During what I think I can still safely call an era of uncertainty, here in New York City, if not the world, it is not at all uncommon – Hell, it’s actually frequent -- to notice any number of age-old, revered businesses that have been operating for decades suddenly vacated, gutted and boarded-up. Whether because of spiraling rents, the rigors of the pandemic, the faltering economy or the changing sensibilities of a neighborhood, certain shops, restaurants, bars, bistros, outlets and/or local services that you’d pretty much expected to always be there will suddenly vanish. No business is safe. Nothing is sacred.
I can’t count the number of times during the last two or three years (to say nothing of the seventeen plus years I’ve been keeping this silly blog) that I’ve been blithely walking down the street, only to suddenly see a beloved neighborhood spot I’ve cherished for ages suddenly and without any warning …. not there. Sometimes it happens like a thief in the night, leaving no trace or explanation. Other times, there’s a weepy note.
This morning, I decided to take a more westerly approach to my office in TriBeCa, veeering off the main artery of West Broadway in favor of the side streets of the Village and SoHo. With my ears filled by the latest episode of Marc Maron’s WTF podcast, and my mind otherwise engaged by the impending duties of the day, I didn’t notice the change right away, but right as I was crossing the intersection of Thompson and Prince Streets in the heart of SoHo, I was stopped dead in my tracks by something.
This intersection has always been a favorite of mine. Up the street to the east just a few steps used to be Rocks in Your Head, a hugely important independent record shop for me which factored greatly in my development as a truly insufferable music snob. It’s long gone now, of course, replaced for a few years by a glum real estate agency and now a bakery that exclusively sells pastry shaped like genitalia. I’m not making that up. On the southeasterly corner of the intersection, meanwhile, was Milady’s – initially an unpretentious neighborhood bar with a pool table wherein I spent many a beery evening thoughout the late `80s and `90s. It vanished in 2014 and the space became a short succession of aspirationally upscale restaurants. More recently, however, it’s reverted back to Milady’s, but with a bit of a bespoke reboot. The jury’s still out on that, for me.
Sure, those spots are significant for me, but the thing that always struck me about the crossing of Thompson and Prince were the dueling delicatessens. With one perched on the southwest-facing corner mirrored by another anchored on the northeast-facing corner, I always marveled at how these two comparable ventures managed to peacefully co-exist in a perpetual state of neighborly détente, like two obstinate nations refusing to recognize the legitimacy of the other or like The Zax is Dr. Seuss’ “The Sneetches and Other Stories’ (look it up). I have vivid memories of myself and two friends stumbling out of Milady’s, one snowy night in the late `90’s, and one pal going to the south deli to buy smokes while the other went to the north deli to buy a sandwich. It was entirely nonsensical, but I loved that about it. It was SoHo … it was unconventional, like that.
But this morning … something was different.
Instead of the southwest corner deli --officially named H&H Kim -- bustling with its usual deliveries of flowers, crates of fresh fruit and cartons of dairy products or patrons popping in and out for cups of coffee and a newspaper, the door was shut and the windows were all papered up. My heart sank.
In the center of the door was taped the inevitable note.
The major difference with this story is that practically for the first time in my recollection, the parting missive is not one tinged with tragedy or regret. While I am saddened by the departure of this longtime business, at the very least, the tale has a happy ending.
Much as with love, it seems the things you really want only reveal themselves to you when you’re not actually searching for them. In this romantic fashion, another tantalizing morsel about the long-lost Blue Willow on Broadway at Bleecker Street recently dropped out of the sky, and I thought I’d share it here.
It’s usually at this point in the narrative that I point out how strenuously niche this particular concern is, and how I normally doubt anyone is as beguiled as I am by the subject. But upon posting that last entry about it, longtime friend/reader of the blog, Was Proxy, nicely wrote in to share that the Blue Willow had been the location of the first date he had with the woman who later became his wife. I’m taking that as a sign.
In any case, prompted by the recent release of the the 40th anniversary edition of If I Die, I Die by the Virgin Prunes (which I wrote about recently here … and yes, I bought it, making it the fucking fifth iteration I’ve actually bought of this album), I’d been trawling around on the internet looking for pics of the first time I ever saw Gavin Friday perform live, that being from within the iconic confines of CBGB in November of 1989. As long as we’re talking anniversaries, I should note that this past week was evidently the 49th anniversary of the opening of that fabled club. Don’t bother telling Gavin Friday that, though. My biggest takeaway from that evening, beyond it being a brilliant performance — his solo debut, was his remark from the stage about how underwhelmed he was by the stark reality that CBGB genuinely was just a grotty hole in the wall. What exactly had he been expecting?
Anyway, I didn’t take any pictures that night, mostly because I didn’t bring my big, bulky camera (which, as some of you’ll remember, in 1989, was still the only means of capturing photographs). I have very specific images in my head about the show, but have always hoped to find some photographic documentation of the gig. But I’ve always come up empty in that search….
…until today … kinda.
Simply by typing in “Gavin Friday” and “CBGB,” this morning, up popped a link on Google for a website called Concert Archives. While the entry for the gig in question is pretty threadbare, it did contain two images, ironically uploaded by a friend of mine — Greg Fasolino. More about him in a second.
Greg uploaded two sides of a postcard from Island Records that was mailed out in November of 1989 as a special invitation to the gig. Now, during this time, I was still a luckless intern at SPIN (as recently discussed here), and had not yet wormed my way into the good graces of various record-company publicists around town who’d put me on promotional lists like the one Greg was on. That would all come later, but at the time, I’d simply heard about the gig by word of mouth and paid at the door (with my friend Rob B.) for entry.
But the postcard is a puzzle, and I’ll explain why. Here’s the front…
…and here’s the back.
Two things struck me about this. First up, you’ll see that following that November 14th performance at CB’s, there was actually an afterparty just down the fucking street at, appropriately enough, the Blue Willow (which, if you’ve not caught up in your reading, thus far, was the location of the cover shot of Gavin’s debut solo album, Each Man Kills the Thing He Loves, Here that is again.
I didn’t know that, at the time, as I hadn’t gotten a special invitation postcard like Greg had. Moreover, I wouldn’t make the connection between the Blue Willow and Each Man Kills… (as first recounted in my debut post on the subject) until friggin’ 2013. Had I known, I’d have gone down to meet the great man and the significance of the venue would have dawned on me, but `twas not to be. If memory serves, after the show, Rob B. and I repaired to CB’s 313 Gallery next door for beers and I sprang for my first black CBGB shirt, which amazingly still fits today, although it’s currently buried in a drawer in my mom’s house out in Quogue.
But the puzzle is as follows: This postcard is advertising Gavin Friday’s first-ever performance at CBGB in November of 1989. Figuratively turn the card over to the picture side, and you see a shot of Gavin performing next to a cellist, appended with the legend: “Gavin Friday Onstage at CBGB. Photo by Paraic Finnegan.” Has anyone figured out the discrepancy, yet?
How can there be a picture of Gavin allegedly performing at CBGB on an invitation to what would have then been his first-ever performance at CBGB?
Before you recommend it, yes, I’ve started searching for more info on photographer Paraic Finnegan, although my hopes for success are not high.
There is, of course, the possibility that the two images Greg uploaded are NOTfrom the same postcard. * ADDENDUM: SCROLL DOWN
In later years, I would go onto interview Gavin Friday at the the home of his publicist, then on White Street in TriBeCa, and would go onto see him perform live at Sin-E on St. Marks Place, The Bottom Line on 4th Street and the Westbeth Theatre on Bank Street. As of late 2022, along with CBGB and CB’s 313 Gallery, all of those live-music venues are gone.
Gavin Friday went onto release a string of great solo albums and soundtracks and spent many years being creative consultant to his pals in U2. His most recent project involves writing music for a forthcoming documentary on volatile figurative painter, Francis Bacon. I’m looking forward to that.
As for Greg Fasolino, Greg and I walked very parallel paths. I think he might be a couple of years older than myself, but he was a regular face at many of the same gigs and same anglophilic record shops around town. He also worked for a while at a music magazine called Reflex, which was kind of the rival indie periodical to the one I latched onto while at SPIN, that being the New York Review of Records. Don’t bother looking for either mag today, but that’s a long saga in itself. In any case, Greg and I found each other again on social media, probably a decade ago or so, and have been friends ever since.
In terms of the Blue Willow, meanwhile, as mentioned on that previous post, the douchey menswear concern that previously occupied that lofty space vacated some time ago. The ground-floor space previously occupied by Atrium, KITH and probably several other ventures after The Blue Willow today remains dormant and papered up. But, in walking by that corner the other day, I noticed some rips in the paper and got out my phone, heartened to see that the stately marble trimming that Gavin Friday posed near all those years ago can still be seen…
I also found this. Should have a spare several million dollars lying around, why not treat yourself to a luxury apartment in the building in question (644 Broadway)... they're ....uhhh... quite nice, as you'll see.
More on Gavin Friday & the Blue Willow on Flaming Pablum:
*ADDENDUM: Shortly after publishing this post, I shared it on Facebook, where Greg Fasolino swiftly replied:
I can clarify all, my friend. The live image is not connected to the postcard at all. It’s a clip from a local NYC Irish-culture newspaper “The Irish Echo.” You can see me in the bottom right of image, watching Gavin perform while sitting at the front table at CBGB.
P.S. I also interned at Spin in 1986-87 and wrote for New (York) Review of Records as well circa 1993-95.
Here's the picture from The Irish Echo, and that is indeed Greg sitting in the very front. The question, then, remains -- what was on the front of the postcard? Funny you should ask. Greg shared that, too. It's the naked couple from the album cover:
Lastly, here is Greg's own interview with Gavin Friday for the aforementioned Reflex, recorded just two months prior to the gig at CBGB:
In recent weeks, the supermarket around our corner has seen something of a turnover in its staff of check-out cashiers. One new member of this team is a little lady named Consuela. This petite, elderly woman has checked my groceries out a few times, by this point, and now evidently feels entirely comfortable chatting with me, which I’m completely cool with. I’m pretty goddamn chatty myself.
A couple of weeks back, the wife and I had been planning on having some neighbors over for a few drinks, so I was dispatched to procure a few essentials. I hit the nearby liquor store first and got a bottle of white wine, then popped over to our supermarket, where I proceeded to grab a six-pack, some chips, some olives and maybe some cocktail napkins. With the wine bottle still tucked under my arm, I brought these items to the register where Consuela was waiting for me.
“Looks like you’re having a party,” she sighed as she was ringing me up. “Oh, just some of our neighbors,” I responded. She looked up at me expectantly as if to suggest that I might consider inviting her, too. “Oh, it’s not just you?” came her retort, augmented with a coquettish fluttering of her eyelashes. I laughed … not knowing quite what to do with that.
Last night, meanwhile, I was again back amidst the aisles of our supermarket, grabbing some makings for quesadillas (Oliver is perfecting his Mexican culinary skills) and, again, yet another six-pack of beer. As before, Consuela was waiting for me, doubtlessly ready to dispatch another surreal observation.
When she got to my beer -– a regular item of purchase for me – she asked to see my I.D. Having now bought an ill-considered quantity of the beverage in question from this establishment, I might have assumed that she could eschew this particular step of the process, but Consuela is either ardently bound to protocol or possibly just forgetful. Or just really fuckin' bored.
“I’m 55,” I said, handing my card to her, “but I’m truly flattered that you think I look so young.”
Handing my card back, she again looked up at me. “Well, your face looks like the face of someone in their forties, but this…” she exclaimed while waving an accusing finger at my midsection, “yes, …. this certainly tells me you’re into your fifties.”
“Wait, WHAT?” I was both highly amused and taken somewhat aback. I laughed, finding her blunt assessment almost kind of endearingly refreshing.
“I’m sorry,” she continued as she handed me my change, “I just have to tell the truth.”
• Best sandwich? I’m going to say a good bacon, egg & cheese on a roll.
• What's one thing you own that you really should throw out? Jeezus, where do I begin? I still have boxloads of cassettes I should probably part with.
• What is the scariest animal? I am still entirely captivated by the majesty of the Great White Shark. Hard to fathom anything credibly scarier than that.
• Apples or oranges? Well, I’m allergic to apples, so I’m going with oranges.
• Have you ever asked someone for their autograph? The last person whose autograph I asked for was probably Ace Frehley.
• What do you think happens when we die? As much as I love the notion of the cycle starting all over again, I’m sort of inclined to believe that nothing happens. We simply cease to exist.
• Favorite action movie? I’m tempted to cite films like “Apocalypse Now!” and/or “A Clockwork Orange,” but both of those are so much more than simply “action movies.” I’m going to go with “The Road Warrior.”
• Favorite smell? Slow-roasting fresh garlic in extra virgin olive oil.
• Least favorite smell? For whatever reason, I have a horrible reaction to the small of hyacinths (the flower).
• Exercise: worth it? Absolutely, although without becoming a fitness zealot.
• Flat or sparkling? I’m not fussed.
• Most used app on your phone? Probably Instagram.
• You get one song to listen to for the rest of your life: what is it? The notion of only being able to listen to one single song for the rest of one’s life seems like a slow boat to madness, regardless of whatever song it might be. But, ... how about ... "I Can't Give You Anything" by The Ramones.
• What number am I thinking of? I was told there’d be no math.
• Describe the rest of your life in 5 words? “Focused on what actually matters.”
The doorbell of our loft sounds unexpectedly and Peggy goes to answer it. It’s our then next-door neighbor Avner, holding a package. We love Avner. A big-hearted Israeli guy with an imposing height and physique to match his aforementioned heart, Avner is a tireless source of surreal wit and good cheer. We threw a party some weeks before this, and he came over to complain that we weren’t being loud enough, and then proceeded to commandeer the stereo, putting on a selection of disco classics which morph our CBGB vibe into more of a Paradise Garage aesthetic. We’re not quite sure what Avner's actual job is, but we know he pursues a fittingly bizarre sideline performing in a few West Village cabarets as “the Singing Cowboy,” …. which is extra strange, given his thick Hebrew accent. After standing silhouetted in our front door like a looming Darth Vader, Avner is welcomed into our home.
Avner proceeds to inform us that he’s taken a gig as a sort of ersatz door-to-door salesman, and asks if we will allow him to practice his pitch on us. No sooner are the words “of course” out of our mouths than Avner is busily unpacking his mystery parcel and laying out a series of strange implements and a thick coil of gnarled rope on our dining room table. His display complete, Avner launches into a clearly well-rehearsed, bright-eyed shpiel in his signature clipped English about the inarguable benefits of this new miracle product he is brandishing. Peggy and I are doing our very damnedest not to giggle as Avner delivers his detailed narrative. The product in question is a sort of wide, flat blade in a most unconventional shape, featuring a serrated edge and a curious grip. An ideal serving implement, this strange tool can act as both a versatile cutter and de facto spatula, perfect for slicing and dispensing pieces of cake, pie, lasagna and countless other dishes with ease and efficiency. By the same token, it’s also sturdy and rugged enough to cut seamlessly through the most resistant materials. With that he proceeds to demonstrate the blade’s prowess by butchering the aforementioned coil of rope into a series of bite-sized tidbits, fleetingly prompting my wife to offer them around as hors d’oeuvres. ”Rope, anyone?"
Following a few more compelling demonstrations of the blade’s myriad uses (including the fun bonus that it makes a weird little sound when you bend it against a hard surface), Avner wraps up his pitch and, figuratively, goes for the jugular. In short order, we glean that this is no practice shpiel but a genuine sales pitch, and we are expected to take the bait. Unable to resist Avner’s puckish enthusiasm, we oblige and ask how much he’s asking for the miracle knife.
“It’s a complete bargain at only $65.00”
Peg and I glance at each other, deflate slightly, and then succumb. We pony up an unthinkable 65 bucks for this single implement out of love and respect for our dear neighbor. Giddy with victory, Avner packs up his stuff and departs. We are 65 dollars poorer and now own a something that looks like the bastard child of a spork and a tool used by medieval dentists.
That was 1999.
It is now 2022, and we are STILL using Avner’s freaky knife. We no longer live in that loft, but the Avner knife came with us when we moved, and while we’ve never again used it to cut up rope, it has been employed in the preparation of countless meals and intricate dishes, from pizza to soufflé to homemade pies to every single birthday cake we’ve ever made for our children. Other kitchen curiosities have come and gone, but the Avner knife has become the only constant. I don’t even know how I’d function, let alone even begin to replace it, if it went missing.
I’ve mentioned the particular legacy of Sammy's Roumanian Steak House on the Lower East Side a few times here before, notably here, which I wrote upon the sad news of its closing in 2021. As detailed in that post, I first heard about the restaurant probably a good decade before I ever knowingly set foot in the place, and this was entirely thanks to its singular advertisement during virtually every broadcast of “Midnight Blue,” the fabled Manhattan cable-access porn program spearheaded by infamous “Screw” Magazine editor/publisher Al Goldstein that ran from the late `70s and into the mid-`90s, I believe. According to Wikipedia, it ran for almost 30 years, but can now be enjoyed on a DVD series with seven (!!!) volumes. `Cos y’know …. ya need that.
In any case, sandwiched between ads for escort services with names like “Tryst” and “Bel-Aire,” the dependably jaunty commercial for Sammy’s would routinely air on “Midnight Blue,” jarringly off-setting grainy vignettes of `70s-era porn with footage of hirsute patrons tucking into some frankly unappetizing-looking dishes, scored by what I can only imagine is some age-old Roumanian pop song as performed by the in-house entertainment at Sammy’s. If you were ever up late enough to watch “Midnight Blue” (which usually did not happen by accident), the likelihood of you viewing the commercial for Sammy’s Roumanian Steakhouse during proceedings was greater than the promise of a new day. I don’t know if it was Al Goldstein’s favorite restaurant (which is entirely plausible) or if they were just committed sponsors of the program, but the two ventures were inexorably linked by the partnership.
For YEARS, I’ve searched the `net for the Sammy’s commercial, but always came up empty.
… until today.
Fittingly slotted within a cavalcade of cable-access idiocy from the same era, I happened up the very commercial for Sammy’s I’ve spent the last few paragraphs discussing, and it instantly came rushing back to me. If memory serves, my grammar-school pal Robo (not his real name), who lived upstairs from me, at the time (he was on 12, I was on 7) and I once actually made up suitably prurient lyrics to the commercial’s background song, … which ought to give you a pretty firm indication of our loyal “Midnight Blue” viewing habits. I have a vivid memory of sleeping over at Robo’s apartment one night and us furtively staying up late into the evening, watching Channel J (the program’s notorious home) with the volume turned way down, so as not to wake Robo’s preternaturally oblivious parents. When the Sammy’s commercial came on, as if on cue, we both got up and started bopping around the room, applying our rude new lyrics (none of which I can remember now) and giggling like the little morons we were for the next hour and a half.
As mentioned in that earlier post, years later, I actually patronized Sammy’s a few times. On one notable occasion, David Lee Roth was dining at a nearby table. On another, specifically my friend Rob C’s bachelor party, our group somehow inspired our waitress (whose name was Meredith, if memory serves) to flip us a very emphatic bird on our way out the door. Ahhh…. good times.
Here in 2022, if you walk down Chrystie Street, you will not find Sammy’s Roumanian Steakhouse anymore. Covid-19 put a stop to that venture, even after they’d mounted an unthinkable refurbishment. “Midnight Blue” is no longer on Manhattan cable television. Al Goldstein passed away in 2013 from renal failure. My poor friend Robo, meanwhile, tragically passed away in the very late `90s in a car accident on his wedding night.
When I first moved into the neighborhood in the mid-`90s, the space in question was, if memory serves, a futon emporium. At some point well prior to that, it has something to do with the American Association of Lithographers (or something like that). It may have changed hands a few times after its iteration as the futon joint, but it more recently had became a sort of do-it-yourself Italian restaurant called Vapiano, where you could go from station to station and pick out your pasta, your protein, your sauce, etc. That was novel, for a little while, but the bloom was off the rose after in pretty short order, I'm afraid to say.
I’m talking, of course, about the southeast corner of East 13th Street at University Place. Right now, the space in question seems only a breath away from opening as a garishly decorated P.F. Chang’s, a celebrated chain of Chinese restaurants that started in Arizona, of all places. As part of its impending unveiling, the restaurant appears to be about to reveal a large sculpture perched on the steps of its northernly facing entrance, as captured below by none other than the great J.G. “Foetus” Thirlwell (I respectfully swiped it from his Istagram, … and I have to say that I love the notion of Foetus walking around my neighborhood taking pictures).
It’s looking like the wrapping might come off of this sculpture any day now.
But when it does, I cannot help but think that the mammoth sculpture underneath will probably become an absolute magnet for graffiti before its first week is even done. Don’t get me wrong – I’m a huge fan of street art (and am churlishly known to have stuck up more than a few stickers in my day), but I fear the worst for this mighty steed. Shouldn’t they move him inside? Is it too late for that? Shouldn't they have considered that?
I’ve written long, lengthy, heartstring-plucking entries about both The Upper Crust (most recently here) and St Marks Place (find that here) before, so please avail yourselves to those weepy epistles if you are feeling so inclined. Suffice to say, both are gone, here in 2022.
Earlier this week, I found myself back on St. Marks Place for a reason I can no longer remember. Not unlike certain other byways such as, say, Ludlow Street on the Lower East Side, West 8th Street in Greenwich Village, 21st Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues and/or the westerly regions of Spring Street in SoHo, St Marks Place is a street I have very strong associations with. Like whole nations of other people, for me, this gateway to the East Village used to be a veritable bazaar of cool, bohemian insouciance. Of course, that sounds like a fanciful pastry full-o’-crap today, but it genuinely was this super-cool destination, peppered with so many concerns that exuded its overall punky aesthetic. It was the epicenter, for a long while, of pretty much everything I was looking for from a comparatively underground pop culture that wanted nothing to do what the jocks and the preps and the beautiful kids cared about way north of 14th Street, however ridiculously clichéd that may now sound.
Here in 2022, once again, that St. Marks Place is long, long gone. Between the demolition on its northwesterly corner (still slated to host a sun-blotting corporate tower of some variety) and the proliferation of shoddily assembled and poorly maintained dining sheds, St. Marks Place is in both literal and figurative disrepair. Obviously, this problem isn’t relegated solely to St. Marks (take a stroll south on Thompson Street, some morning, and you’ll encounter a similar situation that affronts the senses), but St. Marks now seems bereft of any of its former character and relative luster. With the possible exception of concerns like Search & Destroy and maybe Funkytown, there’s nothing left for the punks among you, here. All the record and disc shops like Sounds, Mondo Kims, Venus, Free Being and Rockit Scientist are all long, long gone. Ventures that once defined the strip like DoJo and the Grassroots Tavern are similarly missing in action. St. Marks Comics moved to Industry City in Brooklyn, and Trash & Vaudeville moved deeper into the East Village. So much of what made St. Marks Place cool … or even inviting, for me … is gone. It’s a graveyard.
While waiting to hear back from a mercurial vendor, this morning, I was killing time on YouTube and stumbled upon the video below of the Upper Crust in 1998, gracing the stage of Coney Island High, a storied-albeit-comparatively-short-lived live-music venue that used to be smack dab in the middle St. Marks between Third and Second Avenues. Formerly the site that hosted the GREENDOORNYC parties (as mentioned here), the site was acquired by local punk hero Jesse Malin (more about him here and here). I was actually at this show, but Coney Island High was a frequent stop of mine, at the time. Other bands I saw on that diminutive stage include The Damned, The Dickies, Barkmarket, The Dandy Warhols, The Prissteens, DGeneration, The Dictators and Firewater, to name a small few. It was an amazing space that was closed roughly a year after this was recorded by then-Mayor Rudolph Giuliani in his war on New York City nightlife … as if anyone needed another reason to hate that fuckin’ guy.
In any case, here’s a brief taste of what it was like…..enjoy.
As mentioned within the body of the text, my recent entry about Robert Chambers, Jennifer Levin and Dorrian's Red Hand caused me a little bit of concern that I might get a bit of pushback. To this day, 36 years after the fact, the "Preppy Murder" story is one many people would quite prefer not be invoked, discussed or even alluded to in passing. This is not to suggest that Robert Chambers still has his, for lack of a better term, "supporters" (I sincerely hope he doesn't), but that the whole chapter saddled Dorrian's and its literal generations of loyal patrons with a bit of a tenaciously damning reputation. In much the same way the former concierge and staff of the Chelsea Hotel wished people would stop bringing up Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen in tandem with their business, I'm quite sure the familial proprietors of Dorrian's Red Hand quickly soured on the notoriety that came with the bar's seemingly inexorable association with Robert Chambers.
I suggested in the --- good lord -- eleventh, needlessly windy paragraph that Ryan's Daughter, a bar I greatly preferred over Dorrian's, was down the street on East 84th between 1st and 2nd Avenues. This is not at all the case. Dorrian's remains on East 84th Street, while Ryan's Daughter is on East 85th Street, goddammit. Given the amount of time I spent there, back in the day, I should really have remembered that accurately. I realize this is a minor point, but wrong is wrong, and I strive for better.
Being that I haven't lived in the neighborhood in question in 26 years, I cannot say I've stopped in recently, but I am happy to report that Ryan's Daughter is still in business. Their old, vinyl-45 jukebox (which was regularly maintained and updated by a fabulous lady behind the bar with great, punky taste whose name now escapes me) was long-replaced by a more modern machine, but the interior and overall vibe is otherwise unchanged.
Those with a keen eye for detail might still find there a framed cutting from an age-old and long-vanished freebie newspaper called New York Perspectives wherein the bar is rightly praised for being a hidden Yorkville gem and not to bring a "carload of idiots" with you when you come by for a drink. I wrote that one.
It feels strange to discern that despite my blog being topically preoccupied with my youth in New York City, in the 16 plus years I’ve been writing Flaming Pablum, I have only mentioned the fabled Dorrian’s Red Hand in a single instance, and then only in passing.
What makes that strange is that for someone growing up on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, the neighborhood I called home from my birth in 1967 to my departure for the greener pastures downtown in 1996, Dorrian’s was this hugely significant locale, for a lot of folks.
By way of quick explanation, for those who may not be familiar with the establishment in question, Dorrian’s Red Hand (I’ve never been quite sure what the full name was about, but something from hoary Celtic lore, I’m assuming) has been a neighborhood Irish bar perched on the southeast corner of East 84th Street and Second Avenue (directly across the street from former comic-book stronghold, Supersnipe, for all my fellow nerds out there) since 1960. During the height of the `80s, of course, Dorrian’s developed a pronounced reputation for its permissive door policy, making it an absolutely crucial destination for, shall we say, aspiring drinkers of smaller-than-necessarily-legal years. For whatever reason, Dorrian’s rather brazenly got away with serving under-age patrons on the regular, and made a presumably lucrative business doing so.
The odd thing about that, though, was that it was largely perceived as being basically “perfectly okay” by both a nation of (probably equally drinky) UES parents and, evidently, the local constabulary. I don’t ever remember the bar getting busted for what was basically their bread-&-butter business (that being the hawking of booze to minors), but I guess the pervading sentiment was “better at Dorrian’s than somewhere else” (as if Dorrian’s was, like, your kindly grandmother’s basement rec room or something).
That, of course, would all change in the wake of one humid August night in 1986.
I’m referring, obviously, to the notorious “Preppy Murder” case wherein one Robert Chambers left Dorrian’s with one Jennifer Levin. From Dorrian’s, the pair adjourned into the sepulchral darkness of Central Park. At 6:15 the following morning, Levin’s half-naked corpse was found by a tree near the back of the Metropolitan Museum. Chambers was arrested and shortly charged with strangling her during what he continues to allege was a bout of “rough sex.” In pursuit of a bargain, Chambers pled guilty to first-degree manslaughter, for which he was sentenced a five-to-15 year term.
Following the media frenzy that was that strenuously salacious trial, the Levin family understandably went after Dorrian’s, alleging that the bar overserved Chambers that evening, a claim which Dorrian’s later settled out of court. In due course, Chambers went to prison, Levin went to the cemetery and Dorrian’s, more or less, went back to business as usual … well, following a brief loss of their liquor license and some dodgy tax trouble.
The ramifications of the “Preppy Murder” rippled out across the city’s nightlife, and certain businesses all around town that once turned blind eyes were suddenly cracking down and asking for IDs. Many ventures actually closed. I’m thinking specifically about Danceteria on West 21st Street, a club that was known for its similarly permissive stance, although I’ve heard rumors that … there was another reason, but that’s a post for another day.
In the ensuing three decades since that fateful night, Chambers served out his full, 15-year term -– albeit with numerous disciplinary infractions -– and was released in 2003, only to hopscotch in and out of prison for myriad drug offenses over the next several years. As of today, he’s currently incarcerated at the Shawangunk Correctional Facility upstate. He could get out as soon as 2024, but I wouldn’t bet any large sums that he’d be out for long.
Meanwhile, I’ve never really been able to reconcile how Dorrian’s managed to soldier on, following the toxic PR fallout from the “Preppy Murder” case, but somehow, it bounced back. It’s still open and considered a venerable neighborhood institution to this day. I cannot attest to the current scene being in any way comparable to the way it was back in the `80s, but I’ve heard tell that, at the very least, the surface-level trappings are more or less all still there. The awning’s still red. The tablecloths are still the same red-checkered pattern. The jukebox is also evidently still filled with `80s favorites, which is odd, considering that one might have assumed the bar would like to move on from the associations of that era. In the `90s, I actually interviewed their door-minder Kerry for an article I was penning for New York Perspectives about great Upper East Side jukeboxes, although can't remember what I said about it.
For the longest time, I avoided talking about Dorrian’s Red Hand because, well, it was just never my scene. I mean, I certainly did darken its doors on several occasions, as did countless people from both my grammar and high schools, but never felt particularly comfortable doing so (especially when I was still officially underage). More to the point, though, while I grew up on the Upper East Side and attended the same schools as the regulars at Dorrian’s, I didn’t really share an affinity for that crowd and its accompanying trappings and priorities. I harbored no desire to be perceived as a prep in any capacity. My former brother-in-law once memorably described my sartorial aesthetic as having one foot in Brooks Brothers and the other in CBGB, an uncomfortably incongruous amalgam of styles that found no safe haven in ventures like Dorrian’s Red Hand. The fact that I was also an awkward, pointedly self-conscious geek certainly didn’t help matters.
In the latter half of my high school years, I lived only a couple of blocks away from Dorrian’s, but, of an evening, was usually more likely to be found skulking about on the edifice of the Metropolitan Museum (as detailed here) or tucked discreetly just inside the entry way to Central Park on the southwest corner of 79th & Fifth Avenue, furtively sipping contraband beers in the company of certain comrades next to a boombox playing favorites by Rush, AC/DC and Iron Maiden (we referred to this spot as “Klub 79”). By the time I was actively and legally going to bars, my UES/Yorkville watering holes of choice were either The Gaf on East 85th (long gone) and Ryan’s Daughter on East 84th, just steps off First Avenue. Ryan’s Daughter had a vastly superior jukebox and the diminished likelihood of abject douchebaggery you were likelyguaranteed to encounter up the block at Dorrian’s. Also, by this point, I was way more than likely to be headed to points downtown than spending time in the (to my mind, at the time) cripplingly staid environs of the Upper East Side.
But, there’s another reason I’ve been disinclined to delve too deeply into the story of Dorrian’s, Robert Chambers and Jennifer Levin, and that’s because I used to know Robert Chambers.
As fleetingly alluded in a few posts, over the years, “Robert C.” and I both attended St. David’s on East 89th street. Whenever this is invoked “in real life,” I am usually very quick to point out that “when I knew him,” we were both children, presumably prior to his gradual transformation into a thieving, drug-fueled and murderous sociopath. Robert was in the grade ahead of me, but unlike most of the other boys in his class, never lorded that over we underclassmen or treated us like a dick. As an irretrievably hapless nerd, I certainly knew more than my fair share of bullies, but Robert was never one of them. I don’t mean to sugarcoat anything or condone his actions later in life, but when we were schoolmates, Robert was a perfectly good kid. He even saved my friend Spike and I from being robbed and beaten up (as recounted on this ancient post). Sorry if that doesn’t jibe with the popular narrative, but there it is.
But my reasons for never really discussing it here before have less to do with being concerned about besmirching Robert Chambers’ name (I’d suggest he’s already done a fine job of that himself), and more about how the community from which all these figures sprang still seems to feel about it. Perhaps I’ve been entirely projecting, all these years, but I get the sense that a whole lot of folks would rather this story just not be discussed any further. Granted, it’s a dark, ugly chapter that has been irretrievably sensationalized, but one gets the pervasive vibe that that’s not the reason. It still hits home very deeply for a lot of people on a level I’m not entirely sure I can empathize with, and I don’t know that I’ll ever reconcile that.
Incidentally, while the case predictably inspired a host of horrible made-for-tv movies, the “Preppy Murder” case also went onto inspire several musicians. Along with prompting songs by Hole and The Killers (two bands I have zero fascination for), it also manifested as the topic of the song “Eliminator Jr.” on Sonic Youth’s Daydream Nation. Here’s them playing that now, not that you’d necessarily be able to tell it’s about that…
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