Ruby Lynn Reyner, RIP (Ruby and the Rednecks)
As it so happens, I interviewed Ruby Lynn Reyner three years ago on this very day. I was interested in talking to her about her time fronting Ruby and the Rednecks, a satirical glam rock band that regularly shared stages at Max’s Kansas City, the Mercer Arts Center, and CBGB with the likes of the New York Dolls, Patti Smith, Blondie, the Modern Lovers, Suicide, and Talking Heads.
But Ruby was, first and foremost, an actress. Her roots were in director John Vaccaro’s Playhouse of the Ridiculous, a campy, queer, DIY East Village theater troupe whose flamboyant productions were a major influence on the likes of David Bowie and The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Ruby’s decades-long acting career took her to numerous Broadway, off-Broadway, and off-off-Broadway stages, and she starred in the 1970 film Heaven Wants Out alongside Warhol superstars Holly Woodlawn, Mary Woronov, and Ondine (the film, which is an extraordinary time capsule of early ‘70s Downtown, can be viewed in it’s entirety here, and Finishing Heaven, an Emmy-nominated documentary about its long gestation, can be viewed here).
Despite the raging Covid-19 pandemic, Ruby insisted I interview her in person, and with some apprehension I obliged. I asked that we meet outside, sit far apart, and remain masked; Ruby respected my boundaries but assured me that this whole pandemic thing was bullshit.
We met in Union Square, where Ruby was parked on her mobility scooter, wearing purple leggings festooned with marijuana leaves, purple Uggs, and a red winter coat. She repeatedly stressed how cold the weather was and insisted we go to her apartment two blocks away. Nervously, I agreed.
Though I personally disagreed with her objections to quarantine protocols, I quickly recognized and appreciated the emotions and experiences behind them. She’d struggled with heroin addiction through the ‘70s and ‘80s, and she’d lost her husband and many of her friends to HIV/AIDS. She was missing a couple fingers and all of her toes. She’d lived a life that few could have endured, so what was another virus? Ruby was a survivor.
If our conversation occasionally reads as disjointed, it’s because Ruby spent the much of it flipping through her collection of photo books and archival materials to jog her memory. The recording of our conversation is punctuated with several humorous asides (e.g. “Oh look, there’s Larry Rivers. I slept with Larry once”), and there were a couple salacious stories that I can’t legally print until all of the involved parties are deceased. It was an absolute delight.
My hour and a half with Ruby flew by, and I promised to be in touch after the book was released. When I wrote to her a few months ago, I was surprised not to hear back, but that suddenly made a lot more sense this week when I learned that she’d passed away at 76. I share our conversation here to honor her life and celebrate her work.
Where did you grow up?
I'm from Long Island, from Rockville Center. I want to call my autobiography Escape from Long Island. My dad was a doctor, and he was well-loved because he was a gynecologist, and he delivered all the children in the [town]. People used to come over to us when we were eating dinner out and kiss his hands.
So when did you first move to the city?
Well, first I went away to college, to Emerson College [in Boston]. And I started taking drugs in Boston. That’s the first time I shot up heroin, and I loooooved it. But I got mononucleosis, so I had to come home. And then I dropped out of school, because I was a drama major and they never gave me parts in plays. And I was good - I'm a good actor, and they never cast me. I don't know why, maybe I was not popular or whatever.
So I went home to my parents, and I got a job modeling coats. I met a girl there who was my age, which was like 18 or 19 - Sarah Screech, we called her - and she said, “Hey, I'm going to my rehearsal tonight for this play.” She was in the chorus. She said, “You want to come?” I said, “Oh, yeah.”
So I went to the rehearsal at the loft of John Vaccaro and the Playhouse of the Ridiculous, and bang, he put me right into the chorus.
Where was his loft?
It was in the East Village, on [9] Great Jones Street. He had a huge loft. He put me right in, and I was in the chorus of Conquest of the Universe. What happened was that John Vaccaro and [his collaborator] Charles Ludlum split, and Charles went off and did When Queens Collide, which was kind of campy, and John did Conquest of the Universe, which was more than campy. It was like, guerrilla theater. Mary Woronov was [playing] the Conqueror; I met Mary and we became very good friends. Taylor Mead was in the play, and we had a lot of Warhol people [involved].
And then one day, Ondine, who was a Warhol guy, and Louis Waldon, who was another Warhol guy, came to my apartment. They said, “Hey, Beverly Grant,” who played the Conqueror’s wife, “she fell and broke her ankle. You're on tonight as the Conqueror’s wife.” I knew all her lines, so I became the Conqueror’s wife. I became a little Downtown celebrity, let's put it that way.
Silver Apples were involved in some of those plays, right?
Yes. One show we did was called Cockstrong; I think that's the one we did with Silver Apples. They were like the first digital keyboard band, you know? First synthesizer, they called it. It was huge! It was humongous, and it looked like it was homemade. So I [sang] a couple of songs with the Silver Apples.
A year or so went by - this is like ‘72 - and I said to myself, “You know, we’re always doing rock songs in the plays, and I can sing. I should form a band!” I went to the Mercer [Arts Center], which had recently opened, and I said, “Hey, I have a band. I'd like to perform.” They said, “No, we're all booked up.”
So I'm leaving the Mercer, and I run into Billy Murcia, who was the drummer for the New York Dolls. We knew each other from Max's Kansas City. He says, “Hey, Ruby, what are you here for?” I said, “Well, I have a band and I'd like to do a gig.” He says, “Hey, listen, you could open for us.” So I opened for the Dolls at the Mercer. And that was it, you know?
So we performed at the Mercer, but then one day, the Broadway Central Hotel, which was attached to the Mercer, collapsed. The Mercer was fine, it didn’t collapse at all, but it shared a retaining wall with the hotel that collapsed. It wasn't safe, so they had to destroy it. And it was brand new; everything was brand spanking new. It was beautiful, it was perfect, but it had to be torn down.
What was it like inside?
It was gorgeous, and it was clean. Most of the places that you played back then were dirty, like CBGB’s was funky. This was pristine and modern and clean.
I remember playing in, I think they called it the Blue Room. I did a song called “Singin’ in the Island,” and I had a cardboard volcano. At the end of the song, I had a little stepladder and I jumped into the cardboard volcano. Alice Cooper was sitting in the front row, he fell off his chair laughing. And then we played [there] a lot opening for the Dolls; I remember the whole front part of [their] audience was on the floor from quaaludes and were all passed out. It was not easy to play for an audience that's passed out.
But then, when the Mercer had to be destroyed, I had to move over to Max's and CBGB. Those were the two places that were punk - I was considered glam rock, but it morphed into punk. I would open for people like the Talking Heads and the Dead Kennedys - they were more punk. I was more [telling] little stories with my music, and doing some songs from the plays as well. My signature song was “Ruby from the Wrong Side of Town,” which was autobiographical.
You'd been hanging out at Max's for a while before you started performing there, though.
I was a regular in Max’s’ back room. The back room was like at the Algonquin Hotel in the 1930s. All the downtown denizens and the celebrities mingled together. There was one table where Warhol held court, and then another table for the Playhouse of the Ridiculous. We used to hang out there in the back room after everything we did, and they were open until the break of dawn.
I was friends with Mickey [Ruskin, the owner]. Mickey would buy a drink for you on your birthday, and probably buy you dinner. He really wasn't that good a businessman. I'd say “Mickey, it's my birthday, and he’d say, “Again??” It was always my birthday.
Jane Fonda came around with [her then-husband, film director] Roger Vadim looking for young women to screw, and I was approached. Vadim had a long, skinny dick, or so they said; Jane would be involved in arranging the whole thing, and then she’d watch. I was also almost fixed up with Warren Beatty, but I thought, let me be the one New York chick who hasn't screwed Warren Beatty.
Where were you living at that point?
Hmm, that's a good question. I lived in a couple of different places. The first place I lived was on 16th Street. And then at one point I lived on 10th Street; I shared an apartment with Jackie Curtis, and Holly [Woodlawn] stayed there sometimes.
Do you remember what that rent was?
Oh, we never paid. It was a couple hundred, but we would not pay the rent, not pay the rent, and it took them a couple of months to catch up with us. And then when they threw us out, we’d just find somewhere new. That was no problem. It was great! So no, I never paid rent. My parents paid my rent. I'm a spoiled Jewish girl.
So every night at Max’s there was, they’d call it “happy hour.” We'd go and they'd have free food: chili and hot wings. That's how we survived. Of course, it was horrible food; we always had the runs. But it was free. And then if you ordered a salad, they brought a huge salad bowl to the table, and everybody could eat from that.
Jackie started to [present as] masculine, and then when he was doing drag, it wouldn't work. He had to shave when we lived together, but we didn't pay the electric bill, so he had a beard. We were going to Max’s - we had to go to Max's to eat - so he wore a veil, and he said, “Well, you have to wear a veil too.” Otherwise it would be obvious.
Little old ladies were crossing themselves as we walked by. I was always guilty by association. They thought I was a guy! I was very feminine, but they thought I was a guy.
When Mickey Ruskin closed Max’s and it reopened under a new owner [Tommy Dean Mills], was there a tangible difference?
Yeah, it was totally different. Because in the early part, there was no punk. Punk really formed at the Mercer, and it morphed from glam into punk. The second Max's was totally punk, but when Mickey was still in charge, they [were booking] name bands. Bruce Springsteen opened for Bob Marley and the Wailers [at Max’s]!
Bob Marley and the Wailers stayed at the Chelsea Hotel. My girlfriend Muskie was a Danish model, and she said, “Oh, I've been telling Bob about you. Why don't you come over to the Chelsea?” So I came over to the Chelsea, and I opened the door and this waft of marijuana smoke hit me in the face. They were rolling spliffs [using] the New York Times [as their rolling papers]. I’m like, “Guys, no! There’s ink in that.”
Beyond the music, just in terms of the space or the atmosphere, was that different under Tommy?
It was pretty much the same. I mean, Max's compared to CB’s was always cleaner.
That's not saying much.
Well, yeah, CB’s was really a dive. I remember the toilet paper, if you had toilet paper, was hanging on this frayed rope, and there were never doors on the stalls. CB’s was really a dive, but it was meant to be that way. It fit with the punk bands.
I was in Legs McNeil’s book, Please Kill Me. But I read Legs McNeil's book, and it was bullshit! I mean, Penny Arcade was interviewed, and she said I was a legendary amphetamine dealer, which was wrong. It was wrong. I never did that! I lived with a legendary amphetamine dealer.
How did Hilly [Kristal, CBGB’s owner] and Peter [Crowley, who booked bands at Max’s] compare as bookers? Did you have an allegiance to one more than the other?
They had the same bands; if you weren't playing Max's you were playing at CB’s. Hilly probably did a little better, because the Ramones really gave him a leg up, and the name bands tended to [play at CBGB]. Like the Police, they were playing at CBGB when they first got to New York.
Hilly really wasn't that friendly. He didn't hang out. I hung out with Peter; we became close. But Hilly, I was told that I was one of his favorite bands, because he wasn't really into the punk thing. Hilly reluctantly got into that music. But the community around Max's and CB’s, we more hung out at Max's than CB’s, because we’d hung out at Max's before we played there.
Given that a lot of clubs in the city only survive a handful years, why do you think CBGB lasted as long as it did?
There were always people there, and Hilly was alive and kept it going. When did it close?
2006.
Oh, wow. You know what, it was sad. Because I went when there on the last day, and they didn't even let us in. They had all the press and the Uptown people there, but they didn’t let in the people who made it what it was. Unless you were a success, you didn’t get in.
Did you see the CBGB movie?
Oh, come on! The one that really aggravated me was that one about the Mercer.
Yeah, Vinyl. Because they showed the New York Dolls playing with the [building] falling down around them. That's so stupid! It never happened.
It collapsed in the middle of the day, right?
Right. And the Mercer itself didn't actually collapse. It didn't collapse at all! That's the sad part. It had to be torn down and it was beautiful. But it was not safe [because it was attached to the collapsed hotel]
I really was privileged to be around at a wonderful, incredible time in New York City. I'm so glad that I never had a day where I thought, “What am I going to do today? I have nothing to do.” I always had a jam-packed life. You could walk down the street to St. Mark's Place, and it was like a parade of people in costume. People were always, always creating.
We had La MaMa and all these little theater groups on the Lower East Side and Downtown that were always doing something; [I was] always going from one show to the next show to the next show. One show would end and we'd go right into the rehearsals for the next show. We'd be rehearsing for the next show while we were performing [the previous show] that night. I remember at one point, I think ‘73, we [the Playhouse of the Ridiculous] were doing Cockstrong, Son of Cockstrong, and Heaven Grand in Amber Orbit.
Heaven Grand in Amber Orbit was an event. People used to come again and again and again, because you never knew what was going to happen. John [Vaccaro] used to go on the Bowery and drag bums off the Bowery and throw them on the stage. We did it at La Mama and we also did it at a place called the Bouwerie Lane Theatre, across the street from CBGB. We ran for a couple of months there.
And I mean, I went to Broadway! I was in Elizabeth I on Broadway with [Fantasy Island star] Herve Villechaize [at the Lyceum Theater in 1972]. We were close, because we were two freaks. Most of the other actors [in the play] were kind of…actor-y. So we used to go out to lunch together after rehearsals, and he'd say, [mimics Herve Villechaize’s accent perfectly] “Ruby, you’re so crazy. Every time we go out to lunch, everybody wants to fuck you! If only I weren’t married, I would loooooove to fuck you.”
Is there a specific moment you can pinpoint when you noticed Downtown starting to gentrify?
I don't know. For the second part of the ‘80s and the first part of the ‘90s, I was taking care of my husband, who had HIV dementia. That was hard. But I took care of him, so all my energy was focused on caring for him. But I still performed!
I remember going out with my husband when I first met [him], which was in Narcotics Anonymous. We went out to dinner and somebody came over the table and asked for my autograph, and he was like, “I can't believe it! You're famous.” I said, “Yeah, but only to a small group of people.”
But that's why I give interviews, without questioning: because I want it all to be remembered. I think it's really important. It’s a part of history.
This interview has been lightly edited and condensed for clarity, brevity, and context.
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You can buy my book This Must Be the Place here
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