Originally published in Little Caesar 9, Dennis Cooper, Los Angeles, 1979

Founded by author Dennis Cooper in 1976, Little Caesar was an influential underground literary journal and zine.

Issue 9, the Piero Heliczer issue, is a large, guest-edited festschrift by Gerard Malanga. Pages 197–395 are devoted to Heliczer and feature contributions from notable figures such as Allen Ginsberg, Jonas Mekas, and Sterling Morrison.

Whenever I hear the word 'underground' mentioned, I am reminded of when the word first acquired a specific meaning for me and for many others in NYC in the early sixties. It referred to underground cinema, and to the people and lifestyle that created and supported this art form. And there were a lot of people involved, showing their work and otherwise performing at the old Film-Makers' Cinematheque on Lafayette Street, at the Bridge Theater on St. Mark's Place, at the new Cinematheque on West 41st Street, and elsewhere. I'll leave it to others who are better informed to chronicle the movement, articulate its goals, and evaluate its achievements. But I was real excited by all that went on, and did as much as I could to take part in it; at the very least it was great fun. And the person who first introduced me to this scene was Piero Heliczer, a bona fide 'underground filmmaker'—the first one I had ever met.

Through Lou Reed I had met John Cale; John's neighbor in another unheated flat on Ludlow Street was the redoubtable Angus MacLise, recently returned from eight years spent in Greece and India with his head filled with dervish dancing and exotic percussion. At the time, I was mostly interested in music (of one sort or another). Lou, however, had made a couple of student films at Syracuse University, and John was already a member of La Monte Young's cosmic ensemble that produced drone music with myriad harmonics and used slide-projection visuals. Angus was the most rabidly artistic of us all, with interests in literature, dance, music, film, lights, slides, incense, diaphones, and religion—all at once. He mused day and night on a stage spectacle that might combine them all, and on what the dizzying effects of such a cataclysm might be. Angus, however, was not a filmmaker. But his friend Piero Heliczer both inspired and shared his visions. And Piero was a filmmaker—an underground filmmaker. It wasn't long before I met him, learning what the underground film scene was about (and more besides).

On an early spring day in 1965 John and I were strolling through the East-side slums and ran into Angus on the corner of Essex and Delancey. Angus said, "Let's go over to Piero's," and we agreed (John already knew him). Now that I think about it, dropping in on people was a lot more fun in those days since there was no telling what degree of far-outness you might encounter. There was also an excellent chance that your host would get you high. So it was certainly worth a walk of a few blocks to Apt. 5E at 450 Grand Street (for the good that was in it, as the Irish say). Getting to the fifth floor, however, meant climbing 90 stairs; frequent visits would thus be proof of true friendship. But up I went, and entered the realm of Aquarium Productions, the name under which Piero and Angus published their literary journal, and mounted their theatrical productions.

The apartment was a bright place with a long hall ending in one of two living rooms, with two bedrooms opening off it along the way, and also the kitchen. Opening off the kitchen were a hallway that led past the bathroom to another bedroom, and another living room with an attached double-doored drawing room that served as yet another bedroom. The place was huge, and the rent was only $50 per month, for the landlord was a marvelous fellow named Arthur Brown who only rented to artists of all sorts (and to a few students). You could be months behind in the rent, and when he came around to see what was happening, he only needed to be reassured that you were coming into some money eventually. He was delighted by any evidence that you could present your personal artistic accomplishments—newspaper clippings and posters especially pleased him. He even gave you a card that said you were one of his tenants, and the card got you a 10% discount from a list of merchants who were his friends. On top of that, once a year he took all his tenants to a free dinner at a local health food restaurant. I soon came to covet Piero's apartment and landlord, and eventually acquired both, although a misunderstanding sprang up between Piero and me on that account, and I had to give them back.

The place had some other unusual features too. The first was that the wall separating the bathroom and the bedroom had been knocked down (by Piero in an attempt, he said, to create a "Hollywood Bedroom"); the debris was heaped up in the hall and blocked access to the living room (and harbored mice as well) until I hauled it up to the roof (and got in trouble with the building super, who wanted it removed. I convinced him that the only way I was going to remove it was to throw it over the side to the alley below, where he could pick it up. He agreed then that perhaps it was best to leave it where it was. I later vowed that I would hurl Piero off this same roof). The second feature was that every room, including the bathroom, had at least one telephone. It seems that they were always being installed, then turned off for non-payment of the bill, and hidden away when yet another phone was installed under a different name. When they were shut off no effort was made by the company to retrieve the phones—too many stairs to climb, I guess. But one glorious day my friend and roommate Joe Gallagher (who had knowledge of such things) hooked them all up! You can imagine the envy of all who beheld them, or chanced to hear their simultaneous ringing. We also never had to pay an electric bill because someone had meddled with the meters deep down in the cellar; we were thus tapping our electricity from who knows where (we never bothered to think about it).

Such, then, was the home of Aquarium Productions, and of Piero Heliczer. As for Piero himself, I have always found him to be genial, resolute, optimistic, and dedicated to filmmaking and to pleasure in general. There is a bit of the picaro about him too. Of course, he had to get by on very little money because the expense of filmmaking was a definite burden. Nevertheless, he got his films made, and managed to travel about France, England, and Italy often enough. He should share the secret of how he did it; perhaps it was because so many people liked him and wanted to help him, or to work with him. I was eager to work with him, and the things we did changed the direction of my life. Why we did these things is too much to get into here.

It seems that Piero and Angus were organizing a "ritual happening" at the time—a mixed-media stage presentation to appear in the old Cinematheque. Naturally, this was well before such events became all the rage. It was to be a kinetic display of lights, film, dancers, music, and poetry; it was entitled Launching the Dream Weapon. And needless to say, it got launched tumultuously. In the center of the stage there was a movie screen, and between the screen and the audience a number of veils were spread out in different places. These veils were lit variously by lights and slide projections, as Piero's films shone through them onto the screen. Dancers swirled around, and poetry and song occasionally rose up while from behind the screen a strange music was being generated by Lou, John, Angus and me; I think that Piero was back there sometimes too, playing his saxophone. The whole event took place in an atmosphere of dense smoke from all the incense that was burning. I thought that it was impressive and pretty; Archer Winsten said some nice things about it in the Post the next day, so I guess the launching was a definite success.

A while later there was another such celebration called Rites of the Dream Weapon with a similar format and equally free structure, and it too went over well. I hesitate to list the names of the other people involved in these two spectacles because I am certain I don't remember them all (especially since I was mostly concerned with the music), but the list should at least include Barbara Rubin, Marian Zazeela, Tony Conrad, Walter De Maria, and John Vaccaro.

For me the path ahead became suddenly clear—I could work on music that was different from ordinary rock and roll since Piero had given Lou, John, Angus and me a context to perform it in. In the summer of 1965 the four of us were the anonymous musicians who played at some screenings of 'underground films,' and at other theatrical events, the first of which was for Piero's films (I think that Barbara Rubin and Kenneth Anger each showed a film also). Piero taped the music, and later played it at the other screenings of his films—especially for The New Jerusalem.

Something else happened in the fall of 1965. Angus was in the Times Square subway station when he took a glance at a bookrack. There leaping out at him was the title The Velvet Underground, and he joyfully rushed back to Ludlow Street to report his discovery to us. We had a name at last! And it was adopted by us and deemed appropriate not because of the S&M theme of the book, but because the word 'underground' was suggestive of our involvement with the underground film and art scene. So there. Now you know. (The picture that Gerard Malanga has placed in this issue was taken shortly thereafter by Lou's next-door neighbor. It is one of the first two taken of us—you can't photograph a group until it has a name, for some ontological reason.) From then on Piero was able to identify his tape as 'Velvet Underground' music, at a time when we had some notoriety but no records (or offers to make any). A lot of people in England heard us for the first time because Piero played the tape at his film showings; I know because a number of them came up to me afterwards and said so. We were very grateful.

Of course, with the underground scene flourishing in late 1965, the TV types eventually got around to checking it out. This set them up for what must have been one of Piero's greatest capers. Somehow, CBS News decided that Walter Cronkite should have a feature on an 'underground' film being made—you know, a film of a filming. By whatever selection process, Piero was able to be the 'underground filmmaker;' since he had already decided to film us playing anyway, we got into the act (and besides, we had 'underground' in our name, didn't we? Maybe someone at CBS reads Pirandello). Piero also wanted to film us where we lived, and so that is where the CBS film crew had to report likewise. Where we were living, I should point out, was Apt. 5E 450 Grand Street—90 stairs, hot-wired electric meter, telephones, and all. Only a professional news team would have braved the hardships of this assignment.

The news crew showed up as it was getting dark, and we were already in the process of getting our faces painted completely by Margaret Boyce-Cam. They seemed a bit ill at ease, for some reason or other. First, the lighting man had to put stronger fuses in so that they could use their floodlights—we directed him towards the basement. Since Piero had left a lot of costumes in the closets when he moved, we decided then to make use of a few: Maureen Tucker wore a bridal dress; Bobby Ritchkin [Note: There is a spelling error in the name; it is Robert J. Richkin] had on bishop's regalia (and played bass). The rest of us had on more conventional clothing, but I suppose it looked weird enough to outsiders. Something should be said of Piero's outfit, though, since he looked the most splendid. He wore all black—boots, pants, turtleneck, and jacket—and topped it off with a round-crowned, wide-brimmed black hat, the kind Italian peasants wear. What an image for the straight folks in videoland! Eventually, the lighting man returned, although he looked somewhat shaken by his experience. He proceeded to reveal to us the secret of the free electricity (since none of us had ever dared enter the basement of our slum building and look), and mentioned his difficulties in installing the fuses. But by then the party was well in progress, with intoxicants of all sorts going down on all sides, so everybody just laughed. At that the crew decided to loosen up and have fun too, and soon everything was ready for the main action, whatever that might turn out to be.

We gathered our face-painted selves in the living room at the end of the hall, turned on the amps, and started to play. The TV guys turned on their lights and tape recorder, and got their camera ready. With that, Piero bounded into the middle of the room clutching his camera. He proceeded to whirl and writhe about, zooming and panning by body movement alone, in dazzling contrast to the stationary CBS cameramen gazing into a stationary camera. For Piero the action of the director is part of the action of the film, and he is not one for holding back. The band played on (without vocals) while Barbara Rubin filmed the TV crew filming Piero filming us. Next, something happened that astonished everyone. Piero was shooting furiously one moment, and then suddenly put down his camera (apparently out of film). Everyone expected some sort of break while he reloaded, but not Piero! Instead, he snatched up his saxophone and started playing with a passion, tooting and gyrating for all he was worth, dressed in black, black hat pulled low over his forehead. What a show for the folks! There really was something different about these underground filmmaker types! On the periphery of all of this and in all the other rooms the party was in full swing. Soon, though, the official News gathering ended (with the crew very pleased with what they got), and everyone was amicable as they were leaving. The party lasted much longer.

All that remained was to see ourselves on the tube (and we all wondered whether it would actually be aired). But Walter, bless him, did indeed show it—on New Year's Eve, 1965. You know how his last news segment each evening is a 'human interest' sort of thing, or something offbeat at least. Well, on that particular night we were it, right at the mid-decade juncture. There it was on the screen for all to behold (Lou and I watched it at Danny Fields' place because we didn't have a TV). Then after a few minutes there was a cut back to Walter, who said "And that's the way it is, December 31, 1965... Goodnight." Then they rolled the credits over some more of the footage, as the eerie strains of 'Heroin' played in the background. Good night to you, too, Walter, I thought, and thanks. You too, Piero.

I should say something about that apartment hassle. In the fall of 1965 Piero moved in with his wife Kate (and with Margaret) at a different place, so I gave him his security back and took over 450 Grand Street (along with Lou, Joe, and Richard Cianci). There we all lived happily for over a year with Piero a frequent visitor and occasional inhabitant; lots of other people were in and out too. But in late 1966 Piero came back from Europe with no place to stay and reinstalled himself at Grand Street, which was fine for a while. I wasn't around much anyway, so there was plenty of room. However, Piero then attempted to displace Joe and Richard, who complained to me about it, and demanded that I do something.

me: What's wrong with you guys? Just throw him out if he refuses to shape up.
them: We can't do that! We really like him. Maybe you can talk to him because you have been his friend longer. No, you have to talk to him—we can't do it.

Like I said, Piero is real likable. Finally, though, I made a very loud phone call to him from the Warhol factory on East 47th Street:

me: Piero, you have to leave Grand Street.
him: I can't. I have no place else to live.
me: OK, live there. But what's this about taking the place over and kicking out Joe and Richard?
him: I need the whole place for my work, and besides, it's mine anyway.

There then followed a long and heated discussion of whose place it really was, with a review of the transaction of a year previous. All this was to no avail. He's resolute. And so I began again on a new tack.

me: Piero, do you believe that I am mad enough to come down there and throw you off the roof if you don't give up this business?
him: Yes.
me: Will you stop, then?
him: No.
me: Piero, I swear to Christ I'm coming down there and throw you off the roof. Don't you believe me?
him: Yes, I do.
me: Well, what do you say?
him: I have to have this place. So if you really want to throw me off the roof, I guess you'll just do it. I'm not able to stop you.

So I had to give up eventually too; Richard and Joe moved to a different apartment in the same building. Then the city finally took the building over and gave everyone relocation money (which I suspect was Piero's motive in wanting the old place back). In the end, though, everyone was happy, and all my friendships have endured.

Nevertheless, the word was out that I hated Piero and was planning to kill him. I must confess to spreading those rumors myself, since I was trying to get his oldest and best friends to reason with him where I had failed, to convince him that I was serious about throwing him off the roof. They believed me, it seems, but Piero didn't. And he was right, of course. How could I find fault with a picaro?