Archive Page - 08/16/13 41 years, 2,173 covers and 55,054 stories from PEOPLE magazine's history for you to enjoy
- Why Is Britney Spears's Boyfriend, Charlie Ebersol, Teaming Up with Michelle Obama?
- Read the Cover Story: The Untold Love Story Behind American Sniper
- Convicted Drug Dealer Charged in Murder of Fox Executive
- Excited Woman Falls to Her Death After Her Boyfriend Proposes on the Edge of a Cliff
- Shakira and Gerard Piqué Welcome Second Son
On Newsstands Now
- Matthew McConaughey: In His Own Words
- Jessa Duggar's Wedding Album
- Brittany Maynard's Final Days
Pick up your copy on newsstands
Click here for instant access to the Digital Magazine
People Top 5
LAST UPDATE: Friday January 30, 2015 10:10AM EST
PEOPLE Top 5 are the most-viewed stories on the site over the past three days, updated every 60 minutes
- July 16, 1979
- Vol. 12
- No. 3
Why Are Lines Shorter for Gas Than the Mudd Club in New York? Because Every Night Is Odd There
In just six months the Mudd has made its uptown precursor, Studio 54, seem almost passé and has had to post a sentry on the sidewalk. The difference is that the Mudd doesn't have a velvet rope but a steel chain. Such recognizable fun-lovers as David Bowie, Mariel Hemingway, Diane von Furstenburg and Dan Aykroyd are automatically waved inside. For the rest, the club picks its own like some sort of perverse trash compactor. The kind of simple solution employed by U.S. gas stations is out of the question: At the Mudd, every night is odd. Proprietor Steve Mass, 35, admits that "making a fashion statement" is the criterion. That means a depraved version of the audience of Let's Make a Deal. One man gained entrance simply by flashing the stump of his amputated arm.
The action inside varies from irreverent to raunch. Andy Warhol is happy to have found a place, he says, "where people will go to bed with anyone—man, woman or child." Some patrons couldn't wait for bedtime, and the management has tried to curtail sex in the bathrooms.
Mass—a Georgia-reared, Northwestern-educated former ambulance operator—likes to program what he calls "motif parties" in addition to the club's more spontaneous activity, like Mace squirting. Many considered the celebration of Mother's Day as the Mudd's finest, sickest conception. That night half the revelers masqueraded as Joan Crawford while the other half wore pinafores and Band-Aids as Mommie's battered dearests. Whether the club is a leading indicator of America's decline and fall is another matter. One wildly painted girl arrived for a D-Day party (honoring both World War II and "D for Decadence") outfitted in a kamikaze shirt, SS boots and a helmet, shouting, "I am a Nazi dyke!" Her boyfriend knew better: "She's just a nice Jewish girl from Queens."
January 30, 2015
Treat Yourself! 4 Preview Issues
The most buzzed about stars this minute!