Read Online James Gandolfini: The Real Life of the Man Who Made Tony Soprano by Dan Bischoff - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dan Bischoff
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drifted soon after school. Whenever Bart saw Jimmy, he’d recommend Kathryn Gately. Bart wasn’t sure why Gandolfini didn’t just call her, but he never dropped it. It wasn’t personal, it was just business.
* * *
When Gandolfini graduated in 1983, he took an apartment for about a year with his former roommate, Stewart Lowell, in Hoboken. The whole neighborhood all around was undergoing a big renewal, but their apartment was not—it was a tiny tenement hutch carved out of a bigger space to rent to people who couldn’t afford Manhattan.
It was on the fourth floor. It was very small—two bedrooms, but with only a half wall between them—and hot as an oven in the summer. Anybody who thinks the top floor in a northeastern city tenement has to be the hottest because its roof is exposed to the sun all day just doesn’t understand five-floor walk-up physics. It’s hotter in the middle, where the air circulates like mud. Air-conditioning would have been an extravagance, and anyway they’d have to lug the machine up four flights, as they’d just done with their refrigerator. The boys bought fans and left them on all the time instead. They helped drown out the noises from the building, too.
Lowell’s first job was at McCann-Erickson, the advertising firm, so he commuted to Manhattan every day. Soon Jim had landed a bartending gig at an expensive wine bar on the Upper East Side, where he could walk away each night with $100 to $125 in tips, very sweet in those days. He did odd jobs, too, worked construction, filled in as a bouncer now and then.
“He was a survivor,” a friend who knew him in those days says. “He always had a job. He was never lazy, always pitched in, and somehow, whenever he got a job, he’d always be right up there with the owner, or anyway with the most important people.”
One day, Gandolfini answered a newspaper ad and was offered the chance to manage a pricey New York nightclub.
It was called Private Eyes, on West Twenty-first Street, in the trendy club district in those days, and it was one of the first video clubs in Manhattan. Every wall was lined with rows of TV sets held by steel and aluminum racks, and they’d play music and art videos all night long. Madonna arranged advanced screenings of videos at Private Eyes; Andy Warhol would show every now and then; at one party an eight-year-old Drew Barrymore was underfoot. Sleek and techno, Private Eyes was large, though nothing like the nearby four-level Area club of the same era. It was the time when video killed the radio star, and Private Eyes took the winner’s side.
Private Eyes wasn’t cheap—a beer could go for $20, very stiff in those days—and it catered to a wealthy, Long Island clientele. It was a diverse eighties crowd. Gandolfini himself later described the club as being “gay two nights of the week, straight two nights, and then everybody for the last two nights.” The club did downtown mini social events, like hosting the debut of a play for video by The Village Voice gossip columnist Michael Musto, that kind of thing.
It was a big job. Gandolfini remembered he might have ordered a whole year’s supply of liquor in his first week, with nowhere to put it all. Still, the owner, Robert Shalom, had faith in the big twenty-two-year-old Gandolfini.
“I’ve been thinking back to those days, and the fact that he got this job when he was that young to run Private Eyes, which was a pretty big nightclub, shows something about him,” Foderaro says. “I mean, I was just hanging out there with him. But he was managing a really hip, big-deal club, a whole team of bouncers, waitstaff, buying the beer, wine, everything—it was a real job.”
Gandolfini had been a bouncer at clubs before, and he was obviously the sort of staffer entertainment venues like to have around. Several friends said he “enjoyed” bouncing, because finding the psychological insight that gave you an edge against anyone, no matter how drunk or
* * *
When Gandolfini graduated in 1983, he took an apartment for about a year with his former roommate, Stewart Lowell, in Hoboken. The whole neighborhood all around was undergoing a big renewal, but their apartment was not—it was a tiny tenement hutch carved out of a bigger space to rent to people who couldn’t afford Manhattan.
It was on the fourth floor. It was very small—two bedrooms, but with only a half wall between them—and hot as an oven in the summer. Anybody who thinks the top floor in a northeastern city tenement has to be the hottest because its roof is exposed to the sun all day just doesn’t understand five-floor walk-up physics. It’s hotter in the middle, where the air circulates like mud. Air-conditioning would have been an extravagance, and anyway they’d have to lug the machine up four flights, as they’d just done with their refrigerator. The boys bought fans and left them on all the time instead. They helped drown out the noises from the building, too.
Lowell’s first job was at McCann-Erickson, the advertising firm, so he commuted to Manhattan every day. Soon Jim had landed a bartending gig at an expensive wine bar on the Upper East Side, where he could walk away each night with $100 to $125 in tips, very sweet in those days. He did odd jobs, too, worked construction, filled in as a bouncer now and then.
“He was a survivor,” a friend who knew him in those days says. “He always had a job. He was never lazy, always pitched in, and somehow, whenever he got a job, he’d always be right up there with the owner, or anyway with the most important people.”
One day, Gandolfini answered a newspaper ad and was offered the chance to manage a pricey New York nightclub.
It was called Private Eyes, on West Twenty-first Street, in the trendy club district in those days, and it was one of the first video clubs in Manhattan. Every wall was lined with rows of TV sets held by steel and aluminum racks, and they’d play music and art videos all night long. Madonna arranged advanced screenings of videos at Private Eyes; Andy Warhol would show every now and then; at one party an eight-year-old Drew Barrymore was underfoot. Sleek and techno, Private Eyes was large, though nothing like the nearby four-level Area club of the same era. It was the time when video killed the radio star, and Private Eyes took the winner’s side.
Private Eyes wasn’t cheap—a beer could go for $20, very stiff in those days—and it catered to a wealthy, Long Island clientele. It was a diverse eighties crowd. Gandolfini himself later described the club as being “gay two nights of the week, straight two nights, and then everybody for the last two nights.” The club did downtown mini social events, like hosting the debut of a play for video by The Village Voice gossip columnist Michael Musto, that kind of thing.
It was a big job. Gandolfini remembered he might have ordered a whole year’s supply of liquor in his first week, with nowhere to put it all. Still, the owner, Robert Shalom, had faith in the big twenty-two-year-old Gandolfini.
“I’ve been thinking back to those days, and the fact that he got this job when he was that young to run Private Eyes, which was a pretty big nightclub, shows something about him,” Foderaro says. “I mean, I was just hanging out there with him. But he was managing a really hip, big-deal club, a whole team of bouncers, waitstaff, buying the beer, wine, everything—it was a real job.”
Gandolfini had been a bouncer at clubs before, and he was obviously the sort of staffer entertainment venues like to have around. Several friends said he “enjoyed” bouncing, because finding the psychological insight that gave you an edge against anyone, no matter how drunk or
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