Studio 54: Disco Decadence, a Dead Body and Bags of Cash

Summary

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DISGRACELAND: "Studio 54: Disco Decadence, a Dead Body and Bags of Cash"

Date: May 26, 2020
Host: Jake Brennan (Double Elvis Productions)

Episode Overview

This episode of DISGRACELAND delves into the infamous history of Studio 54—arguably the world’s most legendary nightclub. Host Jake Brennan dissects the paradoxical soul of Studio 54: the excess and euphoria of the disco era, the pure inclusivity of its dance floor set against the elitist velvet rope outside, and the hubristic downfall of its owners, Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager. The story follows the rise and spectacular fall of an institution that redefined nightlife, celebrity, and social boundaries, spotlighting drugs, sex, cash skimming, and even a grisly secret: a dead body hidden in its ceiling vents.

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Key Discussion Points & Insights

1. Setting the Scene: The Birth of Disco Havens

• Mob Rackets and Music Choices ([02:35])
  • Early NYC bars had to deal with mafia control over jukeboxes; club owners avoided jukeboxes to steer clear of the mob.
  • The introduction of DJs was both practical and revolutionary: “DJs—music aficionados with impeccable taste who could source new, exciting, as of yet unheard of 45s from places as far away as France and Western Africa…” (Jake Brennan, [05:30])
  • Disco music provided an emotional and physical escape for marginalized communities, especially the LGBTQ+ community in post-Stonewall, pre-Reagan New York.

2. The Magic of the Dance Floor & the Power of the DJ

• DJs were performers, not just selectors, crafting dance floor journeys for dancers seeking freedom, connection, and escape.
• “The last song was crucial… It was about creating a lasting emotional connection before parting ways.” ([07:50])
  • Example: Donna Summer’s “Love to Love You Baby” as an emotional, nearly spiritual finale.

3. Enter Steve Rubell: The Rise of Studio 54

• The Origin ([11:45])
  • Steve Rubell, an aspiring club owner, emerges from the underground disco scene with a flair for showmanship and exclusivity.
  • Rubell promises big things at a pre-launch club night: “My name’s Steve… it’s called Studio 54. It’s gonna be huge.” ([12:49])

4. Studio 54’s Opening Night and Instant Legend

• Opening Night Chaos ([16:59])
  • Initially empty, then a rapid influx after well-orchestrated publicity efforts.
  • Early celebrity sightings: Donald and Ivana Trump, Cher, Michael Jackson, Diana Ross, Brooke Shields—mingling with NYC locals.
  • The club’s vibe was “liberation… euphoria… abandoned, visceral and fun filled the room.”
• The invention of the velvet rope: a symbol of Rubell’s exclusivity, where, “ironically, he joked that Studio 54 club goers shouldn’t look anything like himself… but he owned the club, so he ruled like a little disco Napoleon.” ([19:15])
  • Quote: “Studio 54’s owner, Rubell… casting his embittered glamorous spell with a new kind of magic wand… the original velvet rope.” ([19:25])

5. The Cult of Exclusivity & Celebrity

• Stories of naked women on horseback attempting to “outdo” Bianca Jagger’s legendary entrance.
• Rubell’s selectiveness at the door—sometimes cruel, always theatrical—is key to the club’s allure ([24:59]):
  • “Steve Rubell could be vicious at the door, demeaning wannabe customers right to their faces, insulting their appearance, their fashion choices, their clout.” ([25:30])
  • The door policy created a blend of “crazy characters, celebrities and regular clubgoers just right. Like a secret recipe.”
• Inside, the party was a bizarre mix: A-list celebrities mingled with drag queens, subway workers, and “Disco Sally,” a 77-year-old dance legend.

6. Scenes of Decadence and Hedonism

• Iconic parties:
  • Bianca Jagger’s white horse entrance.
  • Dolly Parton’s bash with live barnyard animals.
  • Halloween with peep show booths featuring little people acting out domestic scenes.
• Upstairs: rubber-lined balcony for easy cleanup after sex acts—“the balcony at Studio 54 was for sure for blowjobs.”
• Downstairs: “Mattresses set off in cubicles… if the blow didn’t blow your top, and if the Quaaludes didn’t cut you down to size, you could steal away for a quick romp.” ([29:20])

7. The Drugs and the Money

• The club ran almost entirely on cash.
• Steve Rubell’s legendary skimming:
  • “Collect all the cash in a big plastic trash bag”—some went to the safe, the ceiling, or even into Andy Warhol’s hands for amusement. ([16:59])
  • Skimming was “illegally… always part of the plan, going all the way back to opening night.” ([17:10])

8. A Dead Body in the Ceiling

• One Morning, a Grim Discovery: ([35:09])
  • Staff finally investigates a horrendous smell; they discover a dead man in the air vent—“dressed to the nines, dressed for the party, a party he’d never attend. Dead in the air vent… shunned from the velvet rope too many times to count. He donned his tux and decided to sneak in Studio 54 through the air vent. Something jammed him up…”
  • Chilling image of the danger, desperation, and dark side beneath the glitz.

9. The Downfall: Hubris and a Federal Raid

• Studio 54’s cash-driven business and Rubell’s braggadocio attract the IRS.
  • Rubell boasts to New York Magazine: “Only the Mafia does better.” ([36:45])
    • That line invites the Feds.
• Double bookkeeping: one set for the IRS, another for the true take.
• The Federal Raid ([38:05]):
  • $2.5 million in cash discovered, trash bags full of money, drugs seized.
  • Rubell’s disastrous PR move: accusing White House chief of staff Hamilton Jordan of using cocaine in the club’s basement—this kills any political protection.
• Public grows tired and enraged at the club’s elitism and criminality—a change in the cultural tide toward conservatism and Reagan-era values.

10. The End of an Era

• Conviction and Prison:
  • Rubell and Schrager sentenced to 3.5 years; they snitch on competitors, get sentences reduced.
  • Club changes owners; the party’s over.
  • Disco, tainted by elitism, loses its grassroots, inclusive cred—and fades from mainstream dominance.

11. The Final Coda: Rubell’s Last Days

• 1989:
  • Rubell, frail and HIV-positive, desperately tries to recapture the old spirit at an afterparty, but is just an annoyance, coughing and alone.
  • “Knowing the writing was on the wall… Steve tried to make the dial on the rotary phone work. But no luck… The coughing wouldn’t stop… the thunderous fit of coughing drowned out even the music. Something had to be done. The owner of the loft took it upon himself to let Steve Rubell know he wasn’t welcome.” ([46:30])
• A poetic end for the king of exclusivity, now cast out.

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Notable Quotes & Memorable Moments

• On disco’s power:
  • “These were records that were meant to be an escape. …meant you were special because you were in on what was going on.” (Jake Brennan, [06:55])
• On the velvet rope:
  • "Steve Rubell knew what kind of people should get in. And ironically, he joked that Studio 54 club goers shouldn't look anything like himself. …He wasn't just a member of the club, he owned the club. And so he ruled like a little disco Napoleon." ([19:15])
• On the exclusivity:
  • “Steve Rubell could be vicious at the door, demeaning wannabe customers right to their faces… It made for a cult of exclusivity.” ([25:25])
• On the cash and criminality:
  • “There was simply too much money, too much cash, too much to count, too much to account for.” ([16:59])
  • “In an interview in New York magazine in 1977 on the success of Studio 54, Steve Rubell told the magazine, ‘Only the Mafia does better.’ That set off alarms at IRS headquarters.” ([36:45])
• On the dark side:
  • “The scent of rot was seeping in through the air vents… a dead man… he donned his tux and decided to sneak in Studio 54 through the air vent. Something jammed him up.” ([35:09])
• On disco’s demise:
  • “Studio 54 embodied the spirit of disco in a lot of ways, but not for everyone. That was the irony. Steve Rubell's exclusive velvet rope policy smacked of elitism and led to not only the demise of Studio 54, but of disco as a dominant cultural force.” ([44:16])

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Timestamps for Important Segments

• Mob, Jukeboxes, and Disco’s Origins — [02:35]
• Club Culture, DJ Scene, Early Disco — [05:00 - 11:00]
• Steve Rubell, Early Studio 54 — [11:45 - 13:00]
• Opening Night, The Celebrity Flood, Velvet Rope — [16:59 - 21:00]
• Famous Parties, Mix of Characters — [25:00 - 29:30]
• Sex, Drugs, and the ‘Downstairs’ — [29:30 - 31:00]
• The Dead Body & The Hidden Cash — [35:09 - 36:50]
• The IRS, The Raid, The Downfall — [36:45 - 43:00]
• Rubell’s Last Days & the End of the Era — [44:00 - 47:50]

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Tone and Language

Jake Brennan’s narration is vivid, irreverent, and at times poetic, blending dark humor with a sense of tragic inevitability. Descriptions are rich, occasionally profane, and highly visual, aiming to make listeners feel the pulse, grime, and glory of old Manhattan nightlife.

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Conclusion

This episode of DISGRACELAND lays bare the spectacular story of Studio 54—the highs of disco decadence, the dangerously thin line between freedom and self-destruction, and the fatal allure of exclusivity. It’s a story of not just a club, but a cultural moment that defined—and doomed—an entire era of music, nightlife, and celebrity.

Transcript

[A]

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[B]

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[C]

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[D]

This is Jacob Goldstein from what's yous Problem? Business software is expensive, and when you buy software from lots of different companies, it's not only expensive, it gets confusing. Slow to use, hard to integrate. Odoo solves that because all Odoo software is connected on a single affordable platform. Save money without missing out on the features you need. Odoo has no hidden costs and no limit on features or data. Odoo has over 60 apps available for any needs your business might have, all at no additional charge. Everything from websites to sales to inventory to accounting. All linked and talking to each other. Check out Odoo at o d o o.com that's o d o o.com Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Studio 54 are insane. Arguably the most legendary nightclub of all time, Studio 54 celebrated, encouraged and flaunted hedonism, farm animals, little people, giant coke spoons hanging from the ceiling, drugs, cocaine, quaaludes, sex and other Romanesque acts of debauchery were rampant inside the walls of Studio 54, as were the criminal exploits of club owners Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager, both of whom carefully cultivated the allure of Studio 54, drawing first on the inclusiveness of disco culture's early days and later on the exclusive cult of celebrity personality. Famous musicians John Lennon, David Bowie, Mick Jagger, along with the world's most famous celebs. Not just actors and actresses, but international heads of state, royals, and even bratty dynastic Kennedy kids were all a ubiquitous presence, seen nightly dancing with abandon amongst ordinary New Yorkers. So constant was the celebrity presence at Studio 54 that Studio 54 redefined the concept of celebrity for the modern age. That's a fact. Andy Truman, Liza. Suddenly their last names didn't matter. Studio 54 had made them even more famous, and Studio 54 made its owners, Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager, a lot of money. And money. The abundance of it was the problem, not the sex or the drugs or the great music. That's right, great music. Because disco is great music. That music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called Coke Baroque MK1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to La Freak by Chic. And why would I Play you that specific slice of fuck off cheese. Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on December 14, 1978. And that was the day federal agents showed up at 254 W. 54th St. And effectively shut down one of the greatest parties America had ever seen. On this episode, sweat soaked and totally coked celebrities, debauchery on the dance floor. Cash trash, a dead body at the disco in Studio 54. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgraceland. It was simple. If you owned a bar or nightclub in New York City and had a jukebox in your place, you are going to have to go into business with the Mafia. Jukeboxes were one of the many rackets controlled by the mob. Truth was, racketeering millions of dollars in jukebox nickels all over the country was a time honored practice, going back to Meyer Lansky in the 1930s. Movie star Debbie Reynolds caught a taste of it when she tried getting into the jukebox game as an investment in the 60s, only to see most of her financial stake gobbled up by the Genovese crime family. Mob control of jukeboxes also gave made guys easy access to all sorts of classy nightclubs and dance bars where they could frequent regularly their goomas. So if you didn't want wise guys cutting in on your profit or worse, hanging out at your club, you would best find a form of entertainment that wasn't a jukebox. Especially if you were gay and trying to establish a club in New YORK in the 1970s, you had enough problems you, you didn't need the mafia jamming you up. So a jukebox was out. And bands, good bands anyway, not the covers crap that would attract the unwanted straight crowd and possibly also the mafia's attention weren't really an option either. So DJs were a necessity. DJs? Music aficionados with impeccable taste who could source new, exciting, as of yet unheard of 45s from places as far away as France and Western Africa and as near as a couple of hours down the road in the Gamble and Hoff warehouse in Philly. Records like Sugar Pie Guy by the Joneses and Wild Safari by Barabas. Music that would attract the preferred clientele. Clientele who wanted to dance and to connect emotionally out in public, sort of for the first time. These were early to mid-70s recordings that had nothing to do with the post-60s Malays of the first part of the decade. These were records that were willfully ignorant of the societal pressures of the Day, the drag of the Economy, Vietnam and Watergate. Records that were meant to be an escape. These were the records being played in Manhattan's first openly gay dance clubs. The music these DJs played rhythmically relied on a repetitive reinforced kick drum, nearly a constant 4 on the floor beat to keep the dance floor full and celebrated hedonism and individuality. A sense of individuality that turned out could be empowering for a subculture regularly persecuted because of its sexuality. A type of music called disco clubs like the Ice Palace, Infinity and hurrah hired DJs who not only sourced this exciting new music, but who also knew how to perform it. And I don't use that word perform lightly. Disco DJs or good ones anyway, sequenced the records they played to not only keep the dance floors full, but to elicit an emotional reaction from clubgoers to connect through music, through dance and in an emotionally resonant way, one that was enthralling, compelling and totally fun. Most early disco was a combination of obscure, deep grooved black American soul and imported world music being played in European discotheques. In addition to attracting sophisticated gay Manhattanites, some of whom worked in fashion stylists, hairdressers and makeup artists, these clubs also attracted beautiful women models who would follow their gay male co workers from the fashion industry for an undeniable good time to clubs where there were no obnoxious straight men to hit on them. Clubs where they were free to dance and to have fun until the early morning hours. The vibe at these clubs was was special, unique. It was a moment in time. Post Stonewall Pre Reagan. For the first time anywhere in America, being gay was being seen as something other than a liability. It was fun and semi open. If you were gay or straight and an ally, the experience of dancing at these clubs was glorious. You couldn't help but feel emotionally connected to most everyone in the room. The the DJ at Harrah knew this and he calibrated his set accordingly. The last song was crucial. It wasn't about kicking the party off from the club at 4:30am to some grimy after hours. It was about creating a lasting emotional connection before parting ways. He had just the song. Donna Summers, Love to Love youe Baby. The Giorgio Moroder pen 16 and a half minute vamp filled with Summers ecstatic dramatic moans and groans was more than just sex. It was a high walk cable of connectivity that pulsed through the early disco scene. Timed right, played at just the right moment during the night. The song was enough to make those in the know openly weep on the dance floor. Because aside from the sex, the sweat, the pulsing lights, the requisite clubland drugs and booze, the burgeoning hedonism, if you were in on this song, it meant you were in on something special. Special. It meant you were special because you were in on what was going on. He couldn't help but feel it, not just on the dance floor, but in the larger club scene in New York at the time. Something big was about to happen. The little dude from Brooklyn at the bar knew it too. And it didn't matter how up he was either. Last call had come and gone and the Quaaludes had kicked in big time. The bartender asked him if he was going anywhere. The little dude smiled wryly, as if in on an even deeper secret. The bartender then shouted over the pulsing Donna Summer track, you look like you're having a good time. The short dude replied with, yeah, I think I'd taken too many Quaaludes. I want your name and address. The bartender smiled and wrote his info on the back of a matchbook. The short dude smiled back at him and tried again to make his mouth work. Thanks. My name's Steve bull. It's called Studio 54. It's gonna be huge. Foreign.

[A]

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[B]

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[D]

There was simply too much money, too much cash, too much to count, too much to account for. At the end of another successful night at his new club, Studio 54, co owner and master of ceremonies extraordinaire Steve Rubell used to collect all the cash in a big plastic trash bag. He'd stash it in his safe, hide it in the ceiling, squirrel hundreds of thousands of dollars of it away in his Upper east side apartment. He'd flaunt it. He'd stuff it into the insides of his puffy winter jacket and roam the bowels of the studio handing it out to unsuspecting clubgoers. He'd set an extra trash bag full of cash aside in his office and let his new friend Andy Warhol come over and just play with it. Andy loved cash. But most of all, Steve Rubell and his business partner Ian Schrager would skim it off the top of the nightly take. Illegally skimming cash was always part of the plan, going all the way back to opening night. April 26, 1977, 254 W. 54th St. The first guests to show up at the opening of Studio 54 were ushered in with little fanfare. Near empty, the new club and old converted CBS television studio, seemed cavernous, cold. The guests, one of whom was an ambitious up and coming real estate tycoon from Queens, Donald Trump and his new wife Ivana, fresh from dinner at Elaine's to see what all the hype was about, were not impressed. But that would soon change. Shortly, the club started to fill up around them, and it filled up fast. They came pouring in through the front door, the side door, the back exits had to be opened to accommodate the surging crowd inside. Months of smart publicity, well placed notices in local papers, perfectly timed tip offs to celebrity handlers, and organic word of mouth throughout the disco scene had created a a swell of anticipation for the new club. And an hour or so after its official opening, that swell had crashed down upon Studio 54. Cher made the scene. People freaked out. She and actress Margot Hemingway hit the empty dance floor before anyone else and just went for it. Strategically placed photographers from Local rags started snapping pics of basically the only thing that was happening at the club up there to that point. Two celebrities dancing. Norm soon joined them. And it was cool, this mixing of class status, it was compelling. More people joined on the dance floor. Brook Shields, not yet a teenager, brought there by British journalist Robin Leech was one of them. Michael Jackson showed up accompanied by Diana Ross, both of whom were in town filming the Wiz. Faux togs photographed. The music pulsed. Deep, deep bass from the state of the art sound system. Gotta Give it up by Marvin Gaye. I Feel Love by Donna Summer, Sir Duke by Stevie Wonder. Chic's Everybody Dance. The music was contagious and thus so was the dancing. The vibe was real, right? The dance floor was hot, sticky. Euphoric self consciousness wasn't an option. Abandoned, visceral and fun filled the room. Liberation. Men dancing with men, women dancing with whoever they wanted. Unencumbered bartenders, young, cut, 20 something, shirtless, clad in nothing but tight gym shorts and tennis sneakers, hustled the crowd for tips. Celebrities mingled with New Yorkers in off the street. No one busted the vibe or the groove. It was almost innocent for a New York minute. Anyway, inside, all of a sudden there were a thousand people and there were another thousand thousand people trying to get in. Outside on 54th street, the crowd ballooned. Steve Rubell stood on a fire hydrant next to his head of club security and cherry picked wannabe discoers from the sidewalk for entry into his own private theatrical production. Choosing lucky entrance into his suddenly exclusive club was like, he would say, casting a play, like Groucho Marx's famous line that wouldn't want to be part of any club that would have him as a member. Steve Rubell knew what kind of people should get in. And ironically, he joked that Studio 54 club goers shouldn't look anything like himself. Schlubby, short, unimpressive, outer borough, bridge and tunnel. A phrase he invented. Despite his self perceived shortcomings, Steve Rubel had a keen eye for glamour. Not celebrity necessarily, but physical behavior, beauty, vitality, charisma, individualism. The scrawny boy from Brooklyn with the pockmarked face had found a loophole in Groucho's joke. He wasn't just a member of the club, he owned the club. And so he ruled like a little disco Napoleon. That he was casting his embittered glamorous spell with a new kind of magic wand of his own invention, the original velvet rope. The velvet rope, connected on stanchions, was first deployed outside Studio 54's entrance to keep the prostitutes working Times Square out from under the marquee and away from the customers. But with the swelling crowds looking to gain entrance into the club, it quickly became a tool to keep the crowd at bay, clearly dividing those who had it from those who didn't. The velvet rope empowered Steve to keep anyone who looked like him out. Steve had started from the bottom. Now he'd made it. He was special. And his club was only for the special people. And he was going to make damn sure he'd be the only person like himself inside. Outside the studio on opening night, while Steve cast club goers, the crowd spilled into the street and completely blocked traffic. Sirens wailed. Beat cops shook their heads in disgust. Prostitutes wondered what in the hell was happening to their neighborhood. What an ass pain. Warren Beatty tried unsuccessfully to get in. So did Henry Winkler. And the Fonz was shit out of luck. Word spread around the excited crowd that Frank Sinatra was circling in a limo, his people trying to devise a quick entrance. And there was a doctor in the crowd who, like most of the people around him, had been trying, without any luck, to get in. Soon he figured that if no party was to be had inside, then there was a party to be had out on the sidewalk. About 30 or so waves of people backed from the studio's entrance. He pulled the mayonnaise jar sized container of Quaaludes from his coat pocket and began passing them out to everyone around him. About 20 minutes later the pills kicked in and so too did the pent up sexual tension in the good doctor's immediate vicinity. A street side orgy kicked up amongst the fully looted crowds surrounding the doctor. Sex in the street on opening night. Because why? Not because it was something to do. Because it was Studio 54 the next day. Steve Rubell was ecstatic. The opening was a smash. It all but said so right there on the COVID of the goddamn New York Post with its front page coverage of the club's first night, complete with a photo of Cher. At the studio, Rubel worked the phones, called everyone he knew to let them know what a success the opening was. His business partner, Ian Schrager, worked the books. Ian, an attorney with a sharp mind for business, calculated the skim, the cut for him. Steve and his other partner, Jack Touchet off the gross from the door, the bars, the coat checks, cigarette concessions. It was not an insignificant number. Business was about to go boom. Steve took a call. It was international fashion designer Halston. He'd read about the studio in the morning paper and Wanted to know if he could throw a birthday party for the soon to be ex Mrs. McJagger Bianca Jagger Steve's new club. Of course. Steve exclaimed. He quickly made arrangements with Halston, hung up and deadpanned to his business partner, ian, Bianca Jagger is throwing her birthday party here. We need a horse.

[B]

We'll be right back after this.

[C]

Word, word, word.

[D]

Mark Banake, Studio 54's doorman and head of security, couldn't believe what he was seeing there. Cutting through the nightly mass of wannabe Studio 54 entrance. Lined up and assembled on the other side of the Velvet rope on 54th street were two women, naked women on horses. Riding the horses through the crowd up to the velvet rope in hopes of getting by Steve Rubell and gaining entry into to the studio. The women, like everyone else in the world, had read about Bianca Jagger's party at the studio in the papers. Bianca was photographed riding into the club, into her party on the back of a beautiful white horse that Steve had arranged. So these two women figured they could one up Bianca and not only mount horses, but mount them naked and be so over the top they would be guaranteed entrance. Steve rebelled, took one look at them. They were bridging tunnel all the way. Steve told them their horses could come in, but they couldn't, and to take their naked asses back home to Bay Ridge or wherever the. And that's exactly what happened. Steve Rubell could be vicious at the door, demeaning wannabe customers right to their faces, insulting their appearance, their fashion choices, their clout. It made for a cult of exclusivity. Steve made sure the qualifications for getting inside remained hard to pin down. It wasn't just novelty or camp or glamour. It was originality and authenticity. Disco Sally, a widowed septuagenarian born in 1900 who still had the craziest moves on the dance floor. Rollerina, a staple of Greenwich Village and the club scene, who was never spotted without her trademark skates on inside the club. Stockbrokers blowing off steam by coming out to party in drag and mingling with drag queen royalty divine, who could be seen yucking it up with Elton John. For all the excess inside the club, Steve had an eye for balance, keeping the blend of crazy characters, celebrities and regular clubgoers just right. Like a secret recipe. Studio 54's eccentric regulars and velvet robe policy became legend. Doorman Mark Benecke regularly exchanged entrants for sex. The shot of superego adrenaline steel Steve got from ruling over the crowd was better than sex. Steve may have been callous and mean to his customers outside. But inside he took care of his guests, especially his celebrity guests, showering them with drugs, alcohol, gifts and elaborate parties. Whether it was New Year's Eve or Halloween, Bianca Jagger's birthday or Andy Warhol's, the parties at the studio were not to be topped. Magic rained from the ceiling where there took the form of a literal ton of glass, glitter or wrapped gift boxes full of designer fashion. Dolly Parton held an after party at the club with live farm animals. One Halloween party featured peep show booths where inside little people performed everyday scenes. Another birthday was circus themed with costumes provided by legendary Italian filmmaker Federico Fellini. Celebrities flocked the Studio 54. Liza Minnelli, Andy Warhol and Truman Capote. New Yorkers all adopted the club as their regular. And there were more celebrities of course. Robert De Niro co mingled with his native New Yorkers and hid out from paparazzi. Bruce Springsteen traded in his blue collar credentials for the high life. Andre the Giant hung out with the little people, literally. Mick Jagger got bored with Bianca and found a new love. Texas model Jerry Hall. Keith Richards found his future wife as well, another model, Patty H.E. hansen. Steven Tyler got to know Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson got to know Brook Shields. John Travolta got sweaty with Sylvester Stallone. Grace Jones got naked a lot. Despite the velvet rope politics, Studio 54 on the inside, like disco culture, was about inclusivity. Celebrities working stiff, stockbrokers, firemen, whoever, it didn't matter. As long as you were interesting and had something to offer. Young, old, gay, straight, drag, trans, you were welcome. Provided you could get inside where you were granted access to a never ending Shangri La for freaks, weirdos and outcasts, where even the most stigmatized members of society could rub shoulders among other body parts with high society shining stars. New York's underground queer community was at home at Studio 54 in a way that no suburban commuters could ever be because the square's imaginations just weren't big enough. But in this Nighttime Xanadu on 54th, the shadowy corners of the outside world of like bus station glory holes became the main attraction in the club balcony, which was rubber lined for convenience to make for easy cleanup after heat of the moment sex acts. And that was upstairs. Upstairs, the balcony at Studio 54 was for sure for blowjobs. But if you were looking for something more, there were mattresses in the basement. Grimy, filthy mattresses strewn upon the dingy basement floor of Studio 54. For those who just needed to fucking. The basement was sort of the unofficial backstage, where pretty much anything was allowed. As if the open sex and blatant drug use going on upstairs wasn't hedonistic enough, downstairs was where the truly debauched got down. To gain access to the basement, you needed to be somebody and Steve needed to believe you were somebody and worthy of his attention. And his drugs. Cocaine and Quaaludes. Lots and lots of cocaine and Quaaludes. A trusted bartender or security member would lead you behind one of the main room's bars. There was a secret door. It would open and you'd be guided down a dark, dingy stairway into a darker expanse. Instantly you transcended from glitz to grime. A concrete floor, low ceiling, sticky stained furniture randomly placed amongst old set props from the venue's past days as a television studio. And there was little light, the throb from the massive subs upstairs propelling those on the dance floor into primal motion bled through. You'd hear murmurs, random fits of funhouse mirror laughter amidst bottles being popped and blow being hoovered. Debbie Harry grabbing the ear of Andy Warhol, Truman Capote sprawled out on a sofa in his bathrobe, champagne bottle dangling from his hand, Margaret Trudeau and Linda Ronstadt hanging off of a gin soaked, Ryan o' Neal sweating subterranean sex appeal and Steve Rubell hanging off of his every word. And the mattresses. They were set off to the side in makeshift cubicles for privacy if the drugs allowed. And if the blow didn't blow your top, and if the Quaaludes didn't cut you down to size, you could steal away for a quick romp.

[A]

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[D]

next during the daytime, the basement was largely avoided by Studio 54 staff. But one morning, avoiding the effects of last night's party was no longer an option. The smell was too much, too strong. The doormen and money counters could barely go about their business. They swore a stray animal had climbed in and gotten trapped. The scent of rot was seeping in through the air vents. Reluctantly, Steve had the air vents inspected. What they found was rattling inside the basement ceiling air vent. A dead man shunned from the velvet rope too many times to count. He donned his tux and decided to sneak in Studio 54 through the air vent. Something jammed him up. Who knew how long he'd been trapped in there, screaming in horror, competing with the blasting music, the funhouse laughter, and the constant ecstatic din and hum of hedonism. He was dressed to the nines, dressed for the party, a party he'd never attend. Dead in the air vent. Steve breathed a sigh of relief. The air vent, not the drywall. No need for the sledgehammers. No need for poking around and potentially exposing what was hidden mere feet from the dead man in the ceiling rows and rows of cash, the skim hundreds and hundreds of thousands of dollars hidden away from the irs, right there in the rafters and crawl spaces of Studio 54. Off. Off. It was New Year's Eve, and disco hitmaker Nile Rogers and his chic bandmate Bernard Edwards were at Nile's apartment a couple blocks away from Studio 54, fucking around on their guitars, totally dejected, angry, pissed at doorman Mark Beneke for not letting them buy the velvet rope and into the studio's much hyped, highly exclusive New Year's Eve party. To make matters worse, Niall and Bernard weren't just going to the club to party. They were going on business to meet with Grace Jones to discuss producing her next album. So in effect, they were standing her up and fucking up their business in the process. They banged on their guitars in between chugs of warm champagne straight from the bottle. Fuck off. They were messing around, channeling their anger at Bennicke, at Steve Rubell, at Studio 54, the house that disco built while disco music was being built in part by Niall And Ben Bernard. Fuck Off. The more they played, the more it became clear that the sound of what they were messing around with was actually sounding pretty good. As they dug in, Fuck off soon organically morphed into Freak off and then Freak Out. And just like that, Sheik created a disco anthem born out of Studio 54's ridiculous exclusivity. Chic's Le Freak would go on to sell 7 million copies and hit number one on the Billboard Hot 100, becoming the first song to hit number one three different times over its lifespan of 25 total weeks on the chart. Nile Rogers and Mark Benecke are now friends, no doubt because Mark's actions led to the creation of Chic's massive hit. In part, the success of Le Freak led to Nile Rogers becoming an in demand producer and working with Madonna and David Bowie. Not to mention mention the untold millions of dollars the track generated for its songwriters. And the millions were stacking up elsewhere as well. In an interview in New York magazine in 1977 on the success of Studio 54, Steve Rubell told the magazine, only the Mafia does better. That set off alarms at IRS headquarters. Clearly, Rubell was joking about the amount of money the club was making. But the joke must have been rooted in some sort of truth. Everyone knew, especially IRS agents, how notorious the nightclub business was for skimming. It was a cash business, so it was easy to skim money off the top of the nightly take and not report it to the federal government and thus not pay taxes. And business taxes in 1977 were a robust 48%. The IRS suspected Rubell was screwing uncle out of serious coin. So they got to work. Rumor was the IRS had a plan. A snitch, a disgruntled employee, irregular. Someone disrespected, angered by Steve Rubell. Someone Steve treated like shit. Either dressed down in front of others, kicked out of the club, or more than likely refused to let pass the velvet rope. It didn't matter either way. The snitch was pissed, angered at being treated like. And so he told the IRS everything he knew. The drugs, mountains of cocaine, an endless supply of Quaaludes. Steve kept it in his office, kept it hidden away in various spots around the club. Kept drugs on him, especially when he had his big frumpy winter coat on. Then he was definitely holding. And more than drugs, the coat was big enough to stash stacks of cash as well. Cash Steve would hand out to friends, Warhol especially, but would also also used it to bring back to his east side apartment, where he had close to 900 grand in small bills ensconced in his safe. Ian Schrager, Steve's business partner, was rumored to be driving around the city with 400 grand in cash in his trunk. Ian managed the nightly take. And most everyone who worked at Studio 54 knew every night at midnight the receipts in the cash registers would be switched. The cash register received receipts from the earlier part of the evening would account for one set of financial books and the cash registered receipts from the second part of the evening would account for a second set of financial books. Two sets of books that Ian Schrager kept meticulous records of. When 30 federal IRS agents raided Studio 54 on the morning of December 14, 1978, the books they unearthed and the raid made clear to them that on average, Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager were skimming about $70,000 a night. Over the course of a year and a half all in, they'd taken $2.5 million off the top into their pockets, tax free. In addition to seizing records, agents also seized trash bags filled with cash from the basement and five ounces of cocaine. Steve Rubell was arrested that day. He and Ian hired high profile attorney Roy Cohn, a bull of a lawyer, former attack dog for the red baiting disgraced Wisconsin Senator Joseph McCarthy and future mentor to the aforementioned Queens real estate developer and future president Donald J. Trump. Roy Cohn did not fuck around. He dug in and began to fight for Ian and Steve. And Steve Rubell, perhaps inspired by Roy Cohen's notoriously aggressive tactics with the press, in his most egregious act of hubris, decided it was a good public relations strategy to accuse White House chief of staff Hamilton Jordan of using cocaine in the basement of the studio earlier that year. That about sealed Steve and Ian's fate. The hubris, the elitism, the Success. Steve, Ian, Studio 54, the high profile crime and court case were in the papers almost every day by the time the sun came up on the party of the 1970s. New Yorkers, Americans, frankly, they were pissed off and tired of the elitist bullshit. Celebrities, embezzlement, designer drugs, these were high society east coast elite problems for a culture that was bending toward Ronald Reagan, conservatism and an idealized regressive notion of what America should be. It was schadenfreude when the judge gave Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager three and a half years in federal prison for corporate and personal tax evasion. A sentence that was ultimately reduced due to the duo's participation in helping the government, convict, four other New York City club owners, competitors of Studio 54. What a swell couple of guys. The studio remained open under new management and eventually new ownership when Steve and Ian went to jail in 1980. But effectively with their departure and the turn of the decade, the party was over. Disco began with the spirit of inclusiveness, a music and a culture that encouraged and celebrated individuality. A culture that was welcoming no matter where you came from or what your identity was. Male, female, gay, straight, trans, drag, rich, poor, young, old, it didn't matter. You were welcome so long as you were welcoming yourself. Studio 54 embodied the spirit of disco in a lot of ways, but not for everyone. That was the irony. Steve Rubell's exclusive velvet rope policy smacked of elitism and led to not only the demise of Studio 54, but of disco as a dominant cultural force as well. 1989, July. Aloft in downtown Manhattan, the remnants of a dinner party turned cocaine. Pre game turned night out at the club with more coke turned afterparty. Back at the loft, where it all started, with more lines and some grass. Grass to take the edge off. Early morning hanging out. Semi famous DJs, stockbrokers, a street artist and Grace Jones still naked a decade plus since her days at Studio 54, smoking a joint in the corner. It's a relatively chill scene, despite the better part of the evening. Being in the rear view, too high to go home, too tired to do much of anything but wait on the sun. Steve Rebel is sitting alone on the sofa. He's frail, 10 years removed from his heyday at Studio 54, his life since a prison term, a quick career resurgence upon his and Ian Schrager's release, new clubs and hotel ventures, and then the gut punch reality of aids. Steve was positive hiv. And on that night, the night he effectively escaped Beth Israel Medical center to party, he looked like death. Knowing that the writing was on the wall, that he only had a few days left to live. Steve had been drinking heavily and taking whatever drugs were put in front of him. And now the coughing wouldn't stop, much to the annoyance of the other guests in the loft. Steve knew it. And Steve knew he had to get back, back to the hospital. And through the fits of coughing, he tried to make the dial on the rotary phone work. But no luck. Whenever he'd get his bony little finger into the hole to spin the dial, he'd start coughing again, violently. And he'd have to start all over. The coughs were thunderous. Despite coming from such a frail man and seemingly endless and driving the others in the loft to distraction. To annoyance, Steve Job tried to dial again. More coughing. No dice. Again more coughs. Steve's hacking was now drowning out not only the conversation, but the music coming from the stereo. Soon he was likely to start waking the neighbors. Something had to be done. The owner of the loft took it upon himself to let Steve Rubell know he wasn't welcome. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes [e-mail] if you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com membership members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad free. Plus you'll get one brand new member exclusive episode every month, weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com membership for details, rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Facebook Disgracelandpod and on [e-mail] Disgracelandpod Rocka Rola

[C]

He's a bad, bad man.

[A]

Hey, it's Ryan Seacrest for Albertsons and Safeway. It's Stock up Savings time now through March 31st. Spring in for storewide deals that earn four times the points. Look for in store tags to earn on eligible items from Hunts, Nerds, Pillsbury, Lowry's, Breyers, Quaker and Culture Pop. Then clip the offer in the app for automatic event long savings. Stack up those rewards to save even more. Enjoy savings on top of savings when you shop in store or online for easy drive up and go pickup or delivery restrictions apply. See website for full terms and conditions.

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[D]

It's tax season, and by now we're all a bit tired of numbers. But here's an important one you need to $16 billion.

[A]

That's how much money in refunds the

[D]

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[C]

We all have different styles. I may be into Levi's and you may be into Fendi or Miu Miu. But we all should be into poshmark.com right? Because we can all find exactly what we want to fit our style. Poshmark has millions of new and pre lived pieces. Vintage, luxury, men's, women's, children's, everything from Carhartt to coach. Download the Poshmark app and sign up with code podcast10 and get $10 off your first purchase.

[D]

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[B]

Hosted by Katie Milkman, an award winning behavioral scientist and author of the bestselling

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book how to Change. Choiceology is a show about the psychology and economics behind our decisions. Hear true stories from Nobel laureates, authors, athletes and everyday people about why we make the choices we do and how to make better ones to help avoid costly mistakes. Listen to [e-mail] podcast or wherever you listen.