The Interview

THE INTERVIEW

RANDY GUN INTERVIEWED BY DAVID EBONY 


The second half of the 1970s in New York was a heady, vibrant, and creative time. In 1975, U.S. President Gerald Ford famously—or infamously—told New York City to “Drop dead.” Instead, the city came to hyper-energetic life because rents were cheap, and imaginative young people from all over the world could afford to live in New York and fulfill their dreams, whatever they may be. Creative types encouraged each other to be multifaceted individuals—visual artists, musicians, writers, and performers—with few limitations or expectations, except to be as innovative and rebellious as possible. 


There were avant-garde art and music venues to frequent—The Kitchen, CBGB, and the Mudd Club, among them. Fresh out of college, I co-founded a pop-punk rock band, The Erasers, with musicians, Susan Springfield, Jane Fire, Jody Beach and Richie Lure; at the same time, I ran a short-lived, experimental art space, David Ebony Gallery, encouraged by my artist friend Diego Cortez. Such diverse endeavors were not unusual. And in the 1970s, no respectable enterprise aimed for financial gain. The Erasers performed for peanuts in local clubs showcasing promising young musicians like the power-pop rock band The Necessaries, featuring guitarist Randy Gun, and drummer Jesse Chamberlain, who became friends and favorite colleagues. 


In the late 1970s, graffiti art hit the streets, as rap music hit the clubs. A whole new crop of budding talents entered the scene, including Jean-Michel Basquiat. Those who knew him commended his brilliance and dynamic energy as a rising star. I met him only once, sort of, in the early 1980s, at an art gallery event, introduced by mutual friends, writer Duncan Smith, and artist Nancy Brooks Brody. Jean-Michel came into the gallery carrying a boombox, and the intensity of his presence was clear. Upon our introduction, however, he could hardly muster a “hello,” and instead aimed to impress Nancy, Duncan, and several others present with some raucous music blasting from the boombox. I later realized that it was likely “Beat Bop,” the 1983 hip-hop single by artists Rammellzee and K-Rob, which Basquiat had produced. 


A few years later, Randy Gun had a number of quieter and more intimate encounters with Basquiat. His 1986 gift to Randy—a sequence of drawings in a book of cocktail recipes—has provided a welcome occasion for me to speak with him about those bad old days, with all the good times, and about a talented friend whose life was cut short by drugs. 

quotesArtboard 1 copy 2

The city was lawless. The city couldn't afford sanitation workers or a fully manned police force. You could get away with anything.

The city was lawless. The city couldn't afford sanitation workers or a fully manned police force. You could get away with anything.

Randy Gun Mudd College of Deviant Behavior ID

David Ebony (DE): Where did you first meet Jean-Michel Basquiat? 



Randy Gun (RG): He was just around; I’d see him on the streets, in the clubs and bars. You know I’m kind of shy and withdrawn, and so was he. I remember him hanging around shows as I played with Peter Gordon’s Love of Life Orchestra. In those days [the late 1970s], he would offer me pot at the Kitchen. Jean-Michel was hanging near the backstage area. There was a lot of time to kill at those shows--there was always all sorts of equipment problems and delays. Nothing was predictable. Sometimes it was hard to get through those evenings without the help of drugs and alcohol. 

This was a completely different NYC than is evident now. Rock shows in clubs like CB’s would continue through 3 am. You wouldn't even think of going out of your apartment door before midnight. Everything ran late, if you wanted to see a show with a starting time of 11pm you could expect the band to hit the stage at 12 am. It seemed like nobody had a job and they most likely did not. The city was lawless. The city couldn't afford sanitation workers or a fully manned police force. You could get away with anything. Graffiti adorned building walls with the help of Jean-Michel and wheat pasted band posters were slathered on light poles and any available surface. A television station posed the question every night, “Do you know where your children are?” The Son of Sam roamed the streets executing young lovers necking in their cars. 

David Ebony (DE): Where did you first meet Jean-Michel Basquiat? 

Randy Gun (RG): He was just around; I’d see him on the streets, in the clubs and bars. You know I’m kind of shy and withdrawn, and so was he. I remember him hanging around  shows as I played with Peter Gordon’s  Love of Life Orchestra. In those days [the late 1970s], he would offer me pot at the Kitchen. Jean-Michel was hanging near the backstage area. There was a lot of time to kill at those shows--there was always all sorts of equipment problems and delays. Nothing was predictable. Sometimes it was hard to get through those evenings without the help of drugs and alcohol.
This was a completely different NYC than is evident now. Rock shows in clubs like CB’s would continue  through 3 am. You wouldn't even think of going out of your apartment door before midnight. Everything ran late, if you wanted to see a show with a starting time of 11pm you could expect the band to hit the stage at 12 am. It seemed like nobody had a job and they most likely did not. The city was lawless. The city couldn't afford sanitation workers or a fully manned police force. You could get away with anything. Graffiti adorned building walls with the help of Jean-Michel and wheat pasted band posters were slathered on light poles and any available surface. A television station posed the question  every night, “Do you know where your children are?” The Son of Sam roamed the streets executing young lovers necking in their cars. Garbage strikes left piles of  garbage piled up to your tits; the telephone service in Manhattan from 14th to Canal was lost after a fire at NY Telephone’s 13th Street exchange service was nonexistent for a month. You had to leave a note on a friend's mail slot to stay in touch and make appointments. There were no cell phones, beepers, no AIDS, and newspapers published a Bulldog edition that hit the streets at 11pm. Rent was less than 100 bucks and if you played a good game you never paid it.

Danger lurked, good luck calling the cops. It was truly the city that never slept.

Garbage strikes left piles of garbage piled up to your tits; the telephone service in Manhattan from 14th to Canal was lost after a fire at NY Telephone’s 13th Street exchange service was nonexistent for a month. You had to leave a note on a friend's mail slot to stay in touch and make appointments. There were no cell phones, beepers, no AIDS, and newspapers published a Bulldog edition that hit the streets at 11pm. Rent was less than 100 bucks and if you played a good game you never paid it.

Danger lurked, good luck calling the cops. It was truly the city that never slept.


DE: What would you talk about?

 

RG: He knew I really didn’t like talking, and I knew he didn’t like it either. So, he recognized that we were kind of kindred souls. This was early on, when Jean-Michel was doing graffiti, SAMO©, He wasn’t yet producing the art that we know and he became famous for. He was just pretty much hanging out at that point, smoking pot and doing SAMO©. It was very early. 


DE: What were you doing at the time? 


RG: At that point I was in The Necessaries, and also the Love of Life Orchestra, and anything else that someone would call me up about. I loved going on the road.

 

DE: How did you reconnect later—when you were bartending at the Great Jones Cafe? That was in the mid-1980s? 


RG: Yeah, I began bartending there not long after Great Jones Cafe opened, about 1984. Sometime before that, probably in the early ’80s, I remember standing with Jean-Michel on the street one night while we watched a building burn--near the corner of 4th Street and Lafayette. He remembered me from the early days, from the music scene. We both were fascinated by the flames shooting from the building. It was a flamer not a smoker, flames were shooting up from the building, a prize for dudes who like to watch fires. 

Continued below, left.

quotesArtboard 1 copy 2

This was a personal gift given to me by Jean-Michael. It was precious to me and still is. It was remarkable.

“You know what, Jean-Michel, you don’t have to live this way.” There were people we knew mutually who stopped using.” His response was,  “Well that works for them, but not for me.”

Perhaps he was afraid he would lose his gift of creativity if he got sober?

Basquiat’s importance and significance continues to grow with each passing day.

At the time I was bartending at Great Jones Cafe, in the mid-’80s, Jean-Michel was living across the street, in the building that Andy Warhol owned. By that time, he was an art star. When he would hang out at the bar, he would take the same seat at the bar every time. Right above his head where he sat was the original Cassius Clay vs. Sonny Liston poster from 1964. Maybe that’s where they got the idea for the Basquiat and Warhol poster — with them wearing boxing gloves?  [to promote their 1985 exhibition of collaborative works at Tony Shafrazi Gallery in New York.] 


DE: So he was a regular at the bar? 


RG: He came in when we weren’t really open yet. I would be setting up between 3 and 4 [pm]. If anyone else tried to come in, I would ask them to come by a little later. But when Jean-Michel came by, I’d let him in. At 4 pm, the place would open, and by then he’d be out of there. He’d come by just during that setup time. Maybe he’d go back later, I wouldn’t know, since I worked only until 9 o’clock in those days. But as far as I know, he’d come by only when I was setting up, and there was nobody else in the place.     


DE: Was he trying to avoid the regular crowd? 


RG: At setup time, he’d have his own private bartender - me - and would be undisturbed. If he wanted to talk, we’d talk; if he didn’t want to talk, we wouldn’t talk. He knew he could have his privacy there, because I wasn’t going to bother him.  He wasn’t a pain in the ass, back then I thought everyone was a pain in the ass. I surely wouldn't have let him in during this meditative early prep time before opening, if he had been annoying...


DE: What would he drink? Do you remember what he ordered?


RG: Oh yeah, I remember. He would have a margarita, straight up. I don’t think he ever wanted salt on the rim. I always wanted to serve him better liquor than the house brands, and I’d ask him, “Do you want Cuervo, or a special mix or brand, not just triple sec and the bar tequila?” Back then, it was a difference of like a $3.50 drink and a $4.50 drink; the prices were nothing, particularly for him at that time. He preferred the ordinary house rack rot.

Image of the Great Jones Cafe, NY

The only thing special he asked for was fresh lime juice, and I would squeeze it right in front of him.


DE: Did he tip you generously? 


RG: It might have been three or four dollars, or something like that—kind of average. Nothing like a twenty or anything bigger. And I wasn’t expecting it, or think I would be getting something more just because of who he was; and didn’t even think about it in that way. Really, if you're looking for a big tip, serve mobsters!  


DE: Did Jean-Michel come into the bar one day with Harry’s ABC of Mixing Cocktails for you, or how did that come about?      


RG: Well, he would disappear for a while. He would talk about going away on trips—to Europe for one of his art shows or travelling to Hawaii, places to dry out. I know he’d go to some warm place, and he’d come back looking halfway healthy and off drugs. He’d probably go and score later that day. I had just stopped using myself for a few months at that point. I knew the pain he was experiencing if he was trying unsuccessfully to stop. I tried to put a bug in his ear. That there was relief if he wanted it. I’d mention to him, “You know what, Jean-Michel, you don’t have to live this way.” There were people we knew mutually who stopped using. His response was, “Well that works for them, but not for me.” That he came back to visit at the bar after I encouraged him to stop drugging is a testament to his being open to the possibility of change at that time. I know when I was using I was in no mood for listening to anybody who wasn’t drinking or drugging. So really it was a surprise that he would return to visit. 

DE: And then he gave you the book with the drawings in it.


RG: It was one of those times, when he came back from a trip He said, “I was thinking of you on this trip, and I brought back this book for you.” He just handed me the book. He didn’t go, “Oh, there are some pictures in it that I drew.” It was only later when I looked at it, and thought, “Man, this is incredible. He dedicated this to me, and made these great drawings for me.” He gave it to me with intention. I noticed that he made the drawings on pages that had no printing on the back. It made a big impression on me. 


DE: So he didn’t clue you in at all that there were drawings in the book? You might have just passed it on to someone, if you already had a copy of it or something. 


RG: No, he didn’t say anything about what was inside, but it was pretty easy to see the dedication to me in the front of the book right away, and so, no, I wouldn’t have passed it on. This was a personal gift given to me by Jean-Michel. It was precious to me and still is. It was remarkable.

This was a personal gift given to me by Jean-Michael. It was precious to me and still is. It was remarkable.

DE: “To Randy, for the best bartender in New York.” 


RG: I was very touched that he did that. And that he was thinking of me on his trip, and brought back the book for me. It was quite an amazing gift. 


DE: What about some of the details of the drawings? Did you read any significance into the different markings, or the words that might relate to your conversations in the bar? There’s “HONER H,” in block letters, for instance.           

 

RG: I always thought that was the harmonica company that he was referring to, Hohner. 


DE: Yes, the German musical instrument company. The column of the repeated word “EROICA” appears in a number of Basquiat’s late paintings. That’s “heroic” in Italian, but maybe a reference to Beethoven’s Third Symphony, “the Eroica”? 


RG: I always thought it was a play on “erotica.” Even though there’s no “t,” you know in his phrasing, and in his freedom of playing with words, there’s not always correct spelling. 


DE: What about the title page, underneath Harry’s ABC of Mixing Cocktails, and above Souvenir Press, there’s a drawing of a kind of clock face with numbers, 0, 1, 2, 3, 4?


RG: Never occurred to me that the drawing might be a clock. I always thought that was a mouth!


DE: So what happened afterward? Was that the last time you saw Jean-Michel? Did you have a chance to thank him for the gift? 


RG: He came into the bar a few times after that. I was able to thank him, sure. 


DE: I know many people who were stunned by his death not long after. [August 12, 1988, age 27.] 

RG: When I heard that Jean-Michel had overdosed I was unfortunately not surprised. I knew he was hitting a bottom with heroin. If he didn’t stop his health options were few. I cared about him, he could be well if he changed his priorities. Perhaps he was afraid he would lose his gift of creativity if he got sober?

 

Soon after he died, there were vultures with deep pockets souring the city for his work.  They were contacting people who knew Jean-Michel hoping to find more of his work.  Within a month or two of his death, someone who knew about the gift that Jean-Michel gave me called and said, “We’d like to see the book, and we’d like to offer you some money for it.”  At that point, I was thinking if they give me enough money to buy a new Harley Davidson, I’ll take it. And their first offer was $5,000, which back then was a lot of money. Then I thought about it, and figured if they’re offering me five grand, and Jean-Michel has only been gone for about a month, imagine what will happen a few years from now. I just held on to it. 


DE: Very smart.  


RG: Then I kept it in a safe deposit box at Anchor bank for years, along with some cash. I had the book wrapped in aluminum foil and in a zip-loc plastic bag.  

DE: When did you decide to get the drawings framed? 


RG: About 25 years ago, I had to take it out of the safe deposit box because the bank was taken over by another big bank. I didn’t like the new bank, so I took the book out, and had it in my sock drawer for a few years. Then at one point I thought, “Why do I have this thing, and I can’t look at it? I’d like to see it.” I mean, most people would hang a Jean-Michel drawing on the wall if they had one. I decided I would like to do that. I called [photographer] Bobby Grossman, and he suggested I should call Glenn O’Brien, and see what he’s done with his Basquiat pieces. I knew Glenn from TV Party days; and also from what we called the “midnight baseball club,” a group of us who played a night game under the 59th Street Bridge, which Tama Janowitz mentioned in her [1986] book Slaves of New York. Glenn turned me on to Mrs. Lim [A to Z Art Framing in New York] and I took the book down to her. Initially, she suggested I put all the drawings side-by-side in one frame. And, recently, she reframed them separately. 


DE: So then you had the drawings to look at every day. What are your thoughts about them now, or your personal feelings about Basquiat? 


RG: I do wish Jean-Michel was still with us. He made a lasting impact on the art world. Before he died, he was aware of the influence he was having on the culture, just as Warhol had on an earlier generation. But Basquiat’s importance and significance continue to grow with each passing day. 


Interview  ©David Ebony 2021, Edited by Janis Gardner Cecil

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