Any worries that the night would be an earnest snooze were assuaged when Chi-Chi Valenti climbed up on stage to raffle off an eighth of blow. Funny, indeed, but I spied Ad-Rock and his lady friend, former Bikini Kill singer Kathleen Hannah, rushing around with an entourage and went to work. I was curious to know what the old, dustsmoking, Brooklyn-born hellraiser thought of Bloomberg New York.The Beastie leaned forward thoughtfully, gestured languorously with his forearm and laid some props on the administration, “I’m not mad at Bloomberg, I like the way he whines, even when its happy time he whines.”
I bumped into tall, bald Dominic, a movie star’s son and long-time punk fixture. He was running around frantically with sticks. The dude’s not a drummer, or even a musician. “Hey, man have you seen Adam?” I asked him if he meant Adam Green, who was the headliner.
“Nah, Horowitz, I have something for him.” We caught up with Ad’s roadie for a second and then went outside for a smoke. A guy with long, curly brown hair and Ray-Bans came strutting up the street.Who’s that? “Oh, it’s Mick Rock, real cool dude.” I said he looked like Richard Hell. The court photog of glam wheeled around and joked in a thick London accent, “I must look bloody awful then.”
A bit later, as he was schooling me on the unholy trinity of Iggy, Lou and Bowie, Mick got distracted. Debbie Harry, in high pink pumps and a pink skirt, was standing next to us.“Wow, she’s still a goddess,” he gushed slack-jawed while twirling his skinny tweed scarf.
Mick kissed her hand and she blushed. She told us about her beloved cat and dog dying adding in a sad whisper, “They’re all crapping out on me.” After she was out of earshot, Mick mentioned their long friendship and gave a sigh, “She probably thinks I’m stark staring bonkers.”
As Debbie crooned onstage, I hit up pouty lipped, Gina Gershon—dressed head to toe in black—as she was introducing herself to the glowering throwbacks of Bloody Social. She was quick to make a connection between the night’s two themes for me. She pursed her plump lips and smiled, “Rockers are all animals.” Then nodding towards the scraggly, longhaired bassist, “especially him.”
I bumped into tall, bald Dominic, a movie star’s son and long-time punk fixture. He was running around frantically with sticks. The dude’s not a drummer, or even a musician. “Hey, man have you seen Adam?” I asked him if he meant Adam Green, who was the headliner.
“Nah, Horowitz, I have something for him.” We caught up with Ad’s roadie for a second and then went outside for a smoke. A guy with long, curly brown hair and Ray-Bans came strutting up the street.Who’s that? “Oh, it’s Mick Rock, real cool dude.” I said he looked like Richard Hell. The court photog of glam wheeled around and joked in a thick London accent, “I must look bloody awful then.”
A bit later, as he was schooling me on the unholy trinity of Iggy, Lou and Bowie, Mick got distracted. Debbie Harry, in high pink pumps and a pink skirt, was standing next to us.“Wow, she’s still a goddess,” he gushed slack-jawed while twirling his skinny tweed scarf.
Mick kissed her hand and she blushed. She told us about her beloved cat and dog dying adding in a sad whisper, “They’re all crapping out on me.” After she was out of earshot, Mick mentioned their long friendship and gave a sigh, “She probably thinks I’m stark staring bonkers.”
As Debbie crooned onstage, I hit up pouty lipped, Gina Gershon—dressed head to toe in black—as she was introducing herself to the glowering throwbacks of Bloody Social. She was quick to make a connection between the night’s two themes for me. She pursed her plump lips and smiled, “Rockers are all animals.” Then nodding towards the scraggly, longhaired bassist, “especially him.”
