Remain in Love Read online

  The Valentine’s Day Ball was a total bacchanal. It was held in the Bank Building, which was an old Greco-Roman-style bank with marble floors and a ceiling that was fifty feet high. It made a perfect ballroom and was decorated to the hilt with hearts and Cupids by members of the Painting Club. A bar with beer and wine was set up in one corner. The Artistics set up in the other corner. We didn’t have much of a PA system but we were happy with what we had. The acoustics were terrible but we didn’t care. This was our big gig! David Byrne was wearing his leather pants and a shiny black shirt. He looked cool. I was wearing a workingman’s jumpsuit I bought at Sears and dyed black. I took off my black leather motorcycle jacket, also purchased at Sears, and put it behind my drum set. I loved that jacket and I felt cool wearing it, but it was too hot to play drums in. Did I forget to say I was also spinning records at this party? I created a soulful mix with James Brown, Marvin Gaye, Barry White, the Ohio Players, Kool & the Gang, Manu Dibango, Eddie Kendricks, and Otis Redding.

  The place was packed with revelers. This being RISD, many of the kids were in costume or their most gorgeous party clothes. Art students in full effect. We sent out for more beer and wine when the supply started getting low.

  The room was full of gorgeous girls and boys, as duly noted by André Leon Talley in his RISD News column called “RISD After Dark.” André studied at Brown, but he liked to hang with the more stylish kids at RISD and take his meals at the RISD Refectory. He was a very interesting, flamboyant guy who was whip smart, tall, and skinny as a beanpole. He adored Andi and Tina and featured them in his column. He knew what he was doing, too. He became an editor at Vogue magazine when he moved to New York.

  When the Artistics began to play, the party became even wilder. We ran through our repertoire with gusto. We’d been rehearsing for some time and we thought we sounded good. When anyone asks me what the Artistics sounded like, I say prototypical punk. Our setlist consisted mostly of covers with the addition of our originals “Psycho Killer” and “Warning Sign.” We also had a song called “Sick Boy” that David and I had written and another one called “Spin, Spin.” We also played:

  “96 Tears” by? and the Mysterians

  “Psycho” by the Sonics

  “You Really Got Me” by the Kinks

  “I Can’t Control Myself” by the Troggs

  “Love and Happiness” by Al Green

  “Tracks of My Tears” by the Miracles

  “I Can’t Explain” by the Who

  “Kicks” by Paul Revere & the Raiders

  “Psychotic Reaction” by the Count Five

  Our friends Naomi and Marc sang their duet version of “My Baby Must Be a Magician,” by the Marvelettes, in a guest appearance that everyone loved.

  It must have been a wild night because hardly anyone can even remember it. I remember it as not only a real cool time, but as a night that David and I really clicked onstage—I think we both got a taste of the exhilaration you experience from giving a passionate performance. David was still very, very raw and awkwardly stiff onstage, but when he got into the song and lost himself in it, you couldn’t take your eyes off him. Some people, particularly early on when we were completely unknown, felt that David’s unusual performance made them feel uncomfortable. I thought that was a good thing.

  Tina and I traveled to New York City again to visit Donald Munroe and Joan Schwartz at their loft in what is now called Tribeca and was very similar to SoHo. Donald and Joan were working on a performance art soap opera they called Each Day. After a disco nap, Don took us to a wild new club called Le Jardin up on West Forty-third Street. It was very gay and fantastic for dancing. The music was loud and sensuous, the way a disco should be, with plenty of bottom end. Tina and I always appreciated a great dance track and the DJ played every dance hit we knew and many new underground favorites we’d never heard before. Everybody seemed super happy and high. Don told me that the last time he’d been to Le Jardin someone had stabbed him in the ass on the dance floor and he was so loaded he didn’t even notice until someone else pointed out that he was bleeding. There was a lot of Lurex clothing. Remember Lurex, that stretchy, sparkly fabric? Even I had a Lurex T-shirt but it shrank in the dryer, so I gave it to Tina, who looked fabulous in it.

  * * *

  My grandfather in Kentucky, the one we called Pappy, shot himself that spring. He had lived with bipolar disorder his entire adult life and they didn’t have the medications for it then that we have now. As a younger man, he had received electroshock therapy, which sounds terrible but actually worked—if only temporarily. He had recently had a diagnosis of cancer, which he regarded as a death sentence, and he must have felt emotionally overwhelmed. He was the sweetest grandfather and always a gentleman. He bought a gun, drove to the Maysville train station, and parked on Rosemary Clooney Street, where someone would be sure to find him. Then he shot himself. My father was the one who called me with the news and he made a reservation for me to fly home to Pittsburgh, then we would drive to Kentucky. My family held up very well on the outside, but on the inside we were never the same. When a person close to you, particularly a family member, kills himself besides the grieving there can be terrible feelings of guilt in the survivors: “Why didn’t I see this coming? What could I have done to prevent this? Why wasn’t I there to stop him?” Pappy had been so loved by his friends and community and they rallied around Mammy, who was gracious and grateful. This was a very difficult time. Some time later when I was sick with the flu, I had a vision that Pappy came to me and told me he was feeling well and doing fine. I called Mammy to tell her and we both had a good cry. I miss him to this day.

  Tina and I had our painting show at the Woods-Gerry Gallery. Tina exhibited her minimalist Battleship paintings and I showed a bold, colorful abstract series I had been working on all year. I was particularly pleased with my Gene Krupa painting, which I’d begun on the day the great drummer died. We had a good turnout for the opening. One of Tina’s paintings was purchased by a local architect. A case of white wine was consumed. We were feeling good.

  The Artistics only played four shows: the Valentine’s Day Ball, the RISD Tap Room, a private party in a concrete bunker, and an outdoor concert in the park on Benefit Street across from the RISD Museum. The last show was so much fun. It took place on a warm afternoon in May when everyone had spring fever bad. The Artistics all wore black and wraparound shades à la the Velvet Underground, a band that we revered. We even had an opening act, a band called Providence led by our friend Wayne Zieve. They did a great cover of “We’re an American Band” by Grand Funk Railroad called “We’re a Providence Band.” They were loads of fun and Wayne had a lot of soul.

  When the Artistics began to play, people came running. The smell of marijuana was in the air and the mood was colorful, festive, and celebratory. All around us people were dancing and getting down. Marc and Naomi came up and sang their duet of “My Baby Must Be a Magician.” It seemed like all was right with the world. I looked out at all the kids who were gathered around and saw Tina, Andi, Huey, and all my RISD friends. The vibes were so good. My time at RISD was almost up. I had explored Benefit Street from one end to the other and I was ready for a new adventure. I will always be grateful to RISD, not only for a great arts education, but for the many wonderful people I met there who are still an important part of my life.

  Due to thunderstorms, graduation was moved indoors to the Christopher Wren–designed First Baptist Church. My parents had arrived the night before. After the ceremony we were invited up to Tina’s parents’ home. My parents were already very fond of Tina. I felt certain our parents would get along well and they did. It was like we were from the same tribe.

  Tina and I said our sad goodbyes. We planned to move to New York in the fall. We would meet David and many of our other friends there. It seemed like everyone was moving to New York. David and I would form a band. The sense of anticipation was killing me, but first I needed to make some money to get started in New York. To do that
I had to return to Pittsburgh, where I had been commissioned by a friend of my father’s to paint a mural in the stairway of Eye and Ear Hospital. It took me a couple of months up on a scaffolding, but in the end I had the nest egg I needed to make the move to New York.

  13

  LIFE ON THE BOWERY

  As a kid growing up, I liked to watch the Bowery Boys on TV. It featured a gang of nutty juvenile delinquents in funny situations getting into all kinds of trouble. Before I moved to New York, this was how I pictured the Bowery, as a kind of playful skid-row hangout for ne’er-do-wells and drunkards.

  When I first saw the Bowery with my own eyes in September of 1974, it was not the least bit playful or funny. At the corner of Bowery and Houston you were likely to see a bunch of guys drinking cheap wine like Thunderbird or Night Train and hanging on for dear life to the chain-link fence that surrounded the parking lot there. One or two would be vomiting and another would have his pants down around his ankles as he relieved himself and then wiped his ass with his bare hands in broad daylight as the traffic whizzed by. Some of the crazier guys would venture out into the intersection to direct traffic. Others would ask for a handout while “cleaning” the windshields of cars stopped at the light with an oily rag or a piece of dirty newspaper. In those days, these poor drunks were known as bums.

  There were also many dreadful flophouses where you would never want to end up. The great American composer Stephen Foster, who composed “My Old Kentucky Home,” nearly died in one at age thirty, but was carried over to Bellevue Hospital, where he later perished of an infection at age thirty-seven. He had thirty-eight cents in his wallet along with a note that read simply, “Dear Friends and Gentle Hearts.”

  Did I forget to mention the dead bodies? It was not unusual to have to step over or around a body that was no longer breathing as you walked down the street. Most of these corpses were men who drank themselves to death or toppled out of a flophouse window. The long history of the Bowery is one of crime, misadventure, debauchery, desperation, and death. Pickpockets and thieves hung out in every bar. People were drugged, robbed, and kidnapped. Muggers lurked in the shadows. It was a challenging scene for some nice kids from the suburbs like us. I had to keep telling myself that I would never end up a bum and, if things got bad, my family would surely look after me.

  Jamie Dalglish, a good friend from RISD and a great painter, had a loft at 52 Bond Street with his wife, Susan. David had been camping out at their place, sleeping on the couch and helping them fix it up. I was happy to find David in good spirits. It was a surprise to find that David was now in a relationship with Andrea Kovacs, another friend from RISD. Jamie and Susan told me that David and Andrea had been doing some crazy stuff together. I’m not sure what that was about, but we loved Andrea. She was getting a master’s degree in photography at Yale and was doing very interesting work. Jamie and Susan were very warm and generous people, and a pleasure to be with. Susan was very boisterous and hilarious. She teased us a great deal. Jamie knew that I was planning to start a new band in New York and he told me there was something going on across the Bowery at a place called CBGB, which stood for Country Bluegrass and Blues, the sort of music preferred by its owner, Hilly Kristal. I went over to see what was happening that very night.

  I had been dreaming of a place where my as-yet-unformed band could play. I imagined that there could be a place as important to our band as the Cavern Club and the Star Club had been to the Beatles in their early days, a welcoming place for people who craved interesting new music. That night when I walked into CBGB, it seemed lonely and sad, a real Bowery dive. No one was there. No music played, not even on the jukebox. The place smelled of beer, dog shit, and roach spray. I asked the bartender for a bottle of Rolling Rock. Then I heard the sound of a pool game in the back of the club. I followed the sound, tripping over the uneven floor. There were four guys shooting pool. One of them was dressed in a silver, iridescent sharkskin suit, black shirt, and purple tie with big silver Elvis Presley shades. His hair was about an eighth of an inch long all over. It was a wild look. I watched them play for a few minutes and then I asked them if there was going to be any music that night. The guy in the sharkskin suit said in a heavy Mexican accent, “No, man. Not tonight, but come back on Friday and the Ramones will be here.” Hmmm, I thought. Mexican music? I told him, “Okay, I’ll be back.”

  I took the subway back to Long Island City, where Tina and I were enjoying the hospitality of her brother, Yann, and his adorable girlfriend, Julia MacFarlane. Yann was well over six feet tall and super bright, fit, and handsome. Recently divorced from his wife, Lally, the daughter of Washington Post publisher Katherine Graham, Yann was now living a more “downtown artist” lifestyle. He was happy that Tina had returned to New York and gave us no end of encouragement. I joined Tina, Yann, and Julia for a glass of wine at the great dining table Yann had designed. It was oval shaped, had leaves so that it could easily seat up to twelve people and was painted bright green. I told them about CBGB and said that in the morning I would get The Village Voice and start looking for a loft. Yann, who was a loft-living pioneer, told me to forget The Village Voice. “Look in the New York Times industrial real estate section. Look for a raw space.” That’s how he had found his loft. He did all the design and construction work himself and it was really beautiful. He had been I. M. Pei’s chief designer for the East Wing of the National Gallery and, later, the Grand Louvre in Paris, but now he was branching out on his own. Yann and Julia were kind and generous to us, but we didn’t want to impose on them for too long and wear out our welcome.

  I had the first bout of insomnia in my life that night. I felt anxious about finding a place to live, getting a day job, starting a band, and succeeding as an artist. In the daylight hours, I had great confidence and never doubted myself, but at night, when I lay down to sleep, the wheels would not stop turning and I imagined the worst, which to me was failure. I had chosen the life of an artist and the real meaning of that was beginning to sink in. There were no guarantees of anything. We were on our own and we had to be brave.

  The next morning, I started the search for a loft. I needed a place where a band could rehearse and Tina could paint, since she had not yet agreed to join the band. Of course, we would also need to live there. Most of the places I found were either dungeons or run-down factories. One place we went to look at in Alphabet City was on fire; smoke was billowing out the windows and no one was coming to put the fire out. I found this incredible, but it was the reality of the Lower East Side in 1974.

  * * *

  The Ramones were not a Mexican band after all. They were four guys about my age. The guitarist and bass player had stylish shag haircuts like the Bay City Rollers. The drummer was tiny and had a cool, minimalist playing style. The singer was tall, shockingly skinny, and sang with a faux British accent. Their songs were hard, loud, and very fast. “Blitzkreig Bop” is 176 beats per minute and only about a minute and a half long. Sometimes they would stop in the middle of a song and yell at each other about mistakes they’d made or just to say that they didn’t feel like playing that song tonight. I had never seen anything like it. With song titles like “I Don’t Care,” “Beat on the Brat,” and “I Don’t Wanna Walk Around with You,” the Ramones seemed like a conceptual art piece to me and, even though they had a lot of polishing up to do, they were wholly original and I loved them. As I left CBGB that weekend, the pretty girl at the door told me that next week a cool band called Television was playing. I told her I’d be there.

  After a couple of weeks of loft hunting, I went to see a place at 195 Chrystie Street between Stanton and Rivington. It was 1,200 square feet on the ninth floor, with a big freight elevator and a clear view of uptown and the Empire State Building. A couple of sinks were the only fixtures it had. It was definitely raw. The toilets were in the hall. The rent was $289 per month. There was no key money because no one had lived there before. As far as I could tell, no one else was living in the building to complain about
band rehearsals. It was three blocks from CBGB. I told the agent I would take it. When I signed the lease that afternoon, the owner of the building looked at me with obvious skepticism. He asked me what I was going to be doing there. I told him it would be my painting studio and he just smiled, shook his head, and accepted my check for $578: one month’s rent and another month’s rent for the security deposit.