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(Click image to enlarge.), Photograph, left page: by Fred W. Photographs, right page: 2001 Odyssey, from Phototeque; Peppermint Lounge, from A. In no time at all Rubell had positioned himself as the Napoleon of Nightlife., Rubell had to see. Most of the big discos were above midtown, or in the West Village. No media coverage of punks walking about in kicker boots, sporting Astor Place barbershop haircuts. He hotfooted it down quite early on to the Mudd Club, which ushered in the Silver Age of punk Downtown. The sexual revolution that’s already jelled into nostalgia for an , a monarchy of monogamy.

P./Wide World; Studio 54, by Allan Tannenbaum/Sygma; Jail, by Joe De Maria/New York Post; Mudd Club, by Roxanne Lowit; Area and Palladium, by Richard Pandiscio; Outlaw parties, by Patrick Mc Mullan. So Ho was still thought of as an extension of industrial Chinatown. It’s tempting, too, to see Steve Rubell as hyperactively there through all of them. (Rubell did spend a good part of this age behind the silver bars of a minimum-security prison for tax evasion at Studio. ) His Palladium was the premier club of the Bronze Age, trying a bit unsuccessfully to filter the golden and silver hues of the past into a winning fusion of Uptown and Downtown. The fascination with “after hours,” and with characters every bit as shady as Dutch Schultz, the thirties gangster taken up by a smart social set. The real-estate market that’s rapidly become too tight to allow for much surreal estate.

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The club Rubell wandered into was everything Studio wasn’t, or, more exactly, wasn’t everything Studio was. Music blared from a record player resting on a bar covered with pilots’ charts, the rock ’n’ roll LPs changed by a sullen bartender. Yet, Rubell now says, “When I walked in, I thought, This guy’s got it.” It was the Mudd Club. And now, with rumors of a supper club opening in the fall in one of his recently purchased hotels, he’s intimately involved in the Dim Age. The extinction of disco bunnies and punks, and the stocking of clubs with yuppies—they’re the ones who dance around their briefcases at Networking parties at Palladium.

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The names listed under the clubs are those of “impresarios”—the owners, hosts, consultants, or managers who were the club’s moving forces.

Sometimes an impresario starts out as something else, and the small symbol near his/her name says what that is. A world-class club set in a renovated theater on West Fifty-fourth Street. They tampered with their biological clocks as if there were no tomorrow. Just three years earlier, one of the owners, Steve Rubell, a short, charismatic, extroverted boy-from-Brooklyn, had been busy running the Enchanted Garden, a disco next to a golf course in Douglaston, Queens.

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