That time Van Duren went to New York City cut an album in 1977

Here's Memphis singer/songwriter Van Duren standing against the mirrored wall of NYC's Hurrah in the summer of 1977.

Recalls Van Duren...

When the first few days of July come around each year I think about where I was in 1977. Healing from a broken relationship in Memphis, I had bought a one-way ticket to NYC to make my first album, what became "Are You Serious?" Arriving in the East Village with my guitars and suitcases, a few bags of weed and $130 in mid-June, I stayed in a tiny efficiency apartment at 175 Thompson St. with the album's producers, Jon Tiven and Doug Snyder, and within 2 weeks we had made a couple of train trips up to the Connecticut studio to begin recording. The following is an excerpt from my unpublished memoir:

"In late June Big Sound Records threw a press party/showcase in the City at a “New Wave” dance club called Hurrah, which was at 36 West 62nd St on the second floor. The party drew an interesting mix of music biz types, punk rockers, and a few longhairs like me. Two of the label's great bands performed, beginning with Roger C. Reale & Rue Morgue who opened the showcase. Chuck Reale was a schoolteacher by day and an amazing vocalist, bass player, and songwriter by night. His band featured my new friends Jimmy McAllister on guitar and Hilly Michaels on drums, and that trio was just a monster! The quick succession of short, very smart songs just electrified the room, and opened my eyes in a big way.

Big Sound’s most important and popular act, the Scratch Band, took the stage as the headliner, and proceeded to play a dazzling, tight set of R & B-infused rock and soul. Lead singers Christine Ohlman and Robert Orsi were riveting with Orsi also blowing an intense blues harmonica, and bassist Paul Ossola covered so much ground with his Fender Jazz bass that it was nothing short of an education for me. The guitarist was George “G.E.” Smith. This guy was truly a revelation on electric guitar, all the while with a huge grin on his face. Behind the drum kit was a young kid who held the whole thing together, playing with an amazing style that was far beyond his years. I instantly wanted to play music with him. Little did I know that this dream would find a reality in the near (and distant) future. His name was Mickey Curry.

One person who caught my eye was a striking young blonde woman, high cheekbones, mysterious smile. She was with a group of guys, in conversation, so I stayed where I was, leaning up against a mirrored wall, nursing a drink and a smoke. The event was only about two hours long, so when the club began to open to the public we spilled out into the street. 

I had brought 8 bags (ounces) of weed with me, as I mentioned, to sell and raise a little food money. One night Jon said he knew someone who wanted a bag. Great! “My friend, Richard, is dropping by.” The doorbell rang, and I opened the door: it was Richard Hell in a great trench coat, boots, and spiked hair. He was a very cool guy—a talented bassist and writer, and his band was one of the better New York bands I’d heard. Richard, Jon, and I talked a few minutes, but he was in a rush, so we made the deal and he went on his way. “That’s one for the autobiography,” I never even thought.

After we completed the initial guide tracks for the album in the studio on 7/1, the July 4th weekend was almost upon us. Doug and Jon were staying in Connecticut, but I decided to go back to the East Village on my own. The 4th was on a Monday, and we had scheduled Hilly's drum sessions to begin on Wednesday July 6th. The guys dropped me at the Conrail station in Milford, CT, on Friday the 2nd, and I caught the train to Grand Central in Manhattan. From there I took the subway downtown and walked to Thompson Street, stopping on Bleecker to pick up a hippie roll and a beer. I slept on one of the apartment’s beds that night. The cockroaches in that place were so big, you could hear them in the paper grocery bags of trash in the kitchenette. Truth! But I was in New York City...

When I walked past the Village Gate on my way to Thompson Street, I saw a poster out front promoting a band called Blondie starting a three-night run that very night. But what really caught my attention was the opening act on the third night: Alex Chilton. So on Sunday night July 3rd, I went to the Village Gate and saw Alex open the show with his trio, which included a guy named Chris Stamey on bass. They were beyond loose, and Alex was more disjointed than I’d seen him—which fit in perfectly in 1977 New York. After their set, I walked over and said hello to Alex, briefly, and introduced myself to Mr. Stamey, who was far more friendly. Eventually, Blondie took the stage, and I was pleasantly surprised at how good they were. But, wait a minute. The blonde girl singing was the blonde from the Hurrah party! Only then did I realize that she was Deborah Harry. Holy crap! I was really glad I had gone to that show. That's when I became a Blondie fan.

The next day, the Fourth of July, started out eerily quiet. Only then did I find out that many New Yorkers left the city for the holiday weekend, so the sounds of the neighborhood were somewhat subdued. In the late afternoon I decided to take a walk down into Soho, which was just a few blocks south of where I was. It was an Italian neighborhood in those days, closer to working class, and the people there had strung banners and lights and ribbons across the streets from building to building to celebrate Independence Day. Children were playing here and there as their parents talked and sang and laughed and drank. Older folks in folding chairs spoke in what I imagined were Italian dialects, and the whole scene was like something out of a 1930's film. It was beautiful. 

After a couple of hours I wandered back toward the Village as the sun began to set behind the World Trade Center and fireworks popped everywhere. I went in the apartment building’s front door, past our place on the first floor and took the stairs up 4 floors to the tar paper-floored rooftop. I sat there alone on the ledge, smoking a cigarette, drinking a beer, watching the fireworks all around the skyline. It suddenly struck me how romantic the moment was. And yet, those feelings were hopeless. In those moments, I felt like they would always be. While I was still trying to believe where I actually was, it didn’t really matter. Wherever I would ever be, I would be a romantic in exile." 

From "Cartwheeling: A Musician's Life" (copyright 2022 Van Duren) (And no, I don't know if it will ever be published). Get a copy of Van Duren's debut album "Are You Serious?" – reissued without much fanfare by Omnivore – right here. Check out "Yellow Light" below. Be sure to check out Wade Jackson and Greg Carey's fab 2018 documentary Waiting: The Van Duren Story (here's the link) and the excellent accompanying soundtrack.