A Party On Every Page: The Star Hits Saga Part 2 (1984-85)
Since Star Hits readers were predominantly teenage girls, it makes sense that two dynamic young women helped to refine and redefine the magazine’s vision during the months following its successful launch. From the moment Alicia Keshishian followed Phoebe Creswell-Evans as art director in mid 1984, the already-spectacular pages erupted in a blinding, vivacious wash of full-spectrum colors and floating typefaces. Alicia brought a new radiance to the magazine, reflecting and echoing the energy in the music. In person she was a high-spirited, pixie-haired sprite with a ready laugh, who dressed as just colorfully as the layouts she designed.
Alicia and her colleague Michael Ottersen (a notable artist in his own right) were electrifying collaborators, open to amplifying what we trying to do with the words. This relationship was uncommon in print publishing (in my experience), where “art” and “editorial” were all-too-often at odds. Of course editor David Keeps contributed to this process by corralling ambitious photo sessions and conceiving articles not only in terms of words but images too. Learning to visualize stories was the best thing I learned at Star Hits, something I took with me to future editorial jobs.
Around the same time Keeps replaced David Fricke as editor-in-chief, a college student named Suzan Colon segued from intern to associate editor. I won’t say “effortlessly” because that would belie how hard Suzan worked. Sitting beside her for the next 18 months, I watched in growing admiration. She made it look easy, which is of course a sign of true talent.
Suzan kept me in stitches with her keen sense of humor, and kept me sane with her down-to-earth sensibility. Most important she was a natural writer. And since she was a) only a few years older than our readers and b) counted ardent music fandom in her resume (substitute the band Japan for Duran Duran), Suzan knew exactly where our readers were “coming from.” Over time her presence endowed Star Hits with a voice of its own, slightly distinct from the English-accented Smash Hits. Her background as a fangirl and her quick-study intelligence brought grounding — authenticity — to a breathlessly trendy magazine.
In short order Suzan also stepped into my role as Keeps’s concert sidekick and promo-party date. This suited me fine, as my social agenda and musical priorities were in flux. No doubt the balance of power in our small office shifted too. Yet we still enjoyed each others’ company, while the pressure to perform increased exponentially as the year proceeded.
Each issue went to press with the highest of hopes, only to disappoint weeks later when the sales figures rolled in. There were many reasons proffered as to why this or that cover image didn’t move magazines off the newsstand. Yet astonishingly, I don’t recall any mention of the fact Star Hits was no longer advertised on MTV. No surprise: sales dropped like a stone as soon as those commercials were discontinued mid-way through 1984. You can’t buy a magazine if you’ve never heard about it.
And selling ad pages in the magazine itself never appeared to be a priority for our publishers, weirdly, despite the efforts of stalwart ad salesman Steve Korte. Ever buoyant and cheerful, Steve served as our Gibraltar when office life got turbulent. Eventually, his facility with the written word and easy command of all popular culture (from punk to Broadway musicals) proved so editorially useful that he switched sides. The ongoing lack of ad pages doubled the reliance on editorial coverage — especially cover images — to generate income i.e. sell the magazine.
Even as the magazine came into its own aesthetically, every cover choice for Star Hits came to be viewed as a high-stakes dice roll by Felix Dennis and his partners. These bets were preceded by do-or-die debates, and invariably followed by grim postmortems. Would Brian Adams “deliver” though he was a bit acne-scarred not to mention unfashionably “rock and roll” and were Tears for Fears so glum-looking and uncharismatic that they couldn’t sell magazines despite their huge hit singles? No and yes, for the record. Such were the dilemmas of late 1984, continuing into 1985.
*
Win A Date With Duran Duran was so successful that the mail-in contest concept was duplicated with Prince, Thompson Twins and several others. A “date” with Prince meant attending his concert since the purple-costumed recluse refused to meet with journalists, let alone magazine readers. Anyway, all “meeting” the stars usually amounted to was a brief, awkward backstage conversation and maybe a handshake or chaste hug. The coveted prizes also included a free meal — with the ravenous Star Hits staff — at the Hard Rock Cafe, a newly opened boîte on 57th Street. Though popular with visitors, to us this joint fit the definition of a tourist trap, decorated with corny music memorabilia: autographed Fender Stratocasters, Gibson Les Pauls and the like. Naturally, the Hard Rock hashed out mediocre American fare. The most memorable dish served there was an ice cream sundae, ordered by our favorite freelance photographer Andy Freeberg, that contained jutting shards of broken glass. Scant apologies were offered by the management — forget about a refund or gratis treat. Frankly, we were relieved that this potentially fatal desert wasn’t placed in front of the contest winners.
The Star Hits Lookalike Contest was a triumph even though the prizes were less elaborate — Walkmans and Polaroid cameras. Dressing up as your favorite member of Duran Duran, Boy George, Madonna, Cyndi Lauper et al proved irresistible to many readers. I can’t recall who the winner impersonated; as far as I was concerned, I won! The in-house ad soliciting contest entries featured yours truly posed in before and after shots. Styled by the irrepressible Keeps and photographer Stephanie Chernikowski, I appeared twice in the full-page ad; first as the super-nerd character Nervous Norbert, in horn-rims and a hand-me-down tweed sport coat. After an off-camera makeover, I re-emerged as Sir Billy Idol himself, complete with dyed hair, raised fist, ripped leathers, fake tattoo and a snarling Elvis-esque sneer on my lips. This was my only photographic appearance in the magazine, and once the word spread among my friends and family it was impossible to live down. Not that I minded in the least.
Win A Date With The Thompson Twins
The winner of Star Hits Win A Date With The Thompson Twins will not only see this terrifyingly brilliant trio live in concert but will get to meet these sweethearts in the flesh. Can ya dig it? Though you might. The Grand Prize Winner and a companion will be whisked away on a cloud (or reasonable facsimile) to catch up with the Thompson Twins at the most convenient locations and meet the Twins themselves!
Reality reared its unkempt head with the Thompson Twins contest. Where the previous contest winners had been teenage girls accompanied by more or less protective parents, this time was different. Eyebrows were raised in the office when the 15-year-old-ish winner arrived from upstate New York with her “best friend” in tow, a young woman nearer to my age (27) who registered closer to co-conspirator than chaperone. Dinner and the concert followed without incident, however, and the Twins themselves met-and-greeted backstage with élan, charming our two readers. “It was the best 24 hours of my life!” gushed the Grand Prize Winner in a taped account I later transcribed and printed as a concert review. Representing the magazine that night, I deposited the two women at their hotel around midnight. As far as I could tell, nothing untoward, no post-concert shenanigans, appeared as even a remote possibility on the horizon.
The next afternoon, Felix Dennis entered the editorial sanctuary wearing a mirthless grin and we gathered round. Star Hits contests were about to become less ambitious. Without mentioning how he found out, Felix informed us that our Grand Prize Winner and her gal pal had exited their room not long after I dropped them off, and proceeded to “party” with members of the Thompson Twins entourage until dawn. The rest of that discussion is a blur, though I distinctly recall the words “pregnant” and “lawsuit” coming up multiple times. The bottom line was no more lucky readers flying into New York and dallying with the stars.
*
Perhaps mercifully for our impressionable young readers, the amount of actual rock and roll decadence I witnessed over the course of reporting Stars Hits stories was almost non-existent; censorship was unnecessary. Hey, I harbored no illusions about some (or most) of our interview subjects and their more-than-likely predilections for recreational drug use and/or sex, but they were apparently clever enough (and/or strongly advised) to keep it discrete. Since most of our interviews took place in conference rooms at major record company corporate offices, usually everyone concerned was on their best behavior. Sole exception to this rule was the genius funk-master George Clinton; when we met at Capitol Records’ Manhattan tower, he fired up a joint to go with his mustard-encrusted street-cart hot dog as we discussed his vast range of musical influences (including The Beatles and Bob Dylan).
A few months later in 1984, I journeyed to Boston to watch The Cure perform and then interview leader Robert Smith. The day after the (superb) concert I dutifully reported to the band’s suburban motel and promptly knocked on their manager’s door, as instructed by the record company representative.
“Isn’t noon going to be sort of early for these guys?” I’d put this question to the band’s publicist back in New York, only to be assured it was “no problem.” Well it wasn’t a problem, in the end, but it definitely was awkward for a few minutes.
That day in Boston, the motel room door belatedly cracked open and the manager looked me over, grunted “oh you must be the journalist then” and motioned me inside. Two young-ish women and a guy I guessed was the manager’s colleague were stationed around a small table with a large mirror laying on it. Nobody looked as though they’d just woken up, put it that way. Before I could stammer an apology, another knock sounded on the door and Robert Smith himself entered, looking pretty much as he did on stage the night previous: tousled hair and a sheen of pancake makeup. He invited me to accompany him to a nearby laundromat, where we enjoyed an extended and convivial interview. Sheepishly, I must own up to leading the resulting article with the immortal sentence “As the clothes driers spin, the wheels start to turn in Robert Smith’s head…” That’s about as decadent as it got at Star Hits, for me anyway.
“DOO-RAN, BILLY IDOL, MADONNER, WHAM!”
So echoed the Felix Dennis mantra as 1985 wore on and Star Hits sales figures remained in a funk, or at least fell far short of expectations. The obvious solution, as our publisher perceived it, was repeating previously successful covers. Hence the mantra, invoked early and often during the editorial cycle, especially when previously untested artists were floated as possible cover subjects. Billy Idol, perhaps the most musically traditional of this Fab Four, seemed to hold a special place in Felix’s affections. “Billy is my banker!” The boss was adamant. Placing your publishing bets on this ex-punk’s peroxide-enhanced image and slender musical talents seemed to me like a stretch, but what the hell did I know?
By this point, the pop landscape was shifting; Duran Duran went on hiatus, Boy George flaked out and groups such as Tears For Fears, though massively popular thanks to the indelible singles “Shout” and “Everybody Wants to Rule The World,” lacked the star power — the personal pizzaz — required to sell magazines. The next wave from England was led by Depeche Mode and The Cure, both of whom we adored in the office but looked a bit edgy to our publishers. (By decade’s end we were proven correct but musical prescience wasn’t, er, bankable in 1985.) While we made space for all manner of oddball pop in the magazine, from Tones On Tail to Tupelo Chain Sex, the cover became the exclusive dominion of Duran, Billy, Madonna and Wham. The challenge was finding creative variations on these increasingly familiar themes, i.e. creating a reason for going back to the well again and again. And at times it seemed as though only I worried about that source running dry. Slowly but surely that summer, the Star Hits zeitgeist left me behind.
In retrospect, it’s surprising that Star Hits held the attention of Felix Dennis for as long as it did. Sometime in spring 1985, he announced the launch of new magazine under the Pilot Communications banner. MacUser (another marvelously succinct FelDen title) would focus on the new MacIntosh personal computer from Apple. Once again, for all his personal indulgences, Felix’s business instincts were killer. Right on target. From the first issue, MacUser proved to be far more successful than Star Hits.
Even after the advent of MacUser, we wrote and edited the bulk of Star Hits copy (now known as content) on state-of-the-art IBM Selectric typewriters. Theoretically, these devices were a step back from the crude digital word processor I’d used at Video Marketing Newsletter during 1982; in practice, manipulating an electric typewriter was the same as typing on an early personal computer, at least for a canny hunter-and-pecker such as myself. Due to the frequency of deadlines at Star Hits, and our frenetic scheduling, I belatedly learned how to compose stories on the typewriter. Until then, the reviews and features I’d submitted to The Village Voice and elsewhere were initially written by hand. I’d type and re-type the manuscripts into presentable form.
Though my focus rests on the written word here I’ll pause to assert the obvious: the most important, innovative and influential aspect of Star Hits was the look of the magazine. Not only the photographs but the graphic design too, laboriously done by hand in those pre-digital days. And as soon as the lay-out boards and articles were completed in the office, they were whisked away via messenger service (or often by me) to a typesetter tucked away in a Murray Hill townhouse. It sounds so quaint by today’s standards and indeed, technological change was closer than we — or anyone — knew.
Events proceeded fast (another FelDen trademark, or strategy). Since our East 58th Street space was so compact, the expanded operation moved to larger and less decorous quarters on West 38th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. Almost windowless except for Felix’s chambers, the new office felt cramped even though the physical dimensions were more generous. The Star Hits editorial and art departments held down adjacent rooms while the MacUser staff occupied several slightly larger rooms down a narrow hall. Among the backpack-toting ex-hippies running the new magazine was a familiar face. Wippo was back; bursting with ideas for utilizing the Mac computers in graphic design, burning a path in the carpet between our offices for spontaneous blowing-off-steam sessions with David Keeps. For the most part, though, personnel at the two magazines kept their distance. New Pop and personal computing were discrete worlds, attracting dramatically different personalities to serve as tour guides. But any hopes that our publisher’s relentless penchant for micro-managing would be distracted by his new venture were quickly dashed.
“DOO-RAN, BILLY IDOL, MADONNER, WHAM!”
My proudest moment at Star Hits, without question, was the Nick Rhodes cover story in the November 1985 issue. We were starved for a fresh angle on Duran Duran that summer. Like all loyal Durannies, I relished the inside knowledge that keyboardist Nick (“the pretentious one”) was both an Andy Warhol devotee and a budding art collector. At that time there was an art boom in the East Village and Lower East Side, with dozen of galleries featuring work (mostly paintings) by locally-based artists.
I was fascinated by art myself and frequented the East Village galleries. But I didn’t feel knowledgeable enough to write about art as a critic, and despite my newfound confidence, I wasn’t socially secure enough to insert myself into the surrounding scene.
Still it was quite a risky neighborhood. After moving to the East Village myself that spring, I marveled at seeing conspicuously well-heeled groups of middle-aged white women wandering lost on Avenue A every weekend. Of course they were searching for the galleries: Gracie Mansion, PPOW, International With Monument, Civilian Warfare, Nature Mort and so on.
So my brainstorm — probably the brightest idea I had at Star Hits — resulted in a feature called Nick Rhodes Art Attack. The plan was to escort Nick to one of these storefront galleries, pose him in front of the paintings, turn on the tape recorder and and let the pop star play art prognosticator. Improbably, it all came off without a hitch.
I chose the Semaphore East Gallery on Avenue B and 10th Street. The current show was a group exhibit called Semaphoria, displaying a representative sample of neighborhood talent. Gallery director Barry Blinderman welcomed the attention and went well out of his way to accommodate us. Intrepid photographer Andy Freeberg and I arrived by foot on a pleasant summer afternoon. My memory conjures up a dramatic image of Nick Rhodes rolling up much later in a stretch limousine; most likely it was just a full-size car service sedan. In those days, anything bigger than a taxi cab looked like a limo from our downtown perspective.
Nick appeared to enjoy himself, holding forth on the artwork and posing for the camera. Andy’s photos captured Nick’s playfulness and the vivid canvases. I just let the tape roll. Back at the office, I cut and pasted the rambling results into an oral-history-style monologue for the article.
Even in works I don’t like I can pick things out. Maybe something’s attractive to look at but I won’t like the subject matter. Or I might like the subject matter and it’ll seem a shame that it isn’t more attractive. Then I might love something because it’s so unattractive. Even if if I don’t like certain works of art, they still give me ideas. It’s always interesting.
I wasn’t surprised at all when Nick immediately gravitated toward “Not Andy Warhol” by Mike Bidlo; it was a precise duplication of Andy’s Marilyn Monroe silkscreen. I was surprised (and disappointed) that conceptual pieces by Nancy Dwyer (the word “MOIST” displayed on a light box) and Tseng Kwong Chi (photo of the artist in front of Niagara Falls) intrigued Nick far more than the ebullient, playfully animated canvases by my favorite up-and-coming painters Ellen Berkenblit and Walter Robinson. And he insisted we shoot him in front of the painting “Subway Vandal” by former graffiti artist Lady Pink, which he disliked and pronounced “quite bizarre, actually.”
The color and energy of the artwork and Nick Rhodes’ opinionated enthusiasm came through loud and clear in the magazine, leaping off the pages. Besides looking great, Art Attack also achieved the goal of being different than the dozens of other articles we’d run on Duran Duran. And it put me in good stead around the office for a month. Looking back, this story represents not only my peak at Star Hits but the underground-goes-mainstream apotheosis of my early years in the city. Within a month, two more transformative events occurred. I began freelancing for Rolling Stone, eventually leaving Star Hits for a job there. And most important, I met the woman who eventually became my wife. The next level of opportunity and challenge in New York City loomed. By then, I was ready for anything.
During the second half of 1985, the atmosphere at the Star Hits office began to feel awkward and tense. And it was at least partly my fault. Constitutionally incapable of hiding my feelings, I showed up at work every day shrouded in black-dog depression about the magazine’s shifting direction. I projected Mr. Magoo irascibility, no doubt pushing my colleagues’ patience to the breaking point. “You’re working my last nerve” declared David Keeps, more than once.
There were reasons for my gloom. When his focus on the Fabulous Four (DuranBillyMadonnaWham) failed to spike newsstand sales, Felix Dennis nudged Star Hits in the direction of traditional American teen magazines like Bop and the eternal Tiger Beat. This meant expanding our coverage to include pretty-boy television actors; many of whom seemed to be named Corey, and all of whom I regarded with self-righteous scorn.
Now I realize my rebellious attitude, insisting on some spurious notion of musical authenticity, placed David Keeps in an untenable position as my editor and friend. Though we bickered about inconsequential editorial choices, Keeps also tossed me a few bones as peacemaking gestures.
Most gratifying was a whirlwind junket to London, where I interviewed Paul Weller about The Style Council (his follow-up project after The Jam.). Out of all my exotic Star Hits assignments, from interviewing Robert Smith of The Cure at a Boston laundromat to sharing a street-cart hot dog and a joint with George Clinton in a Capitol Records conference room, meeting Paul Weller in London takes the cake. No surprise: the Style Council concert I attended in gritty Brixton was soulful and exciting. And when we sat down afterwards, Paul Weller was both thoughtful and thought-provoking.
Hours before tonight’s long-sold-out show there’s a crowd in front of the theatre, replete with punks, Rastas, mods straight out of Quadrophenia, a couple of stylish kids sporting drooping chin-length bangs in honor of Paul (who’d cut them off already) and sign-carrying supporters of every known political cause.
This week, The Style Council’s mugs are plastered all over London, from ads on the sides of double-decker buses to the covers of seemingly every music publication in existence. One weekly has a photo spread with Paul done up as a sort of punk primitive, complete with crotch-cloth and war paint, cavorting in a lushly colorful jungle. In our interview, let’s just say Paul gives the impression that he doesn’t “heart” Ronald Reagan. But he seems surprised when I ask if he hates America.
“We don’t like the American influence on our country, or Europe, or the world and we certainly don’t like American politics but that doesn’t mean we hate every American citizen. Obviously, they’re not responsible for it. It’s like saying we’re responsible for Thatcher, the Tories and all that. We do differentiate between the Reagan America and the other side. If it’s not clear then it will be after this interview!”
— “International Style” Star Hits November 1985
Everything else about those three days shot by in a blur of boxy black taxis and room-temperature pints of ale. Rocketing around London, I glimpsed a startling surfeit of leafy-green parks spread out under the expected threatening grey skies. Warner Brothers Records put me up at the Portobello Hotel, a notorious music-biz haunt located on a shady street near a tree-lined circle. The Portobello’s fame rested on its bar, open after the pubs closed. My hotel room was almost crypt-sized, smaller than my Ninth Avenue apartment, barely big enough for a narrow bed.
During my brief stay I also managed to re-connect with former Star Hits art director Kimberley Leston at Smash Hits’ cramped-but-cozy office in Soho, where I met the writers Peter Martin and Chris Heath among other staffers. Later we all went out on the town for a night of drinking and dancing that I can barely remember but will never forget. The dollar was riding high in 1985, almost equal to the pound in exchange, so my limited funds stretched far. In an unprecedented act of extravagance and fashion awareness, the next day I bought a compact closet’s worth of clothing from shops on Kings Road, including my pride and joy: a grey Hugo Boss linen suit, for a princely 200 pounds. I flew back to New York City wearing the suit, with a new world of experience under my belt.
*
A month or so after my London junket, David Keeps wrangled three invitations to a comparatively swank Columbia Records affair and invited me and Suzan Colon. More extravagant than your typical freebie-feed for media vultures, this promotional event occurred on a yacht. We were set to circle Manhattan on the Hudson River for a few hours. The raison d’être or excuse was two now-forgotten bands then enjoying minor commercial success with their latest Columbia albums: The Hooters and Cock Robin.
Sporting our best outfits (including the debut of my Hugo Boss suit), we boarded the party boat on one of the passenger piers in far west Midtown. Other than our contacts from the Columbia publicity department, I didn’t encounter any familiar faces (i.e. other journalists) among the crowd of sharp-dressed marketing types and radio executives. Accordingly, the ensuing dinner buffet was sumptuous and the full bar strictly top-shelf. As the sun set and the city lights ignited, the night took on an enchanted glow. The drinks helped, but weren’t necessary. Early on, I observed the band members looking as out-of-place as we did. Perhaps they felt lost among the business people. A couple hours later, Suzan and I stood at the railing with various folks from I forget which band.
Exactly what was said is lost to the ages. Mostly, we were speechless: awestruck at whatever combination of tremendous fortune, hard work and pure luck landed us, incredibly, in this fabulous place and time. Seeing the New York City skyline illuminated on a clear summer can have that effect. We giddily pointed at the distinctive Empire State and Chrysler Buildings amid the multiple sky-scraping Midtown peaks, barely glancing south at the relatively boring World Trade Center towers. There was also a moment I’ll always treasure, when we all looked at each other and laughed out loud, each of us wordlessly wondering: how on earth did I get here?
