A sequel-of-sorts to this post from 2009.
The last time I set foot in the Chelsea Hotel was back in March of 2010, when I attended a little get-together with a few friends. Prior to that, I hadn't been in the place for about a decade. Regardless, a very little while after that last visit there, the fabled NYC institution was closed, its tenants sent packing and the gutting began in earnest.
Since that sad event, the gradual transformation of the Chelsea Hotel from one of the last true bastions of storied New York bohemian character to an invariably exclusive and soulless funhouse for the privileged has been a source of much consternation for those with a reverence for the hotel's august history. You may remember, for example, a bit of an uproar last January when it was disclosed the none other than former Chesea tenant Patti Smith was slated for a private performance at the behest of the Hotel's new management (et tu, Patti?). In any case, if you're curious as the depressing progress of these unfortunate proceedings, you should really check out Ed Hamilton's blog, Living with Legends: Hotel Chelsea Blog. I'm actually reading Ed's book at the moment, "Legends of the Chelsea Hotel," wherein he documents his own experiences there as a resident.
Anyway, this afternoon, my little boy Oliver was invited a birthday party for one of his classmates over at Chelsea Piers. As such, we had to trek through Chelsea to get there, and I found myself walking down that fabled strip of West 23rd Street once more.
While I'd only been above the lobby of the Chelsea Hotel those fleeting handfuls of times, I used to spend more time in this neighborhood for a couple of other reasons. For a start, Midnight Records -- a great old record and disc shop that specialized in Nuggets-era garage punk and psychedelia -- used to hold court just across the way at 263 West 23rd, as did my friend Sara, who leased a cool little studio apartment at 225 West 23rd, immediately across the street from the hotel. By the way, don't bother looking for Midnight Records there now. They closed their door for good in 2004 because landlords are fucking scumbags (although you can still visit them online here).
Along with those spots, my friends and I used to hit La Nouvelle Justine, a slightly gimmicky S&M-themed bistro that was briefly perched just up the block from the hotel. It, too, is long, long gone, although I captured a shot of its signage circa 1998 here.
As Oliver and I walked down the block, I couldn't stop myself from reminiscing about all these things, and peering into windows and storefronts that now hosted new and different businesses. Whatever became of that great comic shop? And what about the guitar store? I was relieved to see that the El Quixote was still there.
When we passed the entrance to the hotel itself, I couldn't resist taking a picture, even if it's covered in scaffolding. While, yes, I am in awe of the Chelsea's sprawling list of notable past tenants -- from Brendan Behan through Dee Dee Ramone -- I cannot lie. Like many others, I didn't know a thing about the Chelsea Hotel until Sid Vicious inexorably wove himself into the hotel's history. As such, I posed my unwitting little son beneath the building's iconic plaque in homage to the back cover of the Sex Pistols' posthumous odds, sods & interview snippets collection, Some Product (see above). No future, indeed.
Passing deeper into Chelsea, the memories kept coming. In no time at all, Oliver and I were at the southwest corner of West 23rd Street and 8th Avenue. To the average joe on the street, the corner means nothing at all, but to the hapless rock geek like myself, this is hallowed ground. Whyzat? Well, because this is the precise location of the photograph Bob Gruen shot (originally taken for a fumetti for Creem magazine) of KISS that ended up gracing the cover of their third LP (and the first album I ever bought with my own money), Dressed to Kill. I made my own replication of this shot, you might remember, back on this photo quiz. Now it was Oliver's turn, obviously.
Lastly, we ended up snaking around to West 21st Street and walking past the the exterior of what had once been The Marquee, a strangely forgotten live music venue from the early 90's (that I've spoken about at great lengths here and here). After it was the Marquee, it became the a dance club called El Flamingo, if memory serves. Now it's an art gallery. In 1990, I nervously interviewed Henry Rollins before a gig where that big bag of garbage sitting on those concrete protrusions behind Oliver is.
I tried in vain to find an exterior shot of the place from back in its heyday, but came up empty (not that it was ever especially notable looking to begin with). I did, however, stumble across this collection of shots from a show there that I was actually at -- Pop Will Eat Itself in April of 1991.
Afterwards, we dutifully proceeded onto Oliver's party, wherein he happily ran around with his friends, whilst I discussed forgotten rock clubs with another dad.
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