3 Hours at mr. Black L.A.

By Jeff Chatterton

After bearing witness to the rise and fall (and rise and fall and rise and fall) of mr. Black, the now infamous NYC dance den, being invited to host at "mr. Black L.A." was too tempting an offer to refuse. Since its inception in 2006, mr. Black quickly became a home for myself and many other creatures of the night in NYC, and despite its short time on the scene, it made a definite impact on the city’s nightlife. I started at mr. Black in 2006 as a cocktail server. I go-go danced, did coat check, cashiered and then for two years was one of the managers. I also became known on Friday nights as "Wrestleboy," a cocktail serving host.

I'm billed on the L.A. invite as Jeff "Wrestleboy" Chatterton, alongside Supreme Hosts Luke Nero (former mr. Black NYC manager and evil genius behind the L.A. incarnation), Lenora Claire, Gregory Alexander and Rusty Updegraff, as well as guest hosts Joshua Miller and Cheyne Hauk. Having seen pics of the L.A. party, I knew that it was a slightly more fanciful affair than NYC. So I decide against wearing a wrestling singlet, even though I have one in my suitcase. I go against character and try to look presentable in a blazer, fedora and understated sequined tank top.

Arriving by cab, the driver misses the entrance to the club (which is just north of Hollywood on Vine) by about a block and I use the opportunity to have one last cigarette before entering. I meet a few people on their way inside who say enthusiastically that it's their favorite party in L.A. right now. I know New Yorkers claim that L.A. friendliness is insincere, but isn't that just something a jaded New Yorker would say?

The door staff is also exceedingly friendly (the nerve!), and I wander my way inside Bardot, the lush and glamorous home of mr. Black L.A. Entering the club I'm taken by the beauty of the space. Ample seating, intimate corners, a decent sized dance floor, and a patio. Calling it a "patio" really doesn't do this space justice, because even though you're outside, it doesn't feel like it. The tables and bar outside are just as busy as in.

I quickly find Luke and he gives me the grand tour, past the friendly and attentive bartenders, a cute cigarette girl, hosts Lenora Claire (with the fire engine red hair and enormous chest), Gregory Alexander (A Club Called Rhonda), Mr. Rusty Updegraff (Beige), and a whirl through the backstage area, a glam looking greenroom with couches and mirrors where the staff can go to escape if they need a break. Remember how to get back here! I tell myself. This is where I'm going to want to be!

Luke introduces me to an endless parade of tanned and muscled cocktail servers, who wear the costume he made infamous as The Ass in NYC: top hat, black apron and little else. They follow in his tradition, taking "Ass Shot" photos next to customers, entertaining the crowd and occasionally serving drinks.

I enjoy a few drinks from the early open vodka bar, even though I have a fistful of drink tickets burning a hole in my pocket—once a cheap bitch, always a cheap bitch. It’s early, but the crowd is already here, and it’s getting busier by the minute. I notice the music DJ Josh Peace is spinning is very reminiscent of my favorite mr. Black parties, an eclectic mix of Euro-electro pop and house, all very danceable and upbeat.

I'm trying to figure out what makes this party different from other L.A. parties and Luke points out that the location helps. With Bardot situated right at Hollywood and Vine, its neither a WeHo spot nor a Silverlake destination, and that helps bring in a more diverse crowd. If that means nothing to you, some compare West Hollywood to Chelsea, and Silverlake to the East Village. I don't necessarily agree, but for the sake of argument that's a good frame of reference.

The night goes by quickly with a steady soundtrack from Josh Peace, a seemingly unending flow of Stoli sodas and one too many shots of Patron for old times’ sake. The crowd is crazy and colorful, and doesn't read as a "gay" party inasmuch as it does a "cool" party. Everything and everyone seems cool, so much so that I almost start to feel out of place. Almost. I remind myself that I helped build the House of Black, as dubious a distinction as that may be.

As the night rolls on, we move back and forth between the outdoor space and inside to the dance floor, alternating between cigarettes and dancing, always with a drink in hand. Before I know it, its 1:30 and I am starving and ready to go. As we hop into a cab I realize I never went back into the Green Room once, I didn't need to "escape" from the crowd all night.

We get back to the apartment, and as an appropriate end to a glamorous mr. Black evening, heat up some Cup of Noodles, still in our fancy duds. Equal parts trashy and classy, always a spectacle. mr. Black, I’ve missed you!