Chelsea Hotel Manhattan: A Raw Eulogy To A New York Icon

Matz

END OF PUNK TIME

We started as a cell in a sea-like situation.

Now it’s a little smoky and hard to breathe and there are dead people everywhere.

In the city where once walked Gods there are no longer even people left alive.

Joey the old punk rocker had reached the end of time. His hair dye and longhair wigs were laid aside. It was time for Joey to go — against his will — into that bad night. The glory days of three night stands in Brazilian stadiums were other people’s memories now. His memories disappeared into the morphine sea that awaits us all. The stocky hospice nurse, a Nora McCarthy from Kerry, eyed Joey’s drug-loving best pal, wondering if he was the wretch who’d stolen that lifetime’s supply of morphine sulphate which went missing the week before things got this bad for poor Joey.

His onetime gallery-running mother and his in-bitter-awe of wealth and fame punk rock brother were gathered by his bedside. As the singer disappeared into his personal cancer coma the brother pressed Play on the shocking pink ghetto blaster. Music from the new U2 album .lled the hospital room air. Tubes and machines had all been put aside. It was time to go. Hey, ho, let’s go! There was no hope now, other than U2. And that was no hope at all.

Once he’d changed my life with his 7" street symphonies, and once he’d taken this sorry scheme of things entire and remoulded it closer to his heart’s desire. Once he had rejected the values of his older brother and his mother to forge his own. Ira Cohen told me on the streets of Manhattan that Joey was the surviving half of a pair of Siamese twins. I heard so many stories from his friends about how he was the intelligent one, the principled one, the one with the vision, the one with the art, that I convinced myself not just that this was true, but that I too was the intelligent, principled, one amongst my peers and the one with the art in my veins. Such is the power of repetition. And morphine sulphate.

EASY EVERYTHING AND EVERYTHING EASY

I am not on the side of my species.

I move through this world like one born under a fortunate sign though there is no evidence to support this fantasy. At least I hope my luck holds out.

It is 5am. Everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds. In a floating world I erode. I am floating desperately, watching a Sissy Spacek TV movie on the TV, when I decide to go look at the Empire State Building and to visit Easy Everything on Times Square to check my emails cheap. It is my first night in America.

The anti-ghost of Joni Mitchell arrives on time to greet me and welcome me to her universe. As I’m leaving the Chelsea Hotel, with a view to walking to Easy Everything, Joni is arriving back there in a limousine. We pass each other in the flapping glass doors. She looks like she did decades ago on the cover of Dogs Run Free, all Canadian collegiate intellect and California Blow Job Queen looseness.

Her long white fur coat rubbing up against my brown Armani effort. I’m impressed. She that has been with almost the entire lineup of CSN&Y.

Like Joni, I’ve lived my whole life in clouds at icy altitudes. And looking down on everything, I’ve crashed onto the ground. I head north, out from around the Chelsea Hotel, but I pause to stare in the window of a bad sneakers shop. I should have been here twenty years ago. Two black boys — poor and mutts — are looking at the bad sneakers — enthused about them. I think to myself that, man, I got better sneakers at home that I’d only wear if I was laboring or working on the farm.

It takes me no time to check my emails at Easy Everything. As the next monitor a fifteen year old black kid who must weigh about four hundred pounds is slumped over a ghetto blaster tuned into a pirate ragga station just now blending Batty Rider by Buju Banton with Ah Si J’Etais Riche by Big Boss & Winsome. Which is winsome OK. A French version of if I Were a Rich Man with, of all things, a ragga beat.

They’ll never make a go of this place. Junkies, male prostitutes, the homeless, the dirty, the hapless, the dispossessed, the strung out ones and worse, have returned to Times Square via Easy Everything. A Missy Elliot-fat dyke is chatting up young white suburban girls in New Jersey on her cellular. She is hollering like a pig, Yeah, sure honey. I can travel to Jersey. Then they discuss things they could do with their tongues and clits.

I get back to the Chelsea about 6.30am and I’m finally ready for sleep, jet lagged or not. The ghost of Herbert Huncke roams the corridors of the hotel. He is an old friend, come back to welcome me to the city he called home.

What do you suggest I do tomorrow? I ask Mr Huncke before sleep surrounds me.

Dammit, I suggest you go see Handy Dandy, a nice man, a reasonable saxophonist, and a fine heroin dealer whom I first met in Amsterdam in 1989 when he lived over a restaurant with this charming young girl called Yaniss. I was doing a series of readings across that part of Europe organised by a female psychopath who could have gone ten rounds with Sonny Liston. It was a particularly unpleasant experience I was having but Handy Dandy fixed me up just fine. Dandy lives south of Houston with his old girlfriend, Lady High, who used to be Chet Baker’s dealer in the late 50s. Then she was known as Sue Tyrer, under which name she had a couple of good supporting roles in movies starring the likes of Mitchum and Burt Lancaster. Yes indeed, Lady High was in with as good a chance as the best of them, but she let her addiction get the better of her, says America’s oldest living junkie, now deceased, chuckling.

SKANK IN BED WITH A FASHION BOY

Five hundred French have invaded the Chelsea Hotel. Now I know how the Algerians must have felt. Soon they’ll establish torture chambers on the third floor, install speakers in the corridors forcing us to listen to Francoise Hardy, and distribute free copies of the thoughts of Bernard-Henri Lévi in the lobby.

All I can hear is middle aged women in black suits saying Ah, oui. to one another like it’s going out of style. A nation of thieves, mediocrities, and psychopaths (not unlike the English — or the Irish — when you come to think about it). Not for nothing the French invented the words bourgeois and provincial. I hate Paris in the springtime, every moment of the year. I never go to Paris except to make money. Ergo I rarely find myself in Paris.

I meet a young black girl called Meredith who is handing out political flyers on the street in front of the hotel, so I bring her back to my room. Like the whole of New York under the age of thirty she has never been inside the Chelsea Hotel and would love to visit. I turn on the radio and we get undressed. They’re playing a tune can’t place which I can’t help but notice has been used as a sample by Revolting Cocks. It goes: This is out of the house, and out of the house music. I just love that elegant double flick of the feet with which women kick off their panties.

So… what do you like? I ask Meredith, a student political activist who was promoting a Zapatista movie and discussion due to take place four doors up from the Chelsea this very evening when I tempted her into my lair.

I like to skank in bed with a young fashion boy, she says, her parent’s Jamaican accents shining through her Upper East Side gloss and fancy use of the English language.

Oh, I say, taken aback, I’m afraid I may be a disappointment to you then. ‘ Two sons batter their father to death with a baseball bat on the radio. Where also there is a dramatization of Peyton Place. And when is it morally right to shoot somebody?

I feel like phoning in the answer: When it is morally right, of course.

DOWN IN DUBLIN

I was down in death, I was down in Dublin, I was down in the ground, I was going someplace only dead men go, a bleak black place only dead men know. I was down in the depths of the deepest sea, down where there was no you or me. I went down down down like Elvis Presley. I was down and out. I thought you’d rescue me?

NICO CHELSEA GIRL

[Nico: I made a mistake… I said to some interviewer that I didn’t like negroes. That’s all. They took it so personally… although it’s a whole different race… I mean, Bob Marley doesn’t resemble a negro, does he? He’s an archetype of a Jamaican… but with the features like white people. I don’t like the features. They’re so much like animals… it’s cannibals, no?]

I have this live album by Nico released on cassette-only format during her lifetime. On it she does Femme Fatale and at the end of the song, when all the nostalgia vultures are applauding in quiet relief the fact that she has finally played something they recognize, she says, ‘That song must be a hundred years old."

What I always liked the most about Nico was the fact that, in common with some other German women I’ve met, old or young, pretty or ugly, she had lots of vim or get up and go about her. Though it was tough being a woman in a band back then, though her life was difficult in general, I always saw her as brave. Her bravery is underlined by Iggy Pop’s comment that, even when he came across her in the 60s, she was already a slightly older woman struggling upstream to stay in the cool zone. She stayed that icon she wanted to be up to the very end.

Once I had a pal who booked in the bands at the university I went to. I helped him writing his election literature so my kickback — when he got elected to the job — was that he’d book in Nico to do a show for me. Five times he booked her in and five times she failed to show up. Never left her squat in Manchester or her squat in Brixton or she was ill or the van broke down or there was blood on the saddle or the portents were bad. Too much junkie business.

Eventually my pal gave up; he got me Bo Diddley instead. A very fair Velvets-style replacement, since Maureen Tucker and the drang of the Velvets are entirely Bo Diddley. Nico never crossed the Irish Sea but eventually she crossed the endless sea. (Bo, of course, showed up and played for ninety minutes plus an encore.)

By the time I moved to Brixton in the late 80s she’d stopped living there with John Cooper Clarke but people were still talking about her. An impoverished icon who’d come amongst her own people.

Iggy Pop: She was probably running away from something. That’s pretty possible. But she knew how to dress, and she was one cool chick… I came back to New York to do some gigs — we had progressed and we were starting to play more like we played on Fun House, a harder sound and a little time had gone by. I came to stay at the Chelsea. She was staying there, and she always had a cute man around — she had some new man, a French guy, and I was kind of like, Who is this French guy, anyway? What are you doing with some French guy? Let’s have a look at him. And I went to visit her in her room. I was really excited to see her, and she was sitting there, she had a harmonium. I’d never seen her play her harmonium, it was just a little thing, about three feet long and three and a half feet high, and she was playing on it, and she played this song Janitor of Lunacy, which is on one of her records, and she sang the words: Janitor of Lunacy, paralyze my infancy. Just like, you know, very good poetry, just kind of like hearing her doing that right there, complete, in the Chelsea, and that was the way it was gonna go on the record. I was very impressed with that… I saw her later, and we had our differences. I got stoned with her many years later on some heroin and it was not pleasant, she did not look well, and I did not react well. I wasn’t much of a gent about that and so there’s some regrets there.

REDONDO’S WHITE LIES TURN BLAGK

All your white lies are turning grey and pus-yellow real fast right here before my eyes. Proud flesh. I don’t mind Redondo telling me white lies. Indeed they protect me from insanity and like Lenny Bruce allegedly said, confessions of infidelity are often the most sophisticated form of sadism. Just that right now today Redondo’s white lies are turning black as sin right here before me like the heroin bubbling cancerously on her tinfoil.

Hey Redondo! Unbelievable beauty from an Idaho farm, now living on the Chelsea Hotel’s eighth floor while some rich guy pays your bills, do you want your boy to turn crazy and do you want to be the one putting the knife inside him and twisting it? Proud flesh. You’re fucking with the wrong nigger.

The Vandals took the handles

by

Thelma Blitz

It was weird to go back to the Chelsea Hotel after thirty- some years of not having been there and seeing the changes. For example dingy pale yellow halls and walls were painted white and clean. The No-Smoking Zone signs told me why even the ghosts like Jerry Ragni, co-author of the musical Hair that brought hippiedom to Broadway, Shirley Clarke, avant .lmmaker of The Cool World and The Connection which opened the world of the drug addict to the cinema, Harry Smith, experimental filmmaker, American folk music anthologist, producer of the Fugs First Album, magus and revered eccentric, as well as my friend Francis, poet, madman and beautiful loser par excellence, don’t want to hang out there any more. I recall all the fierce smoking that went on in the 60s and it wasn’t always tobacco.

That could be one factor that kept Leonard Cohen away from NYC; another is the possibility of terrorist attack imagined in First We Take Manhattan and The Future. It surely wasn’t the prices of the rooms which seem to have increased tenfold, keeping less financially successful artists out. Marianne Faithfull, an ex-druggie, was said not to want to stay at the Chelsea when performing in NYC because of its reputation for drugs, but stayed there anyway. The omnipresence of drugs that marked the old days seemed also gone.

Stanley Bard, manager, used to accept pieces of artwork as rent but I doubt if he still does though the amount of art in the lobby has increased exponentially as well as the rent.

Back in the 60s and 70s there were no Chelsea Hotel T-shirts, no web sites, no special rates for tourists or extra charges for Leonard’s Room. The Chelsea was always a landmark, a special realm, but it did not exploit its uniqueness. You could go to the Quixote, have some paella and a bottle of Marques de Riscal wine even if you were on welfare. You might see movie or rock stars like Warhol’s Viva, Lennon/Ono’s Virginia Lust, Jane Fonda, or Patti Smith, famous artists you admired. If you weren’t plagued by envy, you could talk to them. You might go to their rooms, smoke with them, and party with them. Maybe they would make connections for you, offer you their literary agent, a chance to see a famous producer with your script.

One of the most highly respected was gracious Leonard Cohen. People would whisper to each other when he was there, Leonard is in the hotel. When he came to a gathering like British magician Stanley Amos’ exhibition, Clothing is Art, or attended a soiree in Harry Smith’s room, it made the event even more special. When he would write a poem for one of the beauteous ladies of the court, she might go tearing across the lobby loudly proclaiming her immortality.

The Chelsea was like a big boho fraternity house. People used to say, Where to go after the Chelsea? There’.s nowhere. or There’s no life outside the Hotel. It was like a movie set. Consciousness was heightened. Life was lived en artiste. Magic was afoot. But now an enchanted poetic world seemed prosaic and ordinary.

I wish the people who go there now could have a more meaningful Chelsea Hotel experience but perhaps it can’t be courted or ordered up. You can’t go home again, said Thomas Wolfe who once occupied room 528.

THE NORWEGIAN PROBLEM

I’m invited to a dinner party on the sixth floor. My hosts are rich Texan art patrons and the guest of honour is a well known liberal Democrat Senator. We meet for drinks at 7.30.

The Senator and his wife are witty sophisticated impressive people – the Senator’s mother is expected. At 8.10 she phones in to say that she’s caught in traffic and that we should start without her. My hosts insist that they’ll wait, that they wouldn’t dream of starting without the Democratic matron who eventually shows up at 8.35. After apologies and assurances we take our places around a long mahogany table set for eight.

I left home at 7. Says the old lady, decked out in a black Dior suit. My driver was a Norwegian.

At the mention of this Norwegian there are sympathetic clucks and expressions of dismay and solidarity from several diners.

I had a Norwegian driver last week. says the Senator’s wife. I ended up twenty minutes late for my appointment.

There is a bemused debate about how nice Norwegians are but how fundamentally unreliable they can be. It takes me a while to work out that Norwegian is liberal politically correct code. They mean Nigger only they don’t want to use such an offensive term.

THE BUSINESS OF DIMITRIOS

Lydia Ambler — aka The Duchess — is a great lady, or so it seems to me. I find her friendly in bed, none too demanding, and she always smells sexy. I guess she must be about fifty two, based on what she says en passant and the old photographs on her wall.

My first boyfriend when I moved in here, she tells me over toast and cheese the morning after our first night, was the very sort of German you don’t ever want to meet. Not a blue eye, a blonde hair, or a wild idea in sight. Don’t ask me how Emil ended up in the Chelsea. Some sort of hapless accident or maybe it was just that rooms here were cheap then and he liked cheap. He sure liked cheap. He was a geographer of all things, here in town on some sort of exchange programme. Some New Yorker was stranded over in Freiburg or some such hellhole so this asshole could be holed up in Manhattan. Emil liked pizza — that was just about the only human thing about him. He used to pronounce it like Pete sez. So it’d be like Hey, why don’t vee order some pete sez? When he crawled like a snake back to Germany I took over his room.

She was gradually brought into the drug business by Rudolf Dimitrios, bastard son of a phoney Von from Germany and a Turkish whore who reared him well and educated him well using funds provided by his absent father. Shortly after meeting The Duchess he sniffed out the lie of the land at the Chelsea and moved in, only it wasn’t entirely to his taste. Either you like this type of thing or you don’t.

According to The Duchess, Dimitrios doesn’t have a bohemian bone in his body. He is just a content, pudgy, little Turkish man who likes making money like some guy with a corner shop likes it or some asshole with a painting and decorating business likes it, she says. "He was just getting established here in America himself at that time so the Chelsea suited him fine as a launching pad. Later he rented this damn palace out in New Jersey where he lived in great style with a supposed wife.

I first met Dimitrios in this cheap Polish cafe where I ate every evening in those days. I guess I was still on a sort of European circuit then. You know? When you move to a great city and you’re still hanging out with people from whatever provincial shithole you originated in. For me it was Porto in Portugal which, in all honesty, is not a bad place. I hadn’t a pot to piss in so I was staying with my older sister. She had a room about the size of the toilet here on Avenue C and she worked as a PA for the CEO of some aerospace scam. This was the time of Richard Nixon. I’m not too sure of the year but Nixon was in trouble and the talk of the town. The Polish cafe, I forget the name, Marek’s I think, was a great place for leftish Europeans and Jews, fairies and crims. Un-nice unacceptable in polite society people. I was as crooked as they come, even then, having studied art in Porto for two years. I guess you have bent written all over your face if you’re bent. And it takes one to know one. So Dimitrios saw me for what I was. By the time I’d moved in here with Emil I could navigate my way around town drug-wise and petty crime-wise. When Dimitrios heard I was living here he knew instinctively that I was where the action was.

By 1973, when the drug business was thriving, Dimitrios had his traditional gangster olive oil business going. (The Duchess gave me a bottle of Dimitrios Extra Virgin Gourmet Organic Zeitung Speciale, now popularly known as Zeitung Speciale for my salads. Available in each and every high ticket fag deli in Chelsea.) No one questioned old Dimitrios stranded out there in the suburban backwoods of New Jersey. Or The Duchess, principal buyer for Dimitrios Imports, who lived at the Chelsea but who commuted three days a week to her office, a small shack in the middle of a compound containing six larger shacks, somewhere in Hoboken.

Twice a year she goes on olive oil, almond, walnut, saffron, and drug purchasing trips to exotic climes where the living is easy because the money grows on trees.

The Duchess has been in the Chelsea for at least thirty years. Nobody — including The Duchess — is entirely certain about her date of arrival. There are lost years, my dear, she chuckles junk-gently, and there are found years. Her specialty is sizing up complete strangers with stunning accuracy. She can identify the most cunningly disguised narc by looking at him from across a crowded room. It is her business to· examine each punter who wants to do business with the Dimitrios organization and to decide whether or not he or she should be supplied. And how much they should be charged. She is exceptionally valuable to Dimitrios.

Her priceless partner in crime is Bill Conduit who came to Manhattan all the way from New Orleans. Bill is known around the Chelsea — by his fans — as The Converse Kid, because of his penchant for all-black Converse All Stars trainers. Something he shares with The Ramones, me, and early Elvis.

According to Bill, The Duchess says, the Converse company has gone bankrupt. He says they went in for too many fancy designs the last few years. He is stockpiling Converse trainers because he says that, when they get taken over, the stitching will never be as good again. He reckons the bankruptcy is considerably more tragic than both the break-up of The Ramones and the death of Joey put together.

The Converse Kid is said to be a good fellow, I’ve not seen a whole lot of him myself. Since his induction into the Dimitrios organization in ‘76 he has looked after the small timers, the most steady and lucrative aspect of the business. Bill Conduit’s family, The Duchess says, "were a syndicate of small men who took a small