Dear Mr. Loud...You Made Me Love You.

Out of the blue today, Lance Loud popped into my head.  Actually, it's not such a rare occurrence or a lengthy journey, as he lives in my heart.

For the uninitiated, Alanson Russell Loud was born a navy brat on June 26, 1951.  He led a very unremarkable childhood until his innate fabulousness simply wouldn't have it anymore.  At age 14 he became obsessed with the Warhol factory scene and promptly struck up a pen pal relationship with Andy.  His further adolescent hijinks included taking some friends in the family car to check out the Haight-Ashbury happening and hitchhiking to Altamont to see The Stones.

Things clicked into warp-speed with the airing of the 1973 PBS documentary "An American Family" which chronicled Lance and his family.   By episode 2, Lance had moved across the country into the Chelsea Hotel in NYC, came out to his mother and the nation, and introduced us to his new friends and neighbors, drag queens and (Warhol) Superstars.  Lance became and remained famous simply for being himself.  He was a frontman for the punk band The Mumps and he was a writer (and a damn good one) and columnist for publications such as:  Circus, Interview, American Film, Details, Vanity Fair and The Advocate.

 When he and I met, we exchanged phone numbers and he put his usual signature in my address book:

 Just weeks after 9/11, at age 50, Lance died in a hospice from complications associated with Hep C, AIDS, and meth addiction.  And in January of 2003, PBS aired it's final installment of the Loud documentaries, "Lance Loud: A Death In The American Family".  I sobbed through it, fell asleep, had amazingly beautiful dreams, woke up the next morning and wrote the following to him:

I watched the PBS thing last night.  Today I just can’t stay in the present.  My mind keeps tumbling back to that few week period… 

Attending my umpteenth 12noon A.A. meeting, seeing you around the last few days, small smiles, head nods.  We finally introduced ourselves.  Lance, you said.  We chatted for maybe five-ten minutes.  Much wit.  Immediate appreciation of each other, the way two quick minds do.  See you here tomorrow we said.  The next day we exchanged phone numbers. (When exactly was this, Lance.  I want to say that it was springtime of ’94, because it seems to me that you mentioned being in your early forties.  This surprised me ‘cause physically you looked either twenty-five or thirty-two, depending on angle and lighting, and you had the spirit of an eleven year old.)   So now, in addition to seeing each other every day at the meeting, we began phoning each other and having long yak sessions.  You seemed startled (maybe wary) that I had gotten sober at twenty-two.  You had eight years of life on me and I had twelve years of sobriety on you.  I just thought it made us even-steven.  One day you asked if I’d like to come over, and thus unfolds the centerpiece of my memory.  You were living with your mom on Fountain Avenue and when I got there you were waiting outside.  We sat on a low concrete retaining wall and one of the cats rubbed a weaver’s pattern around and between us while we talked and smoked.  After about a half an hour you said (and here comes the eleven year old part), You wanna see my room?  We went in the kitchen door and you introduced me to your mom (so pretty, so tired).  Then we walked into the living room of this very typical, very modest Hollywood bungalow with very un-typical and un-modest signed Warhol’s on the walls.  At the far end of the living room you opened the door of a coat closet and with a flourish pushed the coats across the rail to reveal another door on the back wall of the closet, which you opened, and we entered your bedroom. You see, contrary to what the world thinks, I still live in the closet, you said.  This delighted and killed me almost as much as it did you.  We sat on the bed and talked for a while and you said you had some stuff for me.  You gave me a copy of the Dusty In Memphis album, and a pair of groovy, thrift shop plaid 70’s pants that you said were too small for you.  (The world was still a few years from being equipped to handle a full on 70’s revival, but you and me were quite ready.)  The ritual of giving belongings as a means of forging a friendship was a game I hadn’t played since junior high and I was suddenly sorry that I didn’t have anything for you.  How long were we there, an hour?  Forever?  I had abandoned all sense of the outside and allowed myself to be utterly swallowed into this scene: talking and giggling on the bed in your, through-the-closet room.  Lance, it was one of the few times in my life, before or since, that I was supremely in the moment.  So much so, that it was completely all right when you leaned forward and kissed me.  Now, technically speaking, as kisses go, it wasn’t that great. We were both nervous and shaking, we weren’t sure weather to use tongues or not (we didn’t), and we weren’t clear about appropriate duration (too short).  But when we were done, you gave me a sly little smile like we were really getting away with something or maybe (probably) you had just accomplished the whole point of inviting me over.  And I smiled back, because; well because it was just all so lovely.  I mean here we were, two men, early forties and mid thirties, having a very adolescent first (and last) kiss.  After a few minutes, we went back to the kitchen and sat with your mom who gave me coffee and a piece of homemade lemon pie.  Amazing pie.  It was then that reality finally broke the dam and came rushing in cause I thought, Jesus Christ, I’m sitting in Pat Loud’s kitchen having homemade pie and coffee.  This isn’t a Tuesday afternoon; this is performance art.  I thanked your mom, we hugged awkwardly and I split.  The next day, another meeting and another yak session.  It was maybe a couple of weeks after that that you went away from meetings, put down my phone number, and went back to speed.  I never got to see you again.  I used to wonder if I should have done something different or something more but I don’t think so anymore.  No matter how much I wish I could’ve kept you around forever, it was your journey, not mine.  You know honey, we both had that magnetic Pied Piper kind of vibe for other people, but not with each other.  You couldn’t follow me and I wouldn’t follow you.  But it doesn’t change my memory, or my gratitude, of the one perfect day that we just sat still. 

Waiter, A Round Of Confetti For Everyone!

As a fellow Washintonian, I feel honor-bound to lead a chorus of "Happy Birthday" to the one, and certainly the only, Miss Mr. Rip Taylor.

Rip Taylor (born 1934)

Charles Elmer Taylor was born in the Nation's Capital, and hard as it is to imagine, was a Senate Page in his teens.  King of game shows and the talk show circuit in the 70's and 80's his outrageous trademarks of confetti throwing and toupee yanking developed over the course of his career.

I personally have memories of him in the late 70's flouncing into Mr. Henry's in Georgetown, always at happy hour, and over the course of the following 90 minutes or so doing an impromptu act; wandering from table to table and all along the bar, 'reading' the patrons.  It was always a sort of frightening treat as you laughed and awaited your turn to come under the ax.


Below you can see Rip get wiggy with it at about 1:45.

The Prince Of Wails

Today we celebrate the birth and life and talent of Johnnie Ray.  The singer, and professional perspirer (you'll see), was rendered deaf in one ear at age 13 in his native Oregon.  This only served to make his robust, swinging delivery all the louder. 

He scored a two sided hit single in 1952 with the record "Cry" b/w "The Little White Cloud That Cried".

 

A string of further hits in the next five years pretty much concluded his super stardom in the US though he maintained a more loyal fan base there after in England.

Despite a brief marriage (1952-54) he was arrested twice for soliciting sex from men (1951 and 1959).

He also underwent surgery for his hearing in 1958 that just about killed the rest of his hearing and required him to use hearing aids in both ears for the rest of his life.

If hearing loss and a slight case of homosexuality weren't enough, there was also the problem of drink.  Suffering from hepatitis and, later, cirrhosis, his  liver finally failed killing him in  1990.



Our friend Mr. Ray also has the distinction of being the Best Man at Judy Garland's last wedding to Mickey Deans.  Not at all surprising because as you all know:  Everything Leads Back To Judy Garland.

Rather Lazy Of Me.

The following is actually a comment that I left on Muscato's site some time back, and through the magic of cut and paste: Viola! A new posting.


Having come out at the ripe old age of 17, I was a nightly habituate of The Lost & Found. (Washington, DC's premiere superdisco!) Everytime Donna Summer would release a new record, posters would go up around the club about a month in advance announcing that at the stroke of midnight on said date, our beloved DJ would drop the needle so be sure not to miss out on being the first to hear Miss Donna's latest revelatory effort. The minute those posters went up, the work began: new outfits were procured, haircuts purchased, groups of friends assembled, decisions about where to have dinner on the special evening. Girl, we was plannin'!! (Mind you, all this for a few ounces of black vinyl sandwiched between two pieces of cardboard) Excitement would be built on the night in question as we showed our fabulous selves off to each other over dinner. We would be sufficiently fed and subsequently likkered up. At the 'L&F' the DJ would devote almost two hours to spinning an incredible set whipping us to near frenzy level and then at 11:59:30 the lights would begin to dim, the music begin to fade so that by 11:59:45 we would be in silent darkness where we would be left for the next interminable 15 seconds. During that time we would all turn and face the DJ booth like Mecca and gaze up at the glass, popper bottles at the ready, and wait. There would be a silent timpani roll deep inside each of us and just when we thought we couldn't take it anymore, he'd drop the needle. Our shrieks, screams and whoops were that of Donna's newborn being welcomed into the world and, honey, we'd DANCE!!!

The next morning, with hangovers that should have been in the Smithsonian under glass, we'd rush to the record store to buy our own copy of the musical heaven that we'd hear nightly for the next year until the next one came out.

And that, children, was part of what it was like to be gay in the 1970's!

These Three Kings - A Christmas Carl. Part 3

Today we celebrate Carl Van Vechten, June 17, 1880 – December 21, 1964, on the anniversary of his passing.

TITLE #3- QUEER!!

Though, in all fairness, I suppose one would have to say bisexual. He was married twice. For 5 years beginning in 1907, he was the husband of Anna Snyder, a childhood friend from Cedar Rapids. Then in 1914 he wed Russian born actress Fania Marinoff. They remained married for 50 years until his death. But a glance at the "self portrait" below, will tell you he wasn't the butchest thing on the planet!

Through all my research there is almost nothing that elaborates on the matter. Most sources simply say, "though married, an open homosexual." or "his personal papers were locked for 25 years following his death but when opened, letters and scrapbooks were found dealing with the matter". I did manage to find out, however, that he sat on the panel of judges for the gala drag balls hosted by the Savoy Ballroom. Now there's a fun job!

But really, the only research needed is ones eyes. When you look at the pictures, no matter their subject (authors, actors, dancers, or boys at the Harlem Public Swimming Pool) It's all there in black and white. And color.

Marlon Brando

Boy at pool

Dancer

Dancer

Dancer

Dancer

Dancer

Truman Capote

So today on my official Carl Van Vechten Day we say Thanks! Now go put on a Bessie Smith record and mix up a pitcher of Sidecars!

These Three Kings - A Christmas Carl. Part 2

Today we celebrate Carl Van Vechten, June 17, 1880 – December 21, 1964, on the anniversary of his passing.

His next title is actually a three parter.

TITLE #2 - Photographer. Photo-Documentarian of the
International Modernist Crowd.
Champion of The Harlem Renaissance and it's Members.

After the death of his brother left him an inheritance of roughly six million dollars, he bought his first Leica 35mm camera in 1932. Chinese American actress (and Goddess) Anna May Wong was his first official sitting on April 20th of that year.

A small sampling of names that he would eventually shoot are: Judith Anderson, James Baldwin, Tallulah Bankhead, Jane Bowles, Marlon Brando, Erskine Caldwell, Truman Capote, Marc Chagall, Salvador Dali, Ruby Dee, Ella Fitzgerald, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Lynn Fontaine, Billie Holiday, Horst P. Horst, Mahalia Jackson, Frida Kalo, Sydney Lumet, Alfred Lunt, Norman Mailer, Somerset Maugham, Henry Miller, Georgia O'Keeffe, Lawrence Olivier, Diego Rivera, Cesar Romero, Beverly Sills, Gertrude Stein, James Stewart, Alfred Stieglitz, Bessie Smith, Gore Vidal and Orson Welles.

Billie Holiday and Mister

Harry Belafonte

Jane Bowles

Lady Day

Orson Welles

By 1924 Van Vechten became immersed in the Harlem Renaissance and in Harlem itself. Some of the members of this electric time of creativity were, novelist and NAACP co-founder James Weldon Johnson, nightclub propietrix Bricktop, novelist Zora Neale Hurston, and poets Countee Cullen and Langston Hughes. He interceded with Knopf on behalf of the latter so that the groundbreaking collection of Hughes's verse, The Weary Blues, appeared in print in 1926.

Beginning in 1925, he wrote a series of articles in Vanity Fair on blues singers like Bessie Smith and invested in a staging of African American spirituals performed by Paul Robeson.

At the very height of his career as an author he invited controversy with the release of his novel, "Nigger Heaven". The shocking (then as now) title had many critics from both races. The phrase nigger heaven had two meanings. Firstly, it was Harlem's nickname by it's own residents, and it was also the term used for the theater balconies where blacks were made to sit, even in their own neighborhood. But for all the detractors, there were equal in numbers of supporters. In an essay in the Dictionary of Literary Biography, Bruce Kellner termed the novel "a deliberate attempt to educate Van Vechten's already large white reading public, the novel presents Harlem as a complex society fractured and united by individual and social groups of diverse interests, talents, and values." James Weldon Johnson stated in his review for Opportunity that Van Vechten "pays colored people the rare tribute of writing about them as people rather than puppets."

Zora Neale Hurston

The Weary Blues bookjacket

Bricktop

Smalls nightclub

Club Rendezvous

The Apollo Theater

Harlem Catholic Church

The Big Apple

Van Vechten's *sensitivity* to the arts and artists, both black and white was not merely intellectual.....

...Which will bring us to ...PART 3.

These Three Kings - A Christmas Carl. Part 1

Well it's really one monarch with three different titles.
Today we celebrate

Carl Van Vechten, June 17, 1880 – December 21, 1964,
on the anniversary of his passing.

TITLE #1 - The Author.

In my cradle days (seventeen to be exact) I one day ventured into the Lambda Rising bookstore. It was then in a row house on S st., NW just east of Connecticut Ave. in our nations capital. About five minutes into my browsing, a paperback caught my eye. It was on the bottom shelf as the books were displayed in alphabetical order by author. It was called "Parties" by Carl Van Vechten.

I picked it up really for the cover art. It made me happy. Reading the back cover it seemed to have something to do with New York in the twenties. Well I had always kinda felt that I had been born in the wrong era, and the twenties seemed to be interesting enough from what I had heard: speakeasies, bathtub gin, flappers and what not. This might just be fun to read. Then I looked at the publishing date, 1930! Holly cow, a book about the twenties, written in the twenties. Sign me up! So to the sales counter I went. One copy of Parties and a free copy of the "Washington Blade" and off I went.

I loved that book. I devoured that book! And it began for me, not a constant and avid, but a never abated fascination with Mr. Van Vechten. Since that long ago day in 1977 I've only managed to read one other of his books (The Tattooed Countess) but the fascination in the man, and my research on him, has mined riches.

About "Parties": It concerns a group of beautiful rich young do-nothings each with their own fabulous art deco penthouse. Their lives being spent on a succession of days that go something like this: Four pm, wake up as the butler brings in a bed tray of sidecars. At six-ish or so, it's off to a favorite speakeasy. Around ten, to some glorious home for a dinner party. One am, head to a jazz spot in Harlem. Sometime after dawn, home to pass out. Then rinse and repeat.
And it's floridly descriptive of fashions, of Harlem, of cocaine use and of bisexual and interracial affairs. In short - it's dreamy. He started writing the book days after the '29 crash and it is, in fact, about the death of the roaring twenties. How funny it is that I should find the book in the late '70's (the gay community's equivalent of the Roaring Twenties.)

Van Vechten started off as a journalist, critic, reviewer and social commentator. He was born in Cedar Rapids, Iowa and went to college in Chicago. In 1906 he moved to New York and was hired as the Assistant Music Editor for the New York Times. He was at the Times for the next several years eventually becoming the first American critic of modern dance. Collections of his essays and articles were published through the late teens and finally Knopf Publishing put out seven of his novels between 1922 and 1930, ending with Parties.

By 1930 his career as an author was basically over. So what did he do with the remaining 34 years of his life, you may wonder.

Well, that's a story that takes us to.......
...Part 2!