By Lisa W. Foderaro
Published: December 1, 1989
New York TImes
Sound Factory
The first thing you notice when you walk into this monumental space is the
mirrored disco ball, fully four feet in diameter, that rotates slowly from the
center of the ceiling, shooting shards of light around the dance floor. That
and the beat of the music, which can be heard even before entering, signal
the sole purpose of the club: dancing.
In fact, there are no tables for talking, no menu to order from, not even a
liquor license. Instead, the 1,500 people who pack this disco well past dawn,
doing some of the most stylish, uninhibited dancing in the city, recharge at
the juice bar with fruit punch, iced tea and soda.
Sound Factory is open only on Fridays and Saturdays, but it remains open
longer than any other club, sometimes until noon on Sundays. Typically,
there is a surge in attendance after 4 A.M., when most clubs in the city close.
Who stays up that late? ''People who take a lot of naps,'' said an owner,
Christina Visca.
Beware the thundering sound system, which fills the cavernous room with
house music and, in the early morning, 70's disco tunes. ''I love to feel the
music trembling in my feet and chest,'' shouted Timothy Henry, a 27-year-old
police officer from Queens, beneath swiveling columns of teal, rose and
purple light.
The owners, aware that the raw energy of the streets can spill into the club,
frisk all patrons at the door.
The club - at 530 West 27th Street, between 10th and 11th Avenues - is open
Fridays from 10 P.M. to 6 A.M. and Saturdays from midnight to the time the
dancing finally stops. The cover charge is $5 before midnight and $15
afterward on Fridays, $18 on Saturdays. On Saturday nights the crowd is
predominantly gay. Information: 643-0728.
By Felicia R. Lee
Published: September 13, 1990
New York Times
The four-man police car cruised slowly down a block filled with young
men and women laughing, smoking languidly or perfecting their
stylized aerobic prancing to the beat of ''house music'' from a nearby
nightclub. The car crept by. No one broke rhythm.
The club was the Red Zone on West 54th Street just hours before the
Sunday dawn, but it could have been almost any club that caters to an
under-25 crowd. There was no trouble in sight - not at the Red Zone, not
at several other Manhattan clubs visited Saturday night - only the usual
mixture of loud music, winsome flirting and energetic dance routines.
But talk to these young men and women, and they sometimes speak of
danger - as if some clubs were neon cocktails mixed with equal parts
vibrancy and violence. These are the clubs they try to avoid, they say,
places where young gang members congregate, where people wear lots
of gold, where there have been fights, stabbings and shootings.
This darker side has been at the heart of growing public concern about
New York's nightclubs. That concern was crystallized last week by the
killing of a Utah tourist and the arrest of eight young men who the
police say assaulted the tourist's family to get money to go to the
Roseland Ballroom on West 52d Street in Manhattan. But in recent
months there have been hundreds of complaints about noise and
violence from residents living near nightclubs across the city.
New Security Measures
In response, the police have increased patrols at some clubs, and club
owners have taken a variety of security measures - installing metal
detectors, searching patrons, checking age identification more carefully
and turning away people who look as if they would rather fight than
dance.
The troublemakers, clubgoers say, are members of gangs with names
like Thirty-six Mob, Vandals of Destruction and DTC, and sometimes
they commit robberies to raise the $15 cover that many clubs charge.
They join the loosely organized groups, known as posses or crews, for
the social life and for protection from other gangs. Inside the clubs
fights, fueled by alcohol, can break out, sometimes over women or over
perceived insults to manhood, and sometimes between rival gangs.
The clubgoers say, however, that the menace has been exaggerated by
news organizations and that most of the trouble occurs outside the
nightclubs. Some patrons also suggest that some people are simply
uncomfortable around the large groups of black and Hispanic youths
who frequent the clubs.
''You know where to go and where not to go,'' said Yvette Dumenigo, a
19-year-old bank teller from Middletown, N.Y., who comes into the city
nearly every weekend with friends to go dancing at clubs like the
Palladium, the Sound Factory, Quick and Mars. On Saturday night she
was at the Red Zone, one of the clubs that have prompted complaints
about noise.
'The Gold-Chain Crew'
When asked how to tell who the hoodlums are, Ms. Dumenigo gave the
same answer as many other clubgoers: ''By all the gold that they wear.''
Two police cars were parked in front of Bedrox, a club at 316 West 49th
Street, early Sunday morning, a somber reminder of the undercurrent of
tension. Adam, the general manager of the club, said it was reopening
under new management on Sept. 21. There have been problems in the
past with fighting outside the club, he said.
''Because of what happened at Roseland, that's the reason the police
are here,'' said Adam, who does not use a last name. ''They're afraid the
spillover will come here. In club language we call them the hip-hop
kids - the gold-chain crew. It's a crowd that just comes to fight.''
Angel Garcia, 20, a store clerk who came to the Red Zone with his
friends Benny and Israel from the Upper West Side of Manhattan, was
skeptical about reports of violence in clubs.
Seeking Protection
''All this stuff about the gangs and the clubs and the violence, I just
don't know,'' said Mr. Garcia. ''They're not really gangs, they're more like
just groups that hang out together for protection. The trouble is outside.
Usually about girls.''
Some of New York's 202 licensed nightclubs have come under
increased scrutiny since the Sept. 2 slaying of Brian Watkins during a
subway robbery. The police said Mr. Watkins, a tourist from Provo, Utah,
was robbed by eight members of a Queens gang called FTS, an
abbreviation for a vulgar expression. Gang members wanted money so
they could go dancing at Roseland, the police said.
After the shooting, Roseland's management said it was ending its disco
nights because of pressure from community groups that had
complained about the noise and violence.
City officials have received 1,500 complaints so far this year about
nightclubs and discotheques that attract large crowds of youths.
Complaints from Neighbors
The city's Department of Consumer Affairs has received complaints
about 18 clubs in the last six months, all but two of them in Manhattan.
Bedrox and the Red Zone were on the list. The complaints are mostly
from residents and mostly about noise, parking problems and litter or
about being harassed or robbed by patrons.
Maurice Brahms, a spokesman for the Red Zone, said residents who
complain are simply unwilling to coexist with a nightclub.
''There is no violence here; there is none,'' Mr. Brahms said. ''The
problem the neighbors complain about is noise. But in nine visits from
the Environmental Control Board we've had one violation, for a noisy air
conditioner.''
Early Saturday morning, a 20-year-old man was killed in a drive-by
shooting outside the Emerald City nightclub at 617 West 57th Street in
Manhattan. In 1988, 14 people were shot in two separate incidents at
the club when it was known as The Red Parrot.
One club that has stepped up security is the Island Club at 285 West
Broadway in TriBeCa, where patrons must submit to a hand-held metal
detector and a search of their pockets or handbags before gaining entry.
Inside the club, where a thatched roof covers the bar and palm fronds
gaily decorate the wall, the mood was mellow on Saturday night, but
some regulars said things can get rough outside. In June, one person
was killed and five were wounded when someone fired through a door
into the club. It was the third time in the last two years that someone
was shot to death at Island.
''Once people get outside, you have no control over what happens,''
said Michael Junior, a 22-year-old grocery-store stockman from Far
Rockaway, Queens. Mr. Junior said he comes to the club every night
because his brother works there. He said trouble at clubs is mostly
caused by teen-agers who carry weapons and who feel they must prove
their manhood by fighting.
Cliques and Posses
''The younger kids nowadays feel they have to live up to the image of
the typical New York teen-ager - to be on the streets, to do crime,'' Mr.
Junior said. ''What we have are cliques, posses. You have kids from
neighborhoods who hold down their neighborhoods, not allowing any
other people from the outside to come in and cause a disturbance
because this is our neighborhood. Nowadays, everyone has a weapon.''
Still, there are plenty of people like Ms. Dumenigo, the bank teller, who
simply goes out to have a good time. She finds all the old-fashioned
ingredients of romance and excitement under the modern flashing
lights.
''I like the way the people here look and I like the music,'' said Ms.
Dumenigo, who sat with friends overlooking the big wooden dance floor
inside the smoky haze of the Red Zone. ''These places are fun.''
By Marvine Howe
Published: June 4, 1992
New York Times
CHELSEA by day is a more or less tranquil community, where residents tend
to their town houses and tulips and go about their business without much fuss.
By night, the pace of life quickens a bit when young disco-goers come into
what has become Manhattan's disco district. What exactly happens at night is
a matter of some debate. Residents say the club-goers are boisterious, fight,
set off car alarms, trample gardens, litter sidewalks and sometimes even
urinate in hallways. The club owners say the complaints are greatly
exaggerated.
Either way, the coexistence of day and night people has been uneasy ever
since the clubs moved into Chelsea's waterfront area five years ago, gradually
giving Chelsea the largest concentration of large discos in the city, plus its
fair share of smaller clubs. Fourteen discos have an average capacity of 600
and the Sound Factory can accommodate 1,350.
The disco district is situated mainly in the strip of giant warehouses, garages
and abandoned manufacturing plants west of 10th Avenue between 14th and
34th Streets.
But since most disco-goers use public transportation, they cross Chelsea's
residential district by the thousands all night long and beyond 4 A.M., when
most of the clubs close. Some residents say they are terrified.
After receiving a barrage of letters, complaints and petitions from Chelsea
residents, Community Board 4's Disco Task Force and State Assemblyman
Richard Gottfried have organized a public hearing on the problem for
tonight, to be co-sponsored by State Senators Manfred Ohrenstein and Franz
S. Leichter and City Councilman Thomas K. Duane.
"We want to find out where the rights of club owners end and the rights of the
neighborhood begin," says Julie Spiegelberger, legislative aide to Mr.
Gottfried.
The clubs say they are being wrongly accused. Robert Bookman, a lawyer
who has long represented the industry, argues that "clubs cannot control what
happens in the streets."
"We think we do remarkably well in providing a safe and fun environment for
New Yorkers and tourists, given the hours we're open and the large numbers of
young people we serve," he said.
Not many Chelsea citizens agree with Mr. Bookman's idea of safe fun. The
weekly Chelsea Clinton News regularly reports stabbings, knifings and
muggings in the disco zone.
"We're not fuddy-duddies," said Katie Kelly, a freelance writer and former
entertainment critic for NBC. "We welcome the friendly presence of small
clubs and gay bars. What we hate is the giant discos that bring noise,
destruction and mayhem."
Ms. Kelly's angry letters to city officials last fall started the current anti-disco
campaign in Chelsea. The two "galvanizing events" were the Hell's Angels
benefit on Oct. 18 at the Marquee on 10th Avenue and 21st Street, when
1,500 motorcycles roared in and out of the neighborhood; and the
Thanksgiving weekend violence, starting with an early morning rampage by
hundreds of youths streaming out of Tracks on 19th Street and 10th Avenue
and culminating in a dispute at Tracks, which the police said left one man
shot dead and two people seriously wounded.
"We felt something had to be done," recalled Marla Perkel, a former auxiliary
police officer who records biology texts for the blind. She and Ms. Kelly
drafted a petition that says, "No more discos in Chelsea," and have collected
more than 1,000 signatures.
Responding to the community's pleas, the police have made a number of
arrests around the clubs in the last several months, said Capt. Hugh E.
O'Rourke, commanding officer of the 10th Precinct. But he said the problem
should be addressed in the zoning and licensing process.
Timothy R. Gay, task force chairman, said more controls and community
oversight of discos was needed. "We don't aim to close down all discos," he
said. "We want them to become responsible members of the community."
Some club owners say they want to work with the community. Richard Grant,
manager of the giant Sound Factory, said his club usually attracts mature gay
patrons, and closed down the Friday night programs a few weeks ago, when it
attracted a spillover of aggressive young people from neighboring clubs.
The Roxy, a huge roller-skating disco at 515 West 18th Street, is committed to
"a long-term relationship with the community," said its manager, Morgan
McClean, who regularly attends the community board's meetings. He said the
club had imposed a minimum age of 21, put extra lighting under the train
trestle and swept the street regularly. A sign outside urges patrons "to be
orderly and considerate of our neighbors."
By Jesse Green
Published: April 18, 1993
New York Times
LOOKING like endangered birds, the drag queens tottered on their heels as
they entered -- "a bit early in the day for we girls," said one. It was noon on a
recent Saturday at the Sound Factory Bar on West 21st Street, and they were
attending a memorial for Angie Xtravaganza. One of her children, Hector
Xtravaganza, kept breaking down in tears. "It's not just her, it's all of them," he
said. "My entire gay childhood is disintegrating before my eyes." Indeed, as
some of the 100 mourners rose to reminisce, it was as if their whole world, the
world of drag queens and voguing and ecstatic, elaborate balls, had died
along with Angie.
Though she was only 27, Angie had been a mother more than a dozen times.
Not in the usual way; she was biologically male. "But a mother is one who
raises a child, not one who borns it," Hector pointed out. And as mother of the
House of Xtravaganza, Angie had taken many rejected, wayward, even
homeless children under her wing; she had fed them, observed their
birthdays, taught them all about "walking the balls." Competing in categories
like High-Fashion Eveningwear and Alexis vs. Krystle, Angie was legendary, a
Queen among queens, achieving in fantasy what the world had denied her in
reality.
Drag balls, the product of a poor, gay and mostly nonwhite culture, had been
held in Harlem since the 1920's. But it wasn't until Jennie Livingston's
award-winning documentary, "Paris Is Burning," was released in 1991 that
anyone outside that world knew much about them. By then it was almost too
late. For Angie Xtravaganza, such fame as she achieved in the two years
following the film's release could not be savored: the AIDS-related liver
disease that eventually killed her was already destroying her hard-won
femininity. "She had spots all over, like a Dalmatian," Hector said. "And she
had to stop taking the hormones that made her look soft, because they're what
really ate her up." In later pictures, you can see the masculine lines of her
face re-emerging despite the high collars and makeup.
But it wasn't just Angie. Before filming was even completed in 1989, her
"main daughter," Venus, a frail transsexual who in the movie dreamed of
marriage and a home "in the Peekskills," was found strangled under a bed in
a hotel. Since then, Kim Pendavis, filmed sewing his costumes, has died of a
heart attack though he was only in his 20's. Of nine featured players, five are
gone or going.
Paris is no longer burning. It has burned. And not only because of the
casualties. No one needs to go to a ball to see drag anymore: Dame Edna
Everage has television specials, Ru Paul mugs on the covers of magazines,
fashion shows feature drag acts on the runway. No one needs to go to a ball
to see voguing either, not since Madonna gobbled it up, appropriating two
Xtravaganzas in the process. Once mainstream America began to copy a
subculture that was copying it, the subculture itself was no longer of interest
to a wider audience, and whatever new opportunites existed for the principals
dried up. After one show last year at the jazz club Sweetwaters, Octavia St.
Laurent, for instance, returned to dancing behind glass at the Show Palace.
And the balls, which had moved downtown in their moment of fame, have
mostly moved back to Harlem.
The film's critical and financial success should therefore not be taken for the
success of its subjects. "The truth is, though I didn't get rich, I am now a film
maker," said Ms. Livingston, 31. "And that's something I wasn't before. It
doesn't mean it's easy to get money. But I am educated and I am white so I
have the ability to write those grants and push my little body through whatever
door I need to get it through."
And drag queens can't. "If they wanted to make a film about themselves, they
would not be able," said Ms. Livingston, who grew up in Los Angeles and is a
graduate of Yale University. "I wish that weren't so, but that's the way society is
structured." In fact, other than Willi Ninja, the movie's star dancer, who has
stitched together a career including choreography, fashion and music, the
characters Ms. Livingston presented remain, at best, where they were when
filmed.
Angie Xtravaganza's memorial made that all too plain. A shrine had been set
up in the back of the room: flowers, photographs and, on a pedestal, a pair of
Angie's favorite earrings. Behind them stood a huge funeral wreath, a giant X
of blood-red carnations that seemed to stand for more than Xtravanganza.
Almost unnoticed was a simple basket of white and purple lilies. "To all who
loved Angie," the florist's card read. It was from Ms. Livingston and her
co-producer, Barry Swimar, who were in England to raise money for new
projects, including a satirical drama about the way movies depict violence
against women.
Perhaps it was just as well they couldn't attend. There is a lot of anger in the
ball world about "Paris Is Burning." Some of it concerns what a few critics
have called exploitation: making the lives of poor black and Latino people
into a commodity for white consumption. "The complaint is somewhat
unfounded," Ms. Livingston said, "as it was largely a gay audience, which
included blacks and Latinos, that made the movie successful."
"Anyway," Ms. Livingston continued, "I don't believe you have to be one thing
to make a film about it. I'm white, yes, but I'm an openly queer, female
director, and I can't think of anything more out of the mainstream. I'm sorry,
but I do not think I have the same relationship to the ruling class as a straight
man."
But most of the anger centers on money. "I love the movie, I watch it more
than often, and I don't agree that it exploits us," said Pepper LaBeija, 44,
whose braggadocio and fierce but fey style made him a standout in "Paris Is
Burning." "But I feel betrayed. When Jennie first came, we were at a ball, in
our fantasy, and she threw papers at us. We didn't read them, because we
wanted the attention. We loved being filmed. Later, when she did the
interviews, she gave us a couple hundred dollars. But she told us that when
the film came out we would be all right. There would be more coming.
"And that made me think I would have enough money for a car and a nice
apartment and for my kids' education. Because a number of years ago, to
please my mother, I took a little break from being a 24-hour drag queen, and
so I have a daughter, 15, and a son ready for college. But then the film came
out and -- nothing. They all got rich, and we got nothing."
Miramax, which released the film, said that "Paris Is Burning" grossed slightly
more than $4 million at theaters in the United States. This is not much
compared to a Hollywood hit but is exceptional for a documentary that cost
only $500,000, including $175,000 for music clearances, to make.
Ms. Livingston would not say how much money she made from the movie.
"There was a rumor in the ball world -- and this delights me -- that I now have
a house on Long Island next to Calvin and Kelly Klein," she said. "But the
truth is I live about the same as I did, except that I used to be chronically
about three months late in paying the rent, and now I'm more or less on time."
STILL, all but two of the movie's surviving principals -- Willi Ninja and Dorian
Corey -- hired lawyers to try to cash in on the film's success. The largest claim
came from Paris DuPree, who sought $40 million for unauthorized and
fraudulent use of her services. Though she is never named on camera and
appears for less than three of the movie's 76 minutes, her 1986 ball, called
Paris Is Burning, provided the title for the film and is extensively featured in it.
But like all of the others, she had signed a release, and her lawyer dropped
the matter.
"There's no obligation, in a documentary, to pay your subjects," Ms.
Livingston said. "The journalistic ethic says you should not pay them. On the
other hand, these people are giving us their lives! How do you put a price on
that?"
Somehow, she did. Ms. Livingston said that even before the threats of
lawsuits, she had decided to pay about $55,000 to 13 performers, based on
how long each appeared on screen. And in 1991, after the claims against her
had been dropped, the money was distributed.
"I think Jennie has complied with the spirit and with the literal representations
she made along the way," said Peggy Brady, a lawyer who represented Ms.
Livingston's production company. "Besides, in our society, we try to
encourage the free exchange of information."
Pepper LaBeija was not appeased: "The $5,000 I got was hush money. We
didn't have no choice but to take it. And $1,500 went to my lawyer for doing
nothing." He paused, and the musical, swaggering tone familiar from the film
returned to his voice. "But at least it brought me international fame. I do love
that. Walking down the street, people stop me all the time. Which was one of
my dreams doing the drags in the first place.
"What hurts is that I'm famous but not rich. A California magazine said I had
sued Miramax and won untold millions and was seen shopping with Diana
Ross on Rodeo Drive in a Rolls. But I really just live in the Bronx with my
mom. And I am so desperate to get out of here! It's hard to be the mother of a
house while you're living with your own mother. Why couldn't they give us
$10,000 apiece?"
Ms. Livingston defended the size of the payments. "If they'd been actors in a
dramatic film the size of 'Paris Is Burning,' they would have made a whole lot
less," she said. Of course, if 'Paris Is Burning' had been a drama, Ms.
Livingston might have earned a whole lot more. As it is, she said she had
seen nothing beyond her guarantee. "If we get more money, in all likelihood
we'll distribute more money." Mr. Swimar said. But nothing is likely to smooth
Pepper LaBeija's feathers. If the best documentarian never fully captures her
subjects, it's also true that best subjects never fully accept being captured.
"Oh yes, to this day a lot of the girls hate Miss Jennie, but that's just greed,"
said Dorian Corey, by all accounts the star of the movie. She is sitting in a
makeshift dressing room at Sally's II, a drag bar just west of Times Square on
43d Street, applying stage makeup over her street makeup -- there's not much
difference -- in preparation for her Thursday night show. "Junior LaBeija
pitched a bitch in The Amsterdam News, saying he wanted $50,000 because
he was the star of the movie. But the Bette Davis money just wasn't there. I'll
tell you who is making out is those clever Miramaxes. But I didn't do it for
money anyway: I did it for fun. Always have."
She dabbed white greasepaint on her eyelids. "You see I was in show
business for years, so when my 15 minutes finally came, it was gravy. And
what I got from the publicity tour you couldn't buy. They paid the hotels and
limos. I didn't even buy cigs; I just signed. I got to be a star! In Boston, the
black children were coming up to me with tears in their eyes! It did whet my
appetite, and I hoped that crazy little Jennie would have done a sequel,
because once you do something big, you want to do it again. But what I got
was plenty, and the rest is just bitter onions."
The room in which Dorian would emcee her "Drag Doll Review" was dim and
dingy, encrusted with the detritus of many louche incarnations: amorous
murals, go-go lights, mirror balls, boudoir lamps. Drag queens of every size
and style huddled around the bar, trying to stir up business from
average-looking men in dull business attire. From "Paris Is Burning" it might
not be evident that this is part of the drag world, too; yet more than one of the
movie's leads can often be found here, looking for customers.
"Welcome to Sally's II," said Dorian drily. "The original, just down the block,
burned down." She narrowed her eyes. "And when this one burns, we'll move
on up the way."
At 55 -- "Put me down as 27 and say it's a two-for-one sale, honey," -- Dorian
comes from a different age of drag than most of the others in "Paris Is
Burning." "These children, it's a new world now. Most of them make their
money turning tricks. It's that or starve! I myself" -- she pulled off her red shift
and shimmied into a sequined floor-length magenta dress with rhinestone
spaghetti straps -- "am lucky to have avoided all that. I'm an old farm girl,
from Buffalo, and when you've had that healthy beginning, you don't go the
same way."
Dorian slipped into a pair of gold pumps, then poured jewelry from a bag onto
the Formica counter. "And today it's so risky, with the almighty shadow
opening the door." She arched one enormous eyebrow in deference to AIDS.
"Even I have to the worry. I've had such a torrid past. So now I'm a VCR
queen, if you know what I'm saying. You don't have to give a VCR breakfast."
She examined some delicate fake pearl earrings, then rejected them in favor
of a pair with four-inch dangling rhinestone strands, which kept falling off. "I'm
not trying to look real," she said, getting out the glue. And, true enough, with
her platinum wig and elaborate eyes, she looked like a cross between Tina
Turner and Barbara Cartland, albeit with stubble in the cleavage of her
silicone-enhanced breasts.
"I love all that madness," Dorian said. "Ru Paul, Lypsinka, Liz Smith. But I tell
the children to think very serious, and if it's at all possible avoid the drag life,"
Dorian said. "It's a heartache life. If you do pursue it, make sure you get your
education, some kind of skill. I always supported myself with my sewing. But
the oldest profession is still the easiest, though there's nothing so pitiful as a
50-year-old prostitute. It's a one-way street with a very bad end."
But her advice seemed to go as unheeded as her show at Sally's. Opening
with "It's Today" from "Mame," she had to signal the sound man to turn up the
volume in hopes of commandeering attention. Occasionally, when one the
patrons did take notice, he would approach Dorian in midsong and stuff some
dollar bills down the front of her dress. Dorian didn't even blink.
She got a better response at Angie's memorial. It had been a painful
afternoon, but when Dorian walked toward the shrine in her fur hat,
sunglasses, rain jacket and purse, she was greeted with a huge round of
applause. She was, after all, another legendary mother. "It's O.K., children,"
she drawled, "because Angie's got something now that we've lost: a little
beauty, a little peace. And it's gonna be hotter and better up there."
Drag is variously explained as destruction of the male within or the female
without. For Dorian and for many of Angie's other mourners, drag is not a
means of destruction but of rescue -- a little beauty, however perverse and
rococo. This is the achievement that Ms. Livingston indelibly recorded: the
victory of imagination over poverty. But the victory is Pyrrhic at best. The
movie's title may come from the name of Paris DuPree's ball, by which she
meant only that the competition would be hot, but the phrase itself has a
darker history. "Paris brennt?" ("Is Paris burning?") Hitler asked , wondering
whether the city had fallen. And though Paris, France survived, the Paris of
Ms. Livingston's movie -- and all it depicted -- may not.
The mirror ball kept spinning at the Sound Factory Bar. It wasn't until after 3
o'clock that everyone who wanted to speak had spoken. The crowd went
quiet. A man asked everyone to hold hands in a circle. "Remember," he said.
"We are all legends."
Pictures of Dorian Corey and other legends from
Sally's Hideaway are online at photographer Brian
Lantelme's tribute site.
reproduced under fair use.