A strange and fun gig in the Hamptons, at a very groovy, vibey old joint called the Stephen Talkhouse.
We drove way the fuck out to the near-tip of the south fork of Long Island to play a gig at this odd, homey joint called the Stephen Talkhouse. The cover charge was the most spendy of my entire solo career–$20!!–and they paid us a busload of dough for a gig there couldn’t have been more than 80 people at.
$20 was pretty cheap, too. Joan Osbourne and the New York Dolls were $100 tix, and $125 VIP tix. What the hell VIP means in a bar smaller than the Mercury Lounge I couldn’t tell you.
Fun show, though. A clique of that certain variety of sexy, well-dressed normal girls–the kind you see on Sixth Avenue, heading back from their lunch breaks to jobs as assistant-something-or-other–were drinking and got up to dance wildly. Just maybe six or eight of them, all shimmying in the front. There were a couple grey-haired rich dudes, very coiffed, in pennyloafers without socks and pastel shirts, escorting their younger wives. Or perhaps concubines.
We left the stage and went upstairs to the dressing room. We were sitting there all sweaty when two 29-ish, well-tanned, well-groomed blonde girls with gigantic rocks on their left ring fingers came stomping up the stairs, hooting and flattering. They offered to take us to the beach and smoke us up. We declined politely.