Hurrah disco on West 62nd Street died after the opening of Studio 54. The owners experimented with a dance club featuring mainstream rock with video monitors hanging from the ceiling. When this scheme didn’t work, the owners called on Jim Fouratt to animate the ex-dance studio and the impish impresario booked punk and new wave bands, then hired his friends to work the door and DJ booth since they were all into this music. I was put out front as the doorman, my security was an old black boxer Jack Flood and a moonlighting cop named Bobbie Gardiner, Haoui Montauk and Aleph Ashline sat at the desk dispensing tickets and free passes to the VIPs, and upstairs George Wrage took the tickets, Carlos Rodriquez was the lightman, Sean Cassette spun reggae, punk, and new wave, Randy the bartender was so so handsome and Jhourry his partner was so very wicked, Barney and the Odinesque Ron Jaggar paid our salaries every Saturday night.
The owners fought with Jim about paying the bands so much money.
It was the height of the cocaine era.
They asked Jim to leave. He was rightfully pissed at them. They wanted him to leave. I asked him nice. If I had been more honorable, I would have left with him, instead he told me to fuck myself and I was a hothead back then. Still am a little bit, but that night I escorted him out of the club.
I owe Jim Fouratt a big apology.
He was a true radical and visionary.
And not only with music.
But then this is about Hurrah and it was simply sex, drugs, and rock and roll.
To view the entrance of Hurrah circa 1981, please go to Merrill Aldighieri VDO