Hurrah's began as a nexus for disco (in the early days it was a rival of Studio 54 and Xenon), then moved over into what was still called "new wave." It was booked by Jim Fouratt, famous for coining the slogan "The Man Can't Bust Our Music" at Columbia Records in '68 and for being one of the leaders of the Stonewall uprising the following year. The one evening I was there, the Voice and Soho News ads said the Teardrop Explodes and Echo & the Bunnymen were to play. This would have been their American debut; at the time each act only had a single out, readily available at 99 Records and not-so-readily available at Bleecker Bob's. But when I arrived at Mark Abbott, Jose Abete and Donald Miller's apartment at W. 101st on Friday from Bard College, I was told by Donald (who had just started his ensemble Borbetomagus) that the English bands weren't playing; I can't remember if he knew the reason but it perhaps had to do with the American Federation of Musicians regulations on performers from overseas, or perhaps a problem with airfare. Instead, the Comateens and the Individuals were on the bill; this would have been the third or fourth gig ever for the latter band. So Donald, his girlfriend Sharrie Sanders (to whom I'd introduced him some weeks before) and I went to the club.»
I don't remember much about the bands except that the Individuals were already doing the kind of "Hoboken sound" that became so familiar to college students four or five years later. What I remember about Hurrah's was that it still had a lot of disco-style mirrors and lights. And also this: sometime before the Comateens went on Donald grabbed me by the shoulder, spun me in the direction of the bar, and shouted in my ear: "Look!"
I beheld two men standing at the bar, facing each other, very deep in conversation, their profiles silhouetted against a light source either behind the bar or adjoining it. One was a shorter, white-haired man; the taller man had dark hair. The shadowed profile of the shorter man was not familiar, but the equally shadowed profile of the other could never be mistaken by anyone who'd watched TV in 1968.
"It's Tiny Tim!" I gasped. "But who's that with him?"
"Charles-Henri Ford," Donald replied.
What could those two have been talking about? The erstwhile Herbert Khaury can no longer tell us, but perhaps one of you websurfers may want to ask Mr. Ford about it over tea at the Dakota one of these days.
1979
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This brought back memories. a group I played in, the Invaders, played there. Our group was actually responsible for Jim Fourrat becoming the booking manager there. another guy was booking it, the club had just started booking “downtown” bans, and he was stealing money from the bands & the club. We complained to the owners of the club after we opened for the Dead Boys and didn’t get paid the percentage that we were supposed to.A week later he was gone & Fourratt had his job. We wound up getting another gig with the Only Ones & we got half the door, about five grand, pretty nice money in those days. Fourratt booked some great shows there.