Three years ago, in the midst of researching my book Talkin’ Greenwich Village: The Heady Rise and Slow Fall of America’s Bohemian Music Capital, I knew I had to talk to David Johansen. Not because Johansen — who died Feb. 28 at the age of 75 — was one of those folksingers associated with the neighborhood, but because his first major band, the New York Dolls, made its name and proudly trashy reputation at the Mercer Arts Center, a multi-tiered performance space in the Village.
In their original incarnation, the Dolls only lasted a few years, and Johansen went on to have a more varied career — as Buster Poindexter, as blues singer, as actor — than anyone could have imagined in the early Seventies. In the 2000s, he revived the band, along with guitarist Sylvain Sylvain (who died in 2021), for new records and shows. Johansen remained proud of the Dolls and their influence on a subsequent slew of punk bands. One afternoon in June 2002, he was happy to talk about them, their place in the downtown New York music scene, and the Mercer Arts Center (which itself didn’t last long after the building that housed it collapsed in 1973). Excerpts of our interview were included in my book, but here’s the bulk of our conversation
What was your musical life like before the Dolls?
When I was a kid, we’re talking the Fifties, my mother’s sister used to take me to this restaurant in Greenwich Village. It was this wild place to me. A loud and colorful restaurant. Waiters doing the limbo. I got a taste of the excitement that was available in the Village. Then I started going to MacDougal Street when they used to have these places that didn’t serve alcohol. Coffee concoctions, stuff like that. For teenagers.
I used to go to the Night Owl [a club on West Third Street]. I saw the Lovin’ Spoonful there. The Blues Magoos. Lothar and the Hand People. I was interested in having a band so I observed the mechanics of putting on a show. You needed amps and guitars. I used to go to the Café Au Go Go. I went to see Van Morrison there. I don’t recall any hassles to get in. I walked right into Van’s dressing room and had a conversation with him.
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One of your first bands played at the Café Wha?, one of the few clubs in the Village that still exists.
We’d drag our stuff in from Staten Island and go to the Wha? for afternoon shows, one band after another. That was with the Vagabond Missionaries. We did a couple of originals, but we’d also do “Boogaloo Down Broadway” by Fantastic Johnny C., songs like that. It was mostly Wilson Pickett-type stuff that was popular in those days, like “Mustang Sally.” We were not very good. But we made up for it in enthusiasm.
The band was just not moving along as I wanted them to move along. They weren’t committed to show business, you know what I mean? Sounds callous. But I was in this “nothing is gonna hold me down” era.
That scene was winding down anyway, at that point, at least for a while.
Whoever was working for the mayor came up with the idea; they instituted these draconian cabaret laws. I just read the other day that you can dance in a bar now. After 60 years, right?
Where were you living by then?
My first apartment was on 3rd Street. The Hells Angels block. Seven-floor walkup. $40 a month. The Dolls got together in the winter [of 1971-72] and we rehearsed at this bicycle shop on the Upper West Side. A guy who used to rent used bikes for people to go in the park. In the winter we had two amps and some drums in there. We made it like a rehearsal room and it was really cheap.
How did the Dolls’ androgynous wardrobe come about?
When we got together and met each other, that’s why we met; we all dressed like that. We’d see each other on St. Mark’s Place or whatever and think, “I wonder if that guy plays guitar.” So then eventually we did get together. We were all pretty much dressed like that. Maybe a bit more hippie. I fell in love with Janis Joplin. I was crazy about her. But we were New York hippie.
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You famously had a gold jumpsuit.
We had so many clothes. We used to rotate them and give them away to other people. It was constantly changing. Most of the people who came to the Mercer lived in the East or West Village and we were like the neighborhood band. We were representing, I guess. Wild styles of dress.
When we played the Café Au Go Go, I came in during the afternoon and was going down the stairs, with John [Johnny Thunders, Dolls guitarist]. This big guy jumped out from wherever and told me he was gonna kill me because apparently I impregnated him from the stage. Apparently I had been looking at him in such a way that he became pregnant. He had a pretty big knife. We were at the top of the stairs, street level. John pushed him down the stairs. And that was the last we saw of him.
How did the band’s music develop?
I had a couple of songs when I met the guys and we started woodshedding. I had a notebook with sketches and then I’d hear Johnny or Syl play a riff or something and I would start writing. Eventually we had a bunch of songs. With “Vietnamese Baby,” I was trying to learn how to write. I played very rudimentary guitar. Lyrically, that’s where my head was. I was thinking, “What a horror [the war was].”
What do you recall of the Mercer Arts Center, where the Dolls made their name and rep?
It was in this old Broadway Central Hotel, which had its entrance on Broadway. Somebody took this, I guess it was a grand ballroom and kind of redesigned it into a really modern kind of place. There was a cabaret room. There were two theaters, the Oscar Wilde Room, which was the smaller one, and the O’Casey.
I knew this guy from Max’s Kansas City named Eric Emerson. He used to play with this band called the Magic Tramps. He wore lederhosen. Gypsy rock & roll kind of music. He said, “I’m playing at this new place. Do you want to come and play before we play?” And I said yeah. We were just starting up and trying to get any gig we could get. We weren’t choosy about playing. Our first gig was in a welfare hotel. So this was a step up.
We went there and played and then this older guy came up to me and said, “Will you guys play again after this band plays?” It was just when we came off the stage. And I said, “Yeah, sure.” So we did that. And there was definitely a good reaction. People were dancing. It was like a party. Afterwards I went into his office and he said, “You boys are gonna be big!” He was very encouraging as he counted out the 30 dollars or whatever we got. He offered us our own weekly gig in the Oscar Wilde Room and we started playing there. Tuesdays at midnight.
We started doing that and the scene kind came about around us. There was a lot of people who were filmmakers and people into doing stuff. They could network with other like-minded people. So it was a very groovy scene. It had a dance floor and a bleachers kind of thing. You’d have to walk through the cabaret to get to the other rooms. They wanted to keep it going as many hours as they could so they could make their money.
What happened next?
Then we graduated to the O’Casey and started playing in there. The vibe with the audience was so good. We could really express ourselves. And also, you didn’t have to travel to get to the gig.
The subway went through the building. You could feel it, but not when we were playing. The subway could probably hear us. To a lot of people it probably sounded like a racket. But to other people, it was sublime. It’s all a matter of taste, I guess. We were just starting out and learning the craft.
Was there a big drug and alcohol scene at the Mercer?
If I had come in there like a babe in the woods, I probably would have noticed it, but I didn’t particularly notice it. It’s like when you’re in an ice cream parlor and there are a lot of people eating ice cream. People were into pot and acid. There wasn’t a big heroin scene there. People who do heroin don’t want to dance.
Bette Midler was around as well?
She had a thing with [Dolls drummer] Jerry Nolan. She probably came by to see him. Bowie showed up with his entourage. He came in in one of those Spiders from Mars getups.
What do you recall of making the first Dolls record with Todd Rundgren?
When we made the first record, nobody wanted to produce it because we had this reputation of being like banshees or something. Somebody said, ‘Well, Todd will produce it.” Todd was like that guy who would record people in the cotton fields. Lomax. He just recorded what it was. It was like folk art. It wasn’t made to fit into a marketplace. It is what it is. And if people like it, that’s cool.
But it’s not something you’re going in and thinking, “Oh, people are gonna like this.” If anything, it was unstressful knowing we were just gonna do what we do. We weren’t going to worry about having it be something else. We sound like we sound and we should the play the songs that are naturally coming out of us. And that’s what we did. Like a diary entry or something.
Legend has it that the Dolls trashed the dressing room at the Bottom Line, one of the Village’s major clubs, when they played there in 1974.
We were probably more trouble than we were worth for those guys. But I don’t think we trashed it. It was some kind of intramural brouhaha going on. Arthur [Kane, bassist] threw a seltzer bottle or something at me, at the back of my head. I ducked it and it smashed the mirror. I guess they call that “trashing.” They said we would never play there again. And I wound up being the person who played there the most! In my various guises.
