, and, to the shock of everyone, Debbie Reynolds died the following day.)

  “Welcome to the Twenty-Sixth Birthday Celebration of Maura Moynihan” was a night to remember. I wish I had it on tape. Maura was the daughter of Daniel Patrick Moynihan, the venerable three-term Democratic Senator representing the state of New York. The party was arranged and hosted by Andy Warhol who believed, and I quote, “Maura’s going to be a big rock star, she’s smart, looks great, and wears thrift shop clothes.” So much for that prediction. But it turned out to be a better-than-great evening because Rick James and George Clinton, the Grandmaster of Funk, were hanging out at the main bar throughout the evening. Rick was happy to be at Studio with George Clinton, a man he told me he considered to be “one of the heaviest cats in R&B.” But after a few hours of drinking and several trips to my office they got into it, accusing each other of “stealing.” This went on for quite some time. Rick was pissed because, as he perceived it, Prince was stealing from him. George countered with “and what about the shit you stole from James Brown and me and what about Sly?” Rick thought about that and said, “I took every last motherfuckin’ thing I could from Jackie Wilson.”

  I ordered a round of drinks for tennis star Vitas Gerulaitis, Cheryl Tiegs, Rick Derringer, and Cecilia Peck who were with me at the bar. It was highly entertaining, to say the least and, for me, a history lesson in music. Rick kept grabbing his balls and there was a lot of “Nigga, this” a
nd “Nigga, that” and “Fuck you, motherfucker.” If only I had a video of it, it was as funny as any skit you’d see today in reruns of Dave Chappelle’s show.

  Jackie Wilson’s nickname was “Mr. Excitement.” He was considered to be a master showman and R&B history will attest to him being one of the most influential and dynamic performers in rock and roll. Everything about him fascinated Rick James. Rick talked about the other artists who had a major influence on his music and songwriting as well when I invited him down to my hotel in the Virgin Islands. He had just finished his Street Songs Tour and was badly in need of some rest and relaxation. We both were. I arranged it so that we spent our days doing nothing but sailing from island to island, dining on great food and good wine, and sleeping under the stars. We sailed from St. Thomas to Tortola to Virgin Gorda. Rick loved the water and learned to swim at a young age. He was a lean and mean competitor in the water as a member of the YMCA Swim and Dive teams in his hometown of Buffalo, New York. When Rick wasn’t out on tour he swam in his indoor pool at his home in Buffalo every day. To get to his favorite island drink, “The Painkilla,” we had to drop anchor and swim ashore to the Soggy Dollar Bar on the island of Jost Van Dyke. Rick loved the laid-back mindset of island life. We talked a lot about music, his early years, and his first group, The Mynah Birds, with Neil Young and Bruce Palmer. Rick liked to tell me how he was “the luckiest motherfucker alive.” If not for a really bad cold, he would have been with Jay Sebring and Sharon Tate in the house on Cielo Drive, on August 9, 1969, the night the Manson Family entered and brutally slaughtered everyone in it.

  Looking back, there were so many more parties; some stand out and I remember almost everything, while others are a blur. The Faberge Party attended by Farrah Fawcett, Ryan O’Neal, Joe Namath, and Ricky Schroder was a huge success in the press and yet I remember nothing except that the guests were all A-list celebrities and, as always, our New York crowd cheered at the sight of “Broadway Joe” Namath.

  Chapter Twenty-Four:

  My Ride Gets Wilder

  Studio 54 was hot and my ride was wild, but thanks to my good buddy Rick James life was about to go from Mach 1 to Mach 2. Rick had become a close friend. He was very intelligent and possessed a quick-wit that got us into and out of many a jam. He was at the top of the charts and peak of his career. In 1983, upon realizing that we were both born on February 1, the club threw a small private “Black and White Birthday Party for Mark Fleischman and Rick James.”

  The photo on the striking invitation showed Rick with his famous dreadlocks alongside a picture of me as a young man in my crisp white Naval Officer’s uniform. The main floor at Studio could look like a mosh pit when we were packed to capacity, but on the night of our birthday party we kept the complimentary guest list to seven hundred and up, in the Rubber Room we went for a living room like feeling with flowers and candles everywhere.

  The party was graciously hosted by Nick Ashford and Valerie Simpson, and Eddie Murphy presented Rick and me with a birthday cake on the bridge. Nile Rodgers, Lionel Richie, and Chaka Khan then joined us in singing “Happy Birthday.” This was an industry crowd, with people from various record labels, radio stations, and several hundred of the most gorgeous models from the top agencies in New York. Rick James held court at the main bar most of the night, surrounded by females of all ages, his entourage and well-wishers. A few feet away stood Frankie Crocker and his good buddy, “Sir” Royce Moore and the legendary, insanely funny DJ, David Rodriguez, along with O. J. Simpson and his stunning blonde girlfriend Nicole Brown. Isaac Hayes was on the dance floor doin’ it up with some Alvin Ailey dancers.

  At one point, DJ Leroy Washington played an aria from La Traviata—requested by Rick—and an aria from La Bohème requested by me. The crowd at the bar, not accustomed to hearing opera in a dance club, turned to look at Rick as if to say, “What the fuck—are you down with this?” and there was Rick in all his glory making all the exaggerated moves of a great conductor.

  Leroy Washington knew just how to accommodate some unfamiliar new releases requested by various producers and record label heads. Rick took to the live mic he requested and invited everyone to the dance floor for the Etta James classic “At Last” and later in the evening for “To Be Loved” by Jackie Wilson. Lightman Robert DaSilva heard “slow song—drop it down” and the dance floor went romantic and dark. For a party that meant so much to me personally, I am surprised that I remember so little. I do remember the joy I felt in seeing people slow-dancing—a regular happening at Small’s in Harlem but not that often at Studio 54. I was in slow-dancing R&B heaven.

  Rick always loved his drugs; he enjoyed “the show” of it all and that night was no exception, laying out lines on the main bar and blowing it up with every celebrity. I remember being nervous, worried at first that undercover cops might infiltrate, but after a few drinks and dropping several white pills with 714 stamped on them, I mellowed out and went with the flow. We danced, laughed, drank and enjoyed an endless supply of champagne, cocaine, and Quaaludes, making it a birthday party that I don’t remember.

  What I do remember is the phone call I took at around 9:00 a.m. the next morning while I was in bed with two hot record company employees. On the phone was John Griffith, night manager at Studio, asking me what to do about the two A-list celebrities who were passed out and handcuffed to the legs of the desk in my office. To this day I don’t remember them being at the party. And believe me, they are too famous to forget, and yet I have. Immediately I called Fred, my driver, and within minutes he was at Studio waking them up. Chauffeurs have a way with celebrities. It must be the uniform and the protective bubble of the limousine they represent. Luckily, the keys to the handcuffs were in the pocket of the male celebrity. The female celebrity took one look at Fred in his black uniform and hat, smiled, and sweetly said, “Please take me home, I’m staying at The Sherry Netherland.” She then snarled and cursed the male celebrity—reminding him that she intended to leave him over his out-of-control drug abuse, which I supposed was why the male celebrity handcuffed them both to the legs of my desk earlier that morning. Eventually, they broke up. He never recovered from it.

  Several times over the years Rick invited me out on tour with him to places like Nashville, Los Angeles, and the Jamaican World Music Festival in Montego Bay, Jamaica. In Jamaica, Gladys Knight, Jimmy Buffett, and The Clash were all on the bill with Rick. The Clash performed their MTV and radio hit “Rock The Casbah.” They were a wild bunch. Gladys Knight greeted Rick like her long-lost son and Rick treated her like the royalty she was. Hanging out with Gladys for a bit backstage was a thrill for me. Peter Tosh, Sly and Robbie, and my friend, Jimmy Cliff, were at the show as well, gifting Rick with the best ganja I have ever smoked. It was nonstop spliffs and laughs and insanely good music. I never wanted to leave. But the next day we were off to another venue. I experienced Rick James live and at his best with The Stone City Band and The Mary Jane Girls—his voice and body meeting his every demand. What a talent! This may come as a surprise to many—it certainly did to me—but Rick was a classical music freak. He was a fan of many of the great European composers. In his stash of cassettes for life on the road, he was packing quite a collection of classical and opera.

  My time spent on the road with him was unforgettable—not to mention the sexual scenes with groupies who would throw themselves at us at every turn: after parties, getting on and off the tour bus, our limousine, hotel lobbies, and airports. Rick liked staying in the bungalows at The Beverly Hills Hotel but he always had to add extra security when we did. Groupies would always find him. I’m convinced it was hotel staff that tipped them off.

  Los Angeles celebrities were screaming for tickets to Rick’s Cold Blooded Tour, a one-night-only gig at The Universal Amphitheater. There was a scene that night over “reserved” tickets that I won’t ever forget. I was standing backstage, watching Rick do his show, when Prince showed up with a really big bodyguard who appeared to be
trying to throw Rod Stewart, his wife Alana, Frank Sinatra’s daughter Tina, and her friend out of their front row seats. Alana told us after the show that she told Prince to kiss her ass, she was not moving. Rick admitted to me that the seats were originally promised to Prince but he changed his mind when Rod Stewart and group showed up. Rick loved to fuck with Prince. They would never get along. Rick explained that a few years earlier Rick heard Prince’s “I Want To Be Your Lover” and flipped out. They had never met but Rick asked Prince to be the opening act for his upcoming Fire It Up Tour and from the very first moment they met it was a clash of titanic egos. Rick accused Prince of stealing his onstage struts, chants, and microphone moves. Rick was always threatening to throw Prince off the tour as a result.

  While Rick was appearing in LA, we stayed at a home owned by Jerry Weintraub, who was promoting Rick’s tour. Jerry was a Hollywood legend and very cool guy. He produced tours for Elvis, Sinatra, John Denver, and many others as well as producing the films Nashville, Diner, The Karate Kid, and Oceans 11, 12, and 13, appearing briefly in all three Oceans films. Jerry Weintraub was a larger than life kind of guy.

  It was on Rick’s tour in 1983–1984 that I began to understand how wild and crazy the level of unbridled sex is when a rock and roll star goes out on the road. To describe it would be pages and pages of graphic sex scenes, so enough said.

  Rick wrote about Studio 54 in his book, The Confessions of Rick James: Memoirs of a Super Freak (courtesy of Colossus Books), and he talked about our friendship, saying I had just as much energy as he did (“even for an older guy”). He wrote that I introduced him to Janice Dickinson (who was the world’s top model at the time, and who Rick dated for a while). He went on to say he hung out with an interesting crowd during our days together at Studio 54. Rick sang “Happy Birthday” to Kathy Hilton at her Studio 54 birthday party, and then Kathy sent Rick a birthday gift of Baccarat crystal.