I moved to New York from West Virginia in 1978 to be an intern at an off-off-Broadway theatre. I was 22, with ambitions of becoming a theatre director.
The city of New York was bankrupt; it was a dangerous environment. I still had memories of having a switchblade held to my throat within an hour of setting foot in Manhattan, when I first visited in 1975. But I was out every night downtown: there were lots of modern dance and theatre events happening in abandoned spaces, behind shabby storefronts.
And then there was CBGB, the infamous punk-rock venue on the Bowery. It was the centre of cool for me: I saw a wave of young bands there – Patti Smith, Talking Heads, the Ramones. It was there I got to know a guy called Tom Scully; we discovered we liked Dada and monster movies and vaudeville.
In late 1978, we staged a New Wave vaudeville show in a Polish wedding hall, promoted by a man called Stanley Strychacki. He had been asked by the bishop at the Holy Cross Polish National Church to put on events in the basement to bring in extra income. It was at 57 St Mark’s Place, so he named it Club 57. There was a bar; Stanley asked Tom to be the manager, but he wasn’t interested and suggested I do it instead. I leapt at the chance. I put on events, booked people, tended the bar. We had live music, theatre, film screenings; everybody was encouraged to participate. You would see artists on the street and bring them in – I’d run into Jean-Michel Basquiat a lot. All these people in the East Village ended up as members of Club 57.
The club was a place to be optimistic, to be goofy and colourful at a time when the outside world wasn’t always hospitable. The artist Keith Haring would show up at poetry nights. I remember he had a poem that was like a William Burroughs cut-up, where he would repeat these words: “Lick… fat… boy… fat… lick… fat… boy… lick… fat…” It annoyed the hell out of the old-school poets. They were booing him, so he came over to the bar somewhat dejected. I gave him a free beer and said, “You’re my favourite poet!” We became pals.
It’s great how we all look like a theatrical troupe in this picture. Photographer Tseng Kwong Chi took the shot for the back cover of Art After Midnight, Steven Hager’s book about the 1980s East Village scene. You can see how we’re composed to look almost like a sculpture. Keith’s there in the hat, next to Patti Astor, the actor and gallery owner, and the performance artist Joey Arias. Tseng is there as well, kneeling behind me. And that’s me, lying on the ground.
New York’s Museum of Modern Art has a show on Club 57; I’m a guest curator. I love that people who are usually overlooked are getting their due. I’m sure anyone in their 20s would consider it ancient history, but I hope they’ll be inspired. This was a time before people were branding themselves or thinking about becoming art stars and making megabucks. It might have been a filthy, rat-infested neighbourhood, but for a brief time the waters of creativity were pure and invigorating.
• Club 57: Film, Performance and Art in the East Village, 1978–1983 is at the Museum of Modern Art, New York, until 1 April 2018
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