Terry Noel

Original mixer

Interviewed by Bill in New York, September 30, 1998

Terry Noel was the first DJ to mix records. At a time when nightclubs were essentially jet-set hangouts for the famous and wealthy, this former dancer lived with Jim Morrison and hung out (and strung out) with Jimi Hendrix. In his 1960s pomp, he was the man who brought seamless mixing to New York dancefloors, firstly at Arthur, Sybil Burton’s swinging discotheque (named after Ringo Starr’s haircut), and then at Salvation and Salvation II, where the scene was so debauched that its repentant owner Bradley Pierce ran off to become a priest. Terry was the man from whom Francis Grasso took his cue (and job).

Still as dapper and flamboyant, these days he is to be found painting in his Greenwich Village apartment. Given a chance to share his memories, Terry takes great delight in re-enacting the highlights of his career in dramatic fashion, his face animated and alive, with energised sweeps of the arm for emphasis. For an afternoon, Terry is back on the dancefloor at Arthur as if it were yesterday.

How did you come to be in New York. Are you from there?

I grew up in Syracuse and I was going to Syracuse University, but I hated it because it was so gung-ho. I transferred down to Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. This was 1960. In 1961 I entered a dance contest at the Peppermint Lounge and won, so they hired me.

What was Peppermint Lounge at that stage? A supper club?

No. They started twisting in there, so celebrities started mobbing the place. It only held about 140 people. It was a hustler bar, a gay hustler bar on 45th Street, right off Times Square. Then it got very chic. They had this big contest with celebrity judges and I won. I said, ‘To hell with this school.’ I fell in love with the whole thing because I was in the middle of every celebrity in the world.

So you ended up working there.

I had redesigned the place so we had a stage, which we didn’t have until that point. We knocked out the columns and made it twice as big, put in dressing rooms, all kinds of lights. In fact, I was the first person to use black lights and strobelights in the show. At the end of the show we did ‘Shout’ and we would cut off the lights, put on the black lights and all the gloves on the girls’ palms would turn pink and they’d stand there with a fringe on going like that. Then we’d put on what was called the Lobster Scope; it was a wheel with a bright light behind with like a lobster claw in the wheel. And the wheel would turn fast and it would be like a strobelight.

Was it motorised?

Yeah, it had a motor on it. It was the original strobe light. The Wild Ones were working there at this time and Sybil Burton comes in – and she had just divorced Richard Burton, which was a big scandal – and she picked the Wild Ones to be the opening band for Arthur.

Who were the Wild Ones?

They were just a group. They never had a hit or anything; but their big song was ‘Wild Thing’. Of course, Jordan the lead singer was gorgeous. He was my room-mate. It comes to opening night at Arthur and I wanted in on this real bad. So I snuck in to the opening and Sybil was dancing with someone so I tapped her on the shoulder and said, ‘You know, the music sucks. This is horrible. Do you now who I am, by the way?’

She says, ‘Yeah, aren’t you the dancer from the Peppermint Lounge?’

‘Yeah, my name’s Terry Noel. Jordan knows me.’

She didn’t even know Jordan at that stage, but she ended up marrying him. So I said, ‘I’ll knock your socks off. I’ll show you music. It’s not working right. I know what your concept is.’

At Arthur, they didn’t have any special lighting. They didn’t even have pin-spots then, just little white lights over the top of the stage. There were these little bars that came down from the ceiling, like track-lighting. They had these little bulbs: green, blue, yellow, blue. They didn’t blink or anything. It was black, except for smoke-tinted mirrors around the entire room, with banquettes going around and little tables with stools. Every drink came in a goblet, no matter what you got, which I thought was the coolest thing. Sybil took care of every detail. I was just very impressed with it. Then, of course, every celebrity in the world came. So she hired me on the spot and said, ‘You come in tomorrow at 9 o’clock.’ I said, ‘I’ll bring in records.’ I worked on the first night.

“  John Wayne asks me for Yellow Rose of Texas. I go – snap! – ‘Oh, it’s broken,’ and I threw it on the dancefloor. He goes, ‘You faggot!’ His toupee was falling off his head! ”

So you were a record collector already?

Oh yeah. All my life. I got records in storage downstairs: original Buddy Holly 45s, Ricky Nelson, everybody. I had tons of albums. Then I started knowing what I was doing and began blending the music and she just fell in love with it. And she said, ‘I love this this; it’s just what I always wanted.’ So I said, ‘I told you I could do it.’

What kind of stuff were you playing?

At that time soul was very big. WWRL, up in Harlem, was the big station and that’s where I would get most of my music from.

Any DJ from there that sticks in your mind?

Frankie Crocker. He’s been around a long time. WWRL was it. It’s been through loads of stages and now it’s back to what it was originally, playing stuff from the ’60s. I would start out slow, and then I would build the pace, and build the pace until it was totally frantic. Then I’d make everybody sit down and order a drink. Then start building again. The idea was, I felt, to make people buy drinks. Today you don’t have to do that, I don’t think. Then, you really did. I used to write down every song that I played. The time, the date, everything. There used to be a guy called Jerry Love, he was the biggest record distributor in the city. He’d bring me 20-30 records a week. Then I’d start going over to his warehouse: ‘What’s this?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’

‘Lemme try it.’

I’d just pull out all these records, any I wanted, and take them home in a cab and listen to every one of them. I’d only listen to them for a few seconds and, if it sounded really interesting I’d throw it on in the middle, then if it was really interesting, the end. I’d go through hundreds of albums and singles a week. Hundreds. Then Berry Gordy and Smokey Robinson would come in and bring metal discs. I’ve still got ‘Don’t Mess With Bill’.

One night Murray Drucker, one of the owners, had cut me off and said I couldn’t have any drinks. I said, ‘Bring me a drink.’

‘Murray cut you off, he says you’re drinking too much.’

So I say, ‘Oh, okay, no problem.’

So Murray comes in and the place is packed and there’s not one person dancing. Normally, he’d come in and the dancefloor’s mobbed. And he walks over and says, ‘What’s going on?’

I said, ‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s nobody dancing.’

‘Would you like to see some people dancing?’

‘Of course!’

I put up my glass of Coca Cola and said, ‘There’s nothing in the this glass of Coca Cola.’

‘Well, you’ve been drinking too much.’

‘So do you wanna see people dance?’ I took the needle, threw it, landed on the record and boom! It was Frank Sinatra. Because I knew the crowd that was in there would feel okay getting up there slow dancing to Frank Sinatra. Straight after that I went into the Mamas and Papas, then something else until it got hotter and hotter and these people who wouldn’t be caught dead on the dancefloor are now going wild. ‘Anything he wants! Anything he wants!’ says Murray

John Wayne used to come in and he asks me for ‘Yellow Rose of Texas’. I said, ‘Gee, I happen to have it.’ And the booth was not isolated like they are now; I was right on the floor, just one foot up. He’s standing there, slightly looking down and I go – snap! – ‘Oh, it’s broken,’ and I threw it on the dancefloor. He goes, ‘You faggot!’ His toupee was falling off his head! Sybil was sitting behind where he was, Judy Garland was sitting beside her and Lauren Bacall next to her. And they’re watching this whole scene and they go, ‘Teeerrrry!’ They loved it, because they hated him, you know.

Terry and a well-known mop-top beat combo (that’s him between John and Ringo).

What kind of equipment did you use?

Technics turntables. They were wonderful, except I kept breaking the rubber band on them. I didn’t like anything they had, really. For a mixer I had a dial for turntable one, and a dial for turntable two, and you’d just blend them in one from the other.

I thought that I wasn’t getting everything I wanted out of it. We had four major column speakers in the room. I said that we were getting vibrating noises when the bass gets up too high, so I said to [legendary production manager] Chip Monck, who became quite famous with Woodstock, ‘I wanna be able to get separate controls for each speaker, and separate bass and treble controls too. I wanna be able to swing the sound around so that – boom! when the full song comes in I put it through all the speakers with dynamic bass, and the hi-ends and lows.’ He did all that for me. He changed everything for me. Six months after I was there I realised that I couldn’t excite these people the way that I wanted to excite them. I wanna thrill. I want them to feel like they’ve never felt in their life before. I’d watch people’s heads on the dancefloor going, ‘Wow! What was that?’ It’s like those movie theatres today where you hear the gunshot behind you. It was the same with me. Except I was doing it in the ’60s.

What were you doing in terms of the mixing?

Sometimes I’d have to put the needle on the exact spot where I’d want it, and I used to have a felt mat instead of a rubber one, so that the turntable wouldn’t hold if I held the record. I knew what I was coming in with, and I knew what I was going out with. I didn’t wanna lose a beat. I didn’t want people to even know that the song changed. Many people would come up to me and say, ‘I was listening to the Mamas and Papas and now I’m listening to the Stones, and I didn’t even know.’ I used to try some of the wildest changes without losing a beat. I used to get people coming in who wouldn’t even dance, they’d just come in to listen to the songs. I wasn’t at Arthur the last year, the gangsters started coming there; they had a shooting, so I was like, ‘I can’t take this any more.’ And then I left and went to California for a year.

“  I’m good friends with Hendrix, we’d hang out – sometimes two days at a time. I mixed the Beatles with ‘Foxy Lady’. Jimi turned round, gave me the finger and walked out. ”

You came back to New York to play at Ondine. Tell me about it.

Bradley Pierce owned it. I told him about these bands: the Buffalo Springfield, the Jefferson Airplane and the Doors, because I was living with Jim Morrison out in California. I said, ‘You gotta bring them.’ Ondine was on 59th Street, underneath the 59th Street bridge. Little place again.

People like Andy [Warhol] started coming in; Jim started getting wilder and wilder. In LA he used to stand in the corner at the back of the stage and do the whole set there; he wouldn’t come out front. He was so shy. Then he got here and saw Andy and his superstars all whipping each other in black leather on the stage, and he started getting a bit loose. Then next thing you know he’s got black leather pants on; he’s into all this stuff. I said, ‘Jim, you’re going the wrong way. If you’re with him, you’re not with me. That’s it.’ The last time I heard from him, he and his manager came over to apologise to me and they rang my doorbell. I just said, ‘I don’t wanna talk to you.’

Prior to me being there, Jimi Hendrix was a busboy. He used to sit there and play his guitar with his teeth at Ondine and Bradley said, ‘I don’t know what to do with you. It’s like a freak act.’ Then we opened Salvation at 1 Sheridan Square and we get in touch with Jimi, and he’s a big star now and asked him if he wanted to play at the club, so he comes over. Ondine wasn’t about the records, it was about the bands, because we had all the greatest bands in there. I don’t remember a lot about it, for many reasons.

Was Arthur mainly drinking or were there drugs?

Oh yes there were. But it was very very subtle. There was nothing blatant anywhere; you’d never know anything was going on.

What kinds of drugs?

Amphetamine was the number one: crystal meth. Coke. And acid of course. I had my first trip at Arthur. We had these people, the teenyboppers, that they’d let in for free. The mob would be out there, but we’d let these in for free, and they’d get free Cokes just to dance on the floor and look gorgeous. They were all after me, because I was gorgeous then. And I’d say, ‘No, I’m not taking any drugs.’ I’d take maybe a toke on a joint once in a while, or something. Before I left, I gave in. When I went to California I met Owsley. Do you know him? Owsley acid. He invented the purest acid in the world. Well forget about it. I’d never take acid today. I haven’t taken it in 20 years because it’s not real, it’s all pumped up with things that make you hyper. If you ever had real acid you’d know

Anyway, Salvation was very about the records. That was when I went into three turntables. I was really into it. Soul. The Chambers Brothers’ ‘Time’ was the theme song to Salvation. I’d build up to that and everybody would know it was coming. I’d turn off all the lights and you’d hear – thud, thud, thud. We were so primitive then, we had this ball that had a light inside it and it shot out little rays of light and it actually had a string on it and I would pull it to make it rock across the dancefloor. ‘Time has come today…’ I’m doing lights, I’m pulling strings, I was like the Wizard of Oz. I had great lighting, I was in control of the whole thing.

This is a play. You’re directing a play. It’s very dramatic. It has to be dramatic, and no automatic programming is ever going be any use, because it’s different every night and every time you play the record. Prior to Salvation, there weren’t any lighting effects. Once I’d started to lose control of the lights, I couldn’t build the drama the way I wanted, where I’m going with this particular audience. That’s another thing: I don’t understand how these guys in their bullet-proof glass booths five floors above the dancefloor can ever comprehend what’s going on. You gotta feel the people.

I’d take my earphones off and I’m looking to see who’s there tonight. I know the crowd, I know the people who are coming in. Possibly it’s too intimate. Sometimes, of course, you’d hold out on them, because you knew what they’d want next. But you tease them. But some of these people… they don’t tease them. I used to say, ‘I know what you want and you’re not going to fucking have it!’ So sometimes I’d hold out for two or three songs, play some new ones, because I know they know that song is coming that they want. I’d slip in a new song and they’d be, ‘Whoah, yeah.’ The next night, they’d be asking for that song.

“  You’re directing a play. It has to be dramatic, and no automatic programming is ever going be any use, because it’s different every night and every time you play the record. ”

How did the three deck thing come about?

I got to the point where I would play two records at the same time. I’d mix them. You’d be hearing like ‘Foxy Lady’ by Hendrix, and you’d hear the lyrics from the Beatles. I went to Salvation II and I’m good friends with Hendrix and we’d hang out together, sometimes two days at a time. Jimi walked in one night and I did exactly that mix. He turned around, gave me the finger and walked out. I was part owner of this club and my partner Larry Buckner comes and says, ‘Terry, you’ve just chased Jimi Hendrix out of the club!’

‘Don’t worry he’ll be back.’

Around closing time he came back and we go back to my loft and hang out for a day. In fact, I called in that night, couldn’t come in, and we were up two days.

At Salvation, it was set up like an amphitheatre with seats going up and a sunken dancefloor and there were people who would just come in and sit there. A lot of them were on acid. And they’d just listen to my music. I didn’t know this at the time; I met people subsequently who told me this. I did care about what I did and I did have some mastermixes that were wonderful, but I usually tried to be incredibly creative so I wouldn’t do the same thing. So I’d try mixing this with that, bring that into there and slide another one on top of that with the third turntable. So you’ve got a beat going perfectly, and I’d throw a little riff or something from the other turntable. By that time I had controls for everything. I wished I was an octopus, I just didn’t have enough hands to do everything, along with working the lights.

So Magical Mystery Tour was coming out and we had a party at Salvation. The Beatles were flying over from England. I put out a flyer with ‘Terry Noel Invites People To A Surprise Party For Two’. I didn’t even know what the surprise was going to be. Sid Bernstein calls me and says, ‘I’ve got Magical Mystery Tour, the film, would you like to show it?’ I’m saved!

Jerry Love is there and he goes out the back and makes some acid punch. I start playing ‘Fool On The Hill’ and then bring down the lights and start the movie. Everyone just sits down. After the film, everyone just stands up like zombies and files out of the place like the Living Dead. Brad says, ‘Terry, it’s not even 2 o’clock.’

So I said, ‘The whole club took off, flew out into the universe, came back and landed. You gotta go home at that point. Everyone was exhausted.’

Next night everyone came in: ‘Wasn’t that unbelievable?!’ And everyone had had the same trip: been picked up by a flying saucer, flew out into the universe, circled around and came back down again.

Was Salvation open every night?

Yes.

So you’d DJ seven nights?

Yeah. Nine until four. I was getting beat. At this point, the clubs were starting to get like they are today. It started to change at that point. We were so exclusive. One night the doorman turned away Mick Jagger. He was so proud of it. He said he’d turned away Mick Jagger and Keith Richard. So I ran down the club, ran out into the street and said, ‘Mick Mick, you can come in the back door here with me. Come on.’

So he sits down; he’s steaming. Then he says, ‘Fuck this,’ and walked out. Towards the end of Salvation the Beatles came in and ‘Lady Madonna’ was out and Magical Mystery Tour. I was pissed with them because I felt they were just trying to do Sergeant Pepper over again. I went up to Paul, ‘What is this stuff? Come on give me a break! It’s like Sergeant Pepper II.’ They dragged me away because he was pissed. They were afraid that once I got on the turntables, I’d start talking to them. Because everyone was aware that I’d talk to you.

What stuff were you playing at Salvation?

Chambers Brothers, definitely soul music. Not a lot of rock. Mamas and Papas were long gone. I would never have used a Frank Sinatra record at Salvation, because it was a much hipper crowd.

I moved to Salvation II because Bradley thought I was getting too outrageous with what I was playing, and that I was getting too personal. He wanted straight music. So his bookkeeper came down there, got turned on to drugs and starts wearing a bandana and makes a deal with someone, and that’s when we opened Salvation II. The guys who had muscled in with Bradley down at Salvation, thought they were wiseguys, when they weren’t. They find them dead out in Queens, with the ritual bullet through both sides of the temple and one through the centre of the head. Insane. So Bradley immediately runs off becomes a priest. He’s still a priest, up in Connecticut.

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