A NEW FAMILY
The moment I became a teenager, I already knew there was a world outside that I planned to explore. My mind detached from everything Brooklyn, and everything family. In some strange way, my mom understood that. She knew that my passion was music, and she allowed me to go out at all hours, dress wildly, and hang with people unknown to her or to Brooklyn. I don’t know if she knew I was gay—I had never brought it up as we never discussed anything meaningful or with any serious weight to it. But she must’ve known—a mother’s instinct, I think. However, it was still bizarre how she let me wander out and over the East River into Manhattan because in the mid-seventies, the city was a very dangerous place for everyone, particularly a cute, pint-sized fourteen-year-old kid.
Ultimately, I found an extended family in rock ’n’ roll. The first place I descended upon was Max’s Kansas City. Peter Crowley was Max’s booking agent.
Peter’s office was on the third floor and it was also where the dressing rooms were located. Since there was no official backstage, and the bands played on the second floor, the musicians and their friends were always running back and forth, up and down the stairs between the dressing rooms and the stage. As a result, I was always on the third floor—and that’s when Peter and I became good friends.
Some of the first bands I saw at Max’s were the Mumps, Cherry Vanilla, B-52s, Pylon, The Fast, New York Dolls, Wayne County and the Backstreet Boys, and my absolute favorite—Suicide.
Suicide was unique and complicated. It was synthesized, distorted, atmospheric and, early on, a sound I completely related to—I loved that kind of noise. When I heard it, I had a visceral reaction to it. It was very New York, dirty, gritty and in your face and it all came out of the synthesizers of Martin Rev. Alan Vega was the front man and singer—a true visionary. He sometimes beat himself with a mic and there’d be blood everywhere. He loved the theatre of it all. Alan and Martin told stories in their synthesized pieces about underground New York, addiction, criminals—even love. For me, there was a sense of spirituality throughout their music. Their first two albums are easily in the top ten records I cherish.
. . . although it was Rev who came up with the minimalist keyboard riffs that would define Suicide’s sound, much of the original sonic and visual template for the band was Vega’s . . . Vega straddled the Warhol-dominated art world and the glam rock scene of early seventies . . . [he] roamed the stage like a feral Elvis, muttering and howling over Rev’s Farfisa organ. . . .Famously, Suicide were the first band to actively describe their music as “‘punk,”’ and were equally famously reviled by fans of the later punk bands they opened for, such as The Clash and Siouxsie & The Banshees.1
Their song “Dream Baby Dream” was covered by Bruce Springsteen in 2014 and Bruce spoke very admirably about Alan Vega when he died in 2016:
The bravery and passion he showed throughout his career was deeply influential to me. I was lucky enough to get to know Alan slightly and he was always a generous and sweet spirit. The blunt force power of his greatest music both with Suicide and on his solo records can still shock and inspire today. There was simply no one else remotely like him.2
In reality, Alan’s onstage, very dark performances usually cleared the room, and without fail, two or three fans, myself included, were the only ones left behind. I would sit still on those two little steps on the side of the Max’s stage, worshipping him, the performance, and the noise. After the set was over, I invariably followed him upstairs to the third-floor dressing room and raved about how incredible I thought he was. I gushed, which Alan recalled years later, seemed so strange to him. But I loved him. He was a genius, a great artist—a painter, a sculptor—and I am so grateful that we became friends and stayed close until he passed away at the age of seventy-eight.
I also became close with Paul Zone of The Fast and, through Paul, Debbie Harry of Blondie. Debbie and Paul were good friends and they were around Max’s all the time. In fact, Paul’s band, The Fast, was practically the house band there as he was also the DJ. His two brothers, Mandy and Miki, made up the rest of the band. They were glam/pop and very sought-after on the scene. Mandy was a big, lovable, hairy teddy bear and he and I hit it off like a house on fire. Every time we saw each other we wound up hootin’ and hollerin’, and laughing so hard our stomachs hurt. I was sure the entire neighborhood could hear us, and it was always a blast.
I became a regular at Max’s. I was either in Peter’s office, or hanging backstage with the musicians after their sets were over.
Whenever I arrived, the front door was usually manned by Tommy Dean, his wife, Laura, or Mark Kuch, and I would say: “Peter left my name on the guest list.”
I always made sure my name was on the list because that’s how I got in for free. Luckily, it was always there. Tommy and Laura would often snicker under their breath that Peter had some kind of crush on me. Although we were very touchy-feely and I often hugged and kissed Peter, it never went beyond that—it was very PG-rated. I see Peter as my very first mentor. Not only did he become a good friend, but because he always saw me taking photos, he helped me turn that passion into a profession.
I often had either a Minolta 35mm camera hung around my neck or I carried a small Kodak 110 instamatic in my pocket. A lot of us teens who paraded through the clubs every night had cameras with us, photographing everything and everyone, and I was fanatical about it.