7/27/2019 All My Friends Are Hot Because It's My Job, Part 2

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All my friends are hot because it's my job, Part Two

Confessions of a promoter, by Frankie Leone

Party invitations in the form of promoter mass texts began setting off my phone nightly.Greggor's text messages were cryptic, poorly spelled, and filled with expletives. However, the

name of the club was usually decipherable and the product, his parties, were decadent in a way Ibecame addicted to.

Soon came my first Tuesday night at Avenue Nightclub on the corner 10th Ave and 17thStreet. The doorman of this club is Wass Stevens. In addition to being Avenue's famous doormanhe's an actor who's landed several roles in Hollywood films, and owns a tattoo shop on the LowerEast Side. His clothing is flashy and impeccable- Italian leather, immaculately tailored pinstripesuits, etc. He arrives on different motorcycles (Harleys, Indians, Ducati's) that he parks on thesidewalk across from his perch near the entrance. This man who presents an image impossible

not to notice decides whether an individual is too old, too fat, too short, too ugly, or too "urban"to make the establishment's doors.

After we became friends down the line Wass would reveal he used to be an assistantdistrict attorney, but was disbarred after an arrest for assault. This made sense- he's notorious fortaking it upon himself to brutally discipline individuals who crossed the line too far with rudebehavior. It was rumored he was such a crucial public face to Avenue Nightclub that 20% of itsprofits went to him, making him a heavy hitting partner. Whether this is true or not, anyone whospeaks with him for any period of time knew he was much more than just a doorman. I approached him for the first time wearing skinny black levis, a black Hanes undershirtI'd purchased at Duane Reade, and a bandanna headband. Wass' first words to me after askingwhich promoter I was with were, "What's your name kid?" I told him my name and he responded, "I'll remember you." He validated me for entry and we began a friendly rapport with a conversation about mytattoos.

In these moments I didn't know it but this was an enormous compliment. Part of his job isto appear cold and disinterested in the people entering, while actually being extremely attentiveand mentally recording every worthwhile face and body passing through the door. Many nights

in the future I'd stand outside the parties and watch his discerning eye to learn what the NewYork nightlife standard of beauty was as he let in and turned away club-goers. Wass never paid asignificant amount of attention to anyone he didn't know as a regular, but he obviously had to letnew guests in. His job is a technical one, and he's a talented engineer.

Guy with a fitted cap and baggy jeans, a look away and slight shake of the head no. Fivefoot eleven inch emaciated woman in stilletto heels and a littlle black dress, slight nod yes.Anything that might reveal a journey over a bridge, through a tunnel, or on a ferry would illicit

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an irritated expression, and the velvet rope would not rise. Pretty young gay boy with stylishthreads and a passable ID, a low "yes" would be spoken and he'd skip on in. Any excess bodyweight, unfortunate features, or guy-heavy groups not compensated for with height,extraordinary clothes, and/or hefty wallets would be sent into the night. And so on and so forth.His opinions on a person's aesthetic were strongly enforced by a fleet of 300 lb. six foot

something bouncers with shaved heads and limited patience.

I felt like I'd won the lottery getting passed him. Inside Avenue I was mystified. On myway in I passed a stumbling Lindsay Lohan. The club was filled with the most beautiful peopleI'd ever seen. Either side of it was lined with lacquered tables and leather upholstered booths. It didn't take long to differentiate Avenue's promoter and client tables. Promoters' peoplehad to meet very rigid physical specs to enter the club. As touched on already, groups had to havethe right balance of age, race, gender, height, weight, and fashion to gain entry. Client groups, ofcourse, needed to meet slightly looser standards but a credit card would be collected and a $2500minimum charged to it immediately. In nights to come I'd get a bang out of fat Wall Street suits

trying to toss hundreds at Wass but eventually storming off when he'd refuse to sell them a tableand booze based on their look. Guys like that made more in a week than I did in a year.

I lost myself in my first night at Avenue- mixing and mingling, dancing and making out.Having the time of my life in the strobes, fog, top 40 music, and sea of gorgeous or high profilehuman beings.

Soon I was going out with Greggor four or five times a week. During the day I'd moveapartments and write creative non-fiction prose or poetry. At night I'd hang out with an in-crowdof New York City's nightlife scene. Everyone I met was an actor, model, musician, painter, orsomething of that nature. I'd omit that I was an apartment mover and say I was just a writer.

Whether anyone actually produced anything in regard to their professed occupation was amystery to me. I hadn't had a drink in years, so it seemed unlikely a successful actor, model, etc.would be getting hammered drunk in nightclubs multiple nights during the week. A surprisingnumber were under 21 too. I didn't care though. Neither did anyone else. It didn't take long to figure out why we were all invited to these extremely expensive andexclusive locations- our aesthetic's fit the bill, we were human decorations to inspire sales andboost exclusivity. I also figured out what Greggor's job description was in one sentence, and Iliked it. A promoter's job is to invite and assemble a consolidated group of animated attractivepeople in a lavish environment, and to keep them there by entertaining them with freeintoxicants.

Through the nights it became clear to Greggor I had an interest being part of the scene onhis end. The club kids listened when I spoke and I usually arrived to his parties with a crowd. Itdidn't make sense to be going out, even with all the debaucherous fun, without getting a piece ofthe monetary action. Him and I would call each other "baby" and hug upon greetings but atension steadily built underneath the plastic niceties. He'd also noted how much I was sleepingaround, disrupting the natural order of his crew. Through a cocaine haze he'd make biting passiveaggressive remarks and we'd joke about fist-fighting, half-kidding.

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Eventually things between us came to a head. Via ranting text message he banned mefrom his parties. The mass text invitations stopped coming. The time to make my move and somemoney had come. I was getting out of the man-with-van moving business.

I only knew one other promoter. A character named Jimmy Matthews. He was in hismid-30s and perpetually in a state of anxiety. He scurried around his parties in a frenzy makingsure all his tall lovely ladies were in place. He was tired and didn't enjoy the job very much. Iasked him if he needed a sub-promoter to lighten his workload. He said he'd love it. I beganbringing out small crowds to his spots- 1Oak, Lavo, The Darby, and Avenue. After a week or twoof this I asked him to vouch for me to a club executive. He agreed. Jimmy would never pay methe hundred bucks a night we'd agreed upon. I never cared. It was an investment in somethinglarger.

Richard Thomas is Strategic Group's promotional director. Strategic Group is the eventmarketing company that controls Noah Teppenburg and Jason Strauss' nightclubs- The

Downtown Dream, Lavo, The Marquee, Avenue, etc. He's a cleanly dressed light-skinned blackman with a shaved head who communicates very abruptly and with intermittent bursts offrustration or anger. Ruthlessness, coldness, and volatility are key elements of his reputation.

One Monday morning he emailed Jimmy and said, "Let's see what Frankie can produce.Tonight."

I knew I needed help on such short notice. It'd come through nightlife gossip circles thatthe Parson's student I'd spotted my first party ever had also been blacklisted by Greggor whenshe got her first promoting job at some shit dive on the Lower East Side. We had a commonenemy and she fit the bill of what I needed- a young attractive nightlife socialite to boost the

headcount of my parties. She was easy to find on Facebook, Athena Hawkes. A provocativemodel shot (with a bondage overtone) was her default image. She agreed to be my assistant host.

So Athena and I set to work all day Monday from our Brooklyn homes texting andFacebook messaging every aesthetically pleasing person we knew to meet outside Avenue'sdoors at midnight.

Midnight came and we were assembled. Wass must've had one of his rare nights offbecause Richard himself was acting as doorman. He looked over our crew of 15 people and said,"We could use you for our Tuesdays. It's a young and hip party. Now get your people inside anddon't be high maintenance."

I could see he sensed my desperation. No talk about what I'd be paid, W2s, etc. I didn'tcare. I was in.

In nights to come he'd often say, "What the fuck is wrong with you, this girl's ID is waytoo fake" or "Get the fuck inside and host your table out of my sight." I'd get used to this andtried not to take it too seriously. It was just his way.

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And so the roller coaster began. Soon I'd be a nightlife name.