Inside Studio 54

by Mark Fleischman

  In those days, it seemed like Rick lived at Studio 54. Whenever he walked in with his entourage, DJ Leroy Washington would mix “Super Freak” into whatever else he was playing and the predominantly white crowd would go wild, packing the dance floor. As Rick said in his memoir, “The Studio 54 crowd was the most exciting group of people I’d ever met. I was always there, partying and getting high in the office upstairs. But Mark would throw everybody out if I needed a quiet spot to chill.” That’s true: I did and it wasn’t easy. Once groupies got in, they never wanted to leave. Clearing the office was always a delicate task, because nobody ever believed when they heard, “Everyone please take your drinks and personal belongings—we are moving the party downstairs,” that we meant them. I often overheard, “Don’t worry, he means them, not us.” Many of my guests had a sense of entitlement. Others just didn’t want their moment with any of the celebrities they were hanging with in my office to end. Ever.

  Rick had a lot of respect for the talent of Tanya Tucker and they spent many a night hanging out together at Studio 54 and on our many forays downtown exploring New York City’s after-hours nightlife. Tanya became a member of our Dawn Patrol and one of the hardest partiers in our crew—though not “the last man standing,” as she has claimed. In a 1988 interview with People, Tanya said that she was the wildest thing out there and she could stay up longer, drink more, and kick the biggest ass in town. She was definitely on the ragged edge—and we had many an all-nighter to prove it.

  In 1981, the same year she got into drugs and alcohol, Tanya’s record sales were in decline. Amid the mess that her life was becoming, she ended up on my doorstep delivered by my friend, publicist Joanne Horowitz. Tanya was a major talent and celebrity, and we became good friends, so I put her up at the Executive Hotel and provided her with food, alcohol, and drugs—though it really wasn’t that much food. But there was one hell of a party every night to whet her appetite for “the wild.” Tanya was troubled. I was told that she got into a fight with her best friend, whom she had invited to stay with her at the hotel, and then knocked her tooth out.

  Later that year, Rick struck up a relationship with actress Linda Blair, who had gained fame for her role in The Exorcist. As Rick wrote in his memoir, “Linda flew to New York and we hit it off immediately. She is one of the sweetest ladies I’ve ever known. We went to see Mark Fleischman at a hotel he owned on Madison Avenue in his penthouse, and Mark asked Linda and me to pose for a picture and we both took off our tops. The picture showed up everywhere but we didn’t mind.” After the impromptu pose, and sensing that the mood was changing, and that I was no longer welcome in the room, I left with the New York Daily News photographer Richard Corkery and closed the door behind me. I barely got it shut before we could hear Linda moaning from the other side.

  Rick goes on to say, “Linda and I still love each other and have stayed close friends. The only argument we’ve ever had was on the first night we went out. We were in Mark’s office at Studio 54 with Steven Tyler and Ron Wood of the Stones. Linda was busy talking to Steve while I slipped downstairs to get high with Janice Dickinson and her sister Debbie.” According to Rick’s recently published book Glow, he wrote the song “Cold Blooded” about Linda when he found out, after the fact, that she had been pregnant with his child, and had an abortion, giving him no say in the matter.

  As I mentioned earlier, we were always looking for angles to get press, but there were a few times when I had something very special but chose not to call them. It was 5:00 a.m. and I was standing at the bar with Jimmy Simpson, older brother to Ray Simpson of the Village People and younger brother to Valerie Simpson of Ashford & Simpson, Michael Johnson of SIR, Ron Tyson of The Temptations, and a bevy of beauties. We were mesmerized, watching Timothy Hutton and Rick James play a game of one-on-one on the dance floor. We were all ripped, roaring, and high as hell. Steve Steckel, from our security team, told me that he paid a friend to build the hoop setup and once a week all the security guys would get a case of beer and play some hoops on the dance floor after closing. Rick spotted it backstage and had his crew pull it out onto the dance floor. What a photo op: “Rick James and Timothy Hutton play hoops at 5:00 a.m. on the dance floor at Studio 54.” But I didn’t call the press. They were both having so much fun, just like two kids in the street. It was only shortly before that night that I had the pleasure of being introduced to Timothy Hutton. He was a truly humble, nice guy. I will never regret not having called the press that night—but I do wish I had captured the moment in a photo for me personally.

  Chapter Twenty-Five:

  The Dawn Patrol

  At dawn in New York City in the early 1980s the possibilities were endless, so I organized a group of night-owl regulars who, like me, never wanted the party to end. Informally, we came to be known as the Dawn Patrol. It was a name conjured up by Nikki Haskell and was meant entirely in jest, but it turned out to be appropriate and it stuck.

  The Dawn Patrol was eight or ten regulars—occasionally we welcomed a few adventurous newcomers into the mix—and we would meet several times a week in front of Studio 54 at 4:00 a.m. or 5:00 a.m., climb into limousines, and check out the action at the after-hours clubs. These clubs—which were unlicensed and illegal, usually downtown on the west side—opened at 3:00 a.m. in boarded-up vacant buildings. This was before the meatpacking nightclub district was developed and the neighborhood became chic. In fact, many areas of Manhattan were considered to be dangerous at this point in time. Parties were hosted on multiple floors for thousands of people until as late as noon the next day. Many celebrities were afraid to set foot in places like these by themselves; but I knew the owners, doormen, and staff, so I could guarantee my friends’ safety, not to mention a hell of a good time.

  In addition to Rick James, Dawn Patrollers included: John Belushi, who was very funny, but had a mean streak when drunk and stoned (I suspected he was freebasing); Liza Minnelli, a sweet and super talented lady who overindulged until she overcame her issues at Betty Ford; Prince Egon von Fürstenberg, the dapper European prince who was always smiling, laughing, and telling jokes in five different languages, loved both boys and girls and could really hold his drugs and alcohol; Lester Persky, actor and producer of films such as Taxi Driver and Shampoo, who was so much fun but who got so drunk and stoned we often had to carry him to the car; Tanya Tucker; Franco Rossellini, director of the film classic Caligula, a very hard partier; Reinaldo Herrera, suave and very much in control, no matter what hour of the night or morning, or what amount of drugs he was doing; Vitas Gerulaitis, a great athlete, who made me sad whenever he would join us—I knew his craving for cocaine was destroying his brilliant tennis career, but I chose to say nothing; Andy Gibb, a sweetheart of a guy who used huge amounts of coke and alcohol to deal with issues he had being the youngest brother of The Bee Gees and reeling from his recent breakup with actress Victoria Principal; Jack Lemmon, the brilliant Oscar-winning actor, witty and charming but seeming extremely sad late at night when speaking about his coke habit; Tony Curtis, legendary actor always chasing women and coke; Tony Danza, a fun-loving guy and TV actor who was always up for a great party; Joe Cocker, rock and roller, always high as a kite; Nick Nolte, actor and absolute wild man; Dodi Fayed, son of Egyptian billionaire Mohamed Al-Fayed, who owned Harrod’s of London at the time, always had the most amazing coke. Robin Williams, comedian and Oscar winner, had an enormous appetite for coke and alcohol and appeared to mellow out somewhat when high on coke. Whenever he joined us at Crisco Disco, he’d spend most of the night in the DJ booth, fascinated by the action on the dance floor.

  Crisco Disco, named for its DJ booth, which was shaped and painted to look like a giant can of Crisco cooking grease—a popular lubricant for gay men.

  The owner was Hank Davis, a tall, lanky, strange man with burning eyes and a raspy voice and always dressed in a tight black leather suit. That, mixed with the near translucent pallor of his skin, made him look like a gay vampire. He
lived an illegal life in the shadows, paying off the cops and fire department officials, enabling him to entertain thousands of people after hours every night without proper licensing. Hank always bragged about having the best coke in New York and took particular pleasure in watching us snort a mixture of cocaine and Ketamine, or Special K, a mild hallucinogenic powder that he slipped into the mix unbeknownst to the crowd. Hank liked to make fun of shaving products heir Warrington Gillette and friends, John Flanagan and Michael Van Cleef Ault (Michael now owns Singapore’s outrageous club Pangaea) Henri Kessler, now a producer at Paramount; and some of the other young, waspy preppies who sometimes accompanied the Dawn Patrol. Hank took pleasure in referring to them as “the Harvard Boys.” He thought of them as young virgins and relished seeing them tripping on his hallucinogenic concoctions. But Hank always treated me and my guests as the ultimate VIPs. Perhaps he believed we legitimized the scene.

  We’d pull up to Crisco Disco in the dark of night, just before dawn, on a downtown west-side street surrounded by nothing but deserted buildings. The door opened and BAM! We were always startled to see a thousand people partying in a hot gay music scene. The DJ was Frank Corr and he was brilliant. He played the crowd so well that I hired him to do Thursday nights at Studio 54. We were ushered through the teeming crowd to the innermost VIP areas of the club, which made their home on an upper floor of the venue. First, there was VIP—which was pretty much your standard velvet-roped area that separated the elite from the club’s regulars. But beyond VIP was the even smaller, more exclusive, and more intimate MVIP (“most very important person”) room for maybe eight of that evening’s A-listers. There, at 5:00 a.m. or 6:00 a.m., Hank would dispense booze, drugs (usually cocaine), and whatever other combination of magical powders he could think of to ensure his guests would feel the party and remain with him for a few more hours.

  With the drinks flowing, and all the free drugs for my guests and me, we’d sit around and share some of our most personal stories. Crazy Hank would be talking, and we’d all be getting messed up on his Special K mix, which created a mini-mescaline trip, kind of like being on Ecstasy, except it didn’t last as long. It was actually a reasonably potent hallucinogenic, but luckily no one I knew had any bad trips. One undeniable side effect was that people lost touch with their personal values; inhibitions vanished that might have otherwise served to restrain or protect. These stoned-out conversations went on for hours, and—as you can imagine—being so free of inhibitions, our discussions traveled into really strange, fun, and occasionally very sad places.

  Hank, who was rather dramatic and noticeably gay, would enjoy going on about a supposed affair Steve Rubell had with Calvin Klein, spitting while he talked and acting like he was in the know. Steve had been a regular at Crisco. I never believed Hank’s story because Calvin’s taste in boys was very different from Stevie, and I knew Calvin and Steve to be just best friends. However, I humored Hank and let him tell his tall tales as he was always effusively hospitable to me and my guests.

  I was told there was often big drama to contend with, such as the time that Lorna Luft was hanging out in MVIP with a few of her friends when her half-sister Liza Minnelli walked in. Because she and Lorna weren’t talking to one another, a common happening between the two sisters, Hank bragged that he walked into MVIP and kicked Lorna out so Liza could have the room. Even though they were both Judy Garland’s daughters, Lorna didn’t rate as high on Hank’s A-List. Liza was a huge star in her own right and, truth is, Hank didn’t consider Lorna’s dad, talent manager Sid Luft, to be of equal caliber to Liza’s dad, Vincente Minnelli, the great director of the films Gigi, An American in Paris, and other classics. At Crisco, a hot director trumped a manager.

  You never wanted to stay in MVIP for too long, since you’d wind up too disconnected from the party in the VIP Room. Usually, members of our group would spend a little time wandering through the crowd, getting a feel for the scene, then retreat into MVIP for a little while to partake in some party favors and get ready for the next stage of the evening—or morning, as the case may be. Things would get pretty loose up there—particularly when we’d exit MVIP and spend time mixing in VIP. That’s where the sex always went down. Where MVIP was small and intimate, VIP was spacious enough to move around in, with big comfortable leather couches to sink into and a well-stocked bar offering free drinks to select people. VIP offered a perfect view of the mayhem one floor below, and you could watch all the goings-on. It was heaven for voyeurs. While some people, possessed by the power of the Frank Corr beat, sweated and danced nonstop, others used the space as a platform to seduce. But the best part about VIP was the darkened corners, perfect for anonymous sexual encounters.

  People were always looking for sex in one form or another at Crisco Disco. It wasn’t uncommon to see people from MVIP or VIP head down to the lower floors to dance, find someone who captured their fancy, then lead them back upstairs to the hallowed VIP area to get it on. Sometimes you’d go to freshen your drink at the bar, and find yourself dodging people in various states of sexual exploration. Couples making out, guys getting blow jobs, and, in some of the darkened and recessed corners of Crisco Disco, people were fucking. Not the full-on naked kind. People tried to be discreet, working within the confines of clothing, zippers, and buttons, pushing panties aside, allowing for just enough access and the right amount of action to satisfy.

  One of the most interesting hallmarks of that pre-AIDS period was the open sexual experimentation happening everywhere in society, and Crisco was no exception. Guys doing it with guys, girl-on-girl—nobody cared and it didn’t matter if you identified as homosexual or not. At times you didn’t know who you were doing it with—you might know a first name, and sometimes not even that.

  I enjoyed this sort of hedonistic play, and while I often found myself at the center of it during my many nights at Crisco Disco, there is one night that stands out far above the rest. I was hanging out in the balcony, checking out the action below, high on Hank’s Special K mix. I spotted Robin Williams in the DJ booth with Frank Corr; he had joined us that evening in my limo for the ride down from Studio 54. I smiled to myself, watching him. He was so calm now, standing in the booth moving his hips to the music. We had done a considerable amount of some special mix with Hank in MVIP and that always seemed to calm him down, making him less manic, more mellow and able to relax and just enjoy himself. To quote Frank Corr: “Robin loved the energy of the music and the people. He was an amazing person.” I was watching Robin move to the beat and that’s when I spotted her—a gorgeous, curvaceous blonde, dancing by herself in her own world as if nobody was watching her. But everyone was. I wanted her. I had to have her, so I made my way down to the dance floor—hoping she’d return to VIP with me.

  People were always trying to get in VIP and MVIP, but the only way to get in—if you weren’t part of that crowd—was to be invited by one of the A-Listers. The gatekeeper for VIP was a real character, Fred Rothbell-Mista. He wore big black-rimmed glasses and was incredibly cool, with a quick, sarcastic sense of humor. He was well-known in the New York night scene and knew who everyone was. While Hank reigned supreme over MVIP, Fred took care of VIP, and he did so as if he were a secret service agent guarding the Oval Office. He treated it like it was his private domain: nobody got in without his knowing. Even so, he had an appreciation for those who got the invite up, mainly because they always looked so elated to have been chosen, like at the front door at Studio 54.

  When I walked out of VIP that night, Fred gave me a knowing look—he had surmised why I was leaving and what I was up to. I gave him a cursory nod and headed for the main floor, intent on finding my goddess and bringing her back upstairs with me. When I found her, she was still gyrating wildly on the dance floor, her long hair whipping around, threatening to lash you if you got in its way. I managed to avoid a whipping and gently took her by the arm to get her attention. She stopped to look at me, curious as to why I’d interrupted her.
I smiled and pointed up to the VIP balcony. When she returned the smile, I took that as my cue to lead her upstairs.

  Fred unclipped the rope as soon as I approached with my maiden in tow. I didn’t look at him or attempt any conversation—I was rock-hard, just thinking about what sex with her would be like. Lucky for me, a couch in one of the more darkened corners of VIP had just vacated. I got her a drink then guided her in the direction of the couch. I slid down onto the soft leather, she smiled and I pulled her on top of me, gently moving my hand up her dress as I kissed her, feeling her tongue entwine with mine while I used my other hand to free one of her sweaty breasts from the confines of her wrap-front top. She moaned, grinding herself into me as I slid my other hand up her dress and around to her ample buttocks.

  She ran her hand down my torso and went for the button on my pants, until she felt the chain hanging from my belt loop. She’d found my stash, so I gamely took some out for her and used a little indentation in my thumb to scoop some coke into. I raised it up to her nose, she took it in and immediately asked for more. People would sniff off just about anything in those days, so she knew how to take it as it was given. Once she’d snorted enough coke to satisfy, she went wild. She dropped to her knees and undid my pants. I pulled her mouth off of me and she immediately leapt on top of me, sliding her panties to the side so she could descend on me with her velvety grip. Her hips were bucking so wildly that it was hard for me to hold on to her, so I just let her go and watched her breasts—one free, one still enclosed in her top—as they bounced wildly while she rode me hard. I could feel myself starting to come, so I reached for my little canister of amyl nitrate—like most people, I hung it around my neck when out clubbing. I unscrewed the lid just as my orgasm was starting to crest, and as the amyl nitrate sent a rush of blood to my brain—BOOM—I felt my body shudder to completion. I didn’t want her to leave any less satisfied than me, so I gave her a good sniff of amyl nitrate then slid my fingers inside her and worked her g-spot until she came. And when all was done—nothing was said—we kissed and she pulled herself together and slipped out of VIP. I went back to the balcony, where I watched her rejoin the revelers on the dance floor. It was almost as if it had never happened.