By Scott Ian
Download the article as seen in F&B Magazine
F&B: Hey Scott can you write a column about night life?
Me: Night life? Like vampires and werewolves and C.H.U.D.
(look it up) running around biting people? That kind of night life?
Hell yeah!
F&B: No, the going out to clubs kind of night life.
Me: Night bummer.
Does anybody actually go out any more? Didn’t going out go out of style around the same time as grunge bands and economic surplus? Didn’t Y2K kill going out? I guess I didn’t get the fax. I mean the eFax. Actually, I guess it depends on your definition of night life. Having lived in Los Angeles and NYC my whole life, I’ve certainly had my share of night life.
In the mid-to-late nineties in NYC I was out every night. Soho was my stomping ground, doing the Spy Bar to Wax crawl. You couldn’t keep up with me and my posse. This was my time baby, I owned the night! (I’ve always wanted to say that.). The late nineties were the salad days of NYC night life, at least in my experience. I was too young for Studio 54, and when I was old enough to go out I was way too “metal” to go to trendy spots or dance clubs. Dance clubs. Ugh. Let’s just say that dance clubs were never something I was interested in and will never be interested in. Look at me. Do I look like a dancer? How is that fun? Oh, sorry I forgot, I don’t do blow.
From 1995 – 1998 I was pretty much living in the East Village, 2nd Ave and 7th Street, right across from the Kiev (RIP) to be exact, with our lead singer at the time, John Bush. We both lived in LA, but because Anthrax was still based in New York at the time, we made the decision to spend most of our time in New York. We were in the city working on an Anthrax record and also working on our livers. To this day the Bukowskian excesses we were experiencing amaze me. If I tried that now I’d be really drunk. And then dead.
At that time in NYC the night life scene was just starting to change into the really swanky lounge type table/bottle service kind of places that are the norm today. We started going out to a place called Spy Bar which at the time was the mecca for celebrities, athletes, rock stars, artists and John and I. Remember, this is before Dubya, before 9/11, years before Bungalow 8 and the glut of clubs that opened in NYC, and years before Vegas became what it is today. It was the perfect time to be going out in NYC. It was the moment.
How did we end up there? They let us in. The doorman was a guy named Joe Gossett and he was a skater/metal head/Anthrax fan and he had the keys to the kingdom. Spy became our Camelot and we ruled it like King Arthur and his Knights. We were an odd bunch amongst the glitterati of the time. A crew of tattooed long haired (except me) head bangers whose expensive drinks were always on the house. On any given night we’d be drinking with the most eclectic characters; from Derek Jeter and Mariah Carey to Prince to Jerry Seinfeld (who told me he always thought Anthrax was the best name for a heavy metal band) to friggin’ Salman Rushdie. Yes, Salman Rushdie. Fresh on the Ayatollah’s hit list hanging out with us (???) at Spy Bar, telling us about how he stays under the radar. As I sat there with Salman I couldn’t help but think of how ironic it would be if I were to kill him and then the whole extremist Muslim world would have a Jew as a hero. Wha’dya want, I was drunk. Of course Spy was also a model corral and, to put it bluntly, it was like shooting fish in a barrel. ‘Nuff said. The typical night out was get to Spy around 12:30AM after a late dinner, hang there ‘til 3:30AM and then stumble around the corner to Wax which was where the real partying began. Wax was the anti-Spy bar in that it was smaller, darker, edgier and coke-ier. I swear they put coke in the air conditioning there because I never did it, but was somehow able to rage until dawn night after night on booze alone. That’s a mean trick.
Wax was the kind of place where you’d find yourself in the basement with some major film star and a pile of blow and you’d be wondering how the hell you got there. It was a bar that truly lived dangerously and it was a reflection of its owner Nur, who was the most hospitable and friendly host you’d ever meet, and at the same time was a notorious badass who could wipe the floor with the biggest bridge and tunnel knuckleheads. I saw Nur knock out quite a few jerk-offs that were getting too hands-on with women or rude with the waitresses. I even knocked a coke dealer out once there for insulting a lady friend at my table and then he told me he’d kill me. BANG! I socked him so quick he didn’t know what hit him. Wax had a way of bringing out the best in people! It was like the Gem Saloon from Deadwood and Nur was Al Swearengen. God I miss those nights!!
As those crazy days of 1995-96 passed into 1997, the scene changed and in late 1997 Joe started working the door at Moomba which, to this day, for me, was the best club/lounge/restaurant ever. Joe’s brother Jeff was a co-owner and from day one the place was like our own clubhouse. The vibe was much more chill with the restaurant downstairs and the private lounge up top. Once again, they cornered the market on NYC night life and I’d have to say from December 1997 until late 2000/early 2001, it was the center of the night life universe. It was capital A-list every night, plus us. We always had a table upstairs and were always taken care of. Those nights more often than not would end up with Joe calling one of the cooks to come in and cook us breakfast to help with the hangover. It really felt like it was our club that just happened to host Madonna, and The Stones, and Robert DeNiro, and Sean Penn, etc., etc.
In the summer of 2000 I met my fiancé, Pearl, and we spent a solid year going out six nights a week. We were back in LA at this point and our two spots were Daddy’s on Vine (which is now a soon to be W Hotel) and The Coronet on La Cienega - which is now Largo at The Coronet. The excess started to taper off as we were both in love and the happiness that that brought erased the need to be Bukowski every night. Gay, but true.
These days I know where all the wanna-be Moomba’s of 2009 are. But I’d rather go for a root canal than set foot in any of these pretenders to the throne. There are great places to go out, it’s just a different kind of go out. The Spotted Pig in NYC is the best example of where I would go now; great food, killer beers, affordable drinks, and a friendly atmosphere. And they let us stay late. Or I frequent any real dive bar in LA where locals drink, where the failure drips from the walls.
So yes, I’ve become a nose-in-the-air snob when it comes to nightlife who firmly believes it will never be as good as it was. Or am I just an old prick?!
So to all those ridiculous Vegas spots with thousands of disgusting coke-addled humans packing them like rats, or the young Hollywood hipster too-cool-for-school clubs filled with Lohan clones, or the depressing NYC spots that know they’ll never be what was, I’ll see you at Coach & Horses.
Cheers,
Scott
