The Loft Where Time Stood Still

I RECENTLY sat in Los Angeles, staring at an article describing plans to build a residential tower on 10th Avenue on the Far West Side of Manhattan. Nothing new there. Except that the developer doesn't realize that his tower is destined to obliterate a strange and unexpected thing: my time capsule. Or, as some people used to call it, my mausoleum.

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The author’s second-floor apartment on 10th Avenue.

New York has never been kind to struggling young musicians who have to scrape together money to rent rehearsal space. So when I was a struggling young musician back in 1979, I dreamed of living in an isolated loft where I could rehearse for free.

Hard to find even then. But one day I stumbled onto the spacious second floor of a dilapidated two-story building on 10th Avenue and West 38th Street. The loft, which sat above an old Irish pub, had Midtown views and a door leading to a tar "patio" in the back. Its tin ceiling was rusty from leaks, its floors sagged, the wind whistled through cracked windows. No kitchen, no real bathroom. Not a fixer-upper, but rather a disaster area.

I told the pub's owner, Hugh, that I had to think about it, but I didn't think long. That evening, I saw a vision of my entire future life unfolding in that loft, a vision so vivid that I couldn't sleep. The next morning I raced over with my deposit. Then the first of several odd things happened.

Hugh told me that a young woman had just put down a deposit. That, I insisted, was impossible. I "knew" that my destiny was to live and work in that loft. Hugh looked at me as if I were nuts. But my vision was so striking that I returned every day with my check. Two weeks later, Hugh told me that the woman had just come in, weeping, asking for her deposit back. The loft was mine.

My dad drove into the city from Connecticut to help me fix it up, and I adopted a cat to chase out the rats dancing above the tin ceiling. Then the second strange thing happened. My life unfolded in that loft almost exactly like my "vision" that first night.

Having free rehearsal space changed everything. The loft became home to a succession of projects, from my first band, Brenda and the Realtones, to gigs with legendary figures like Ronnie Spector, Darlene Love, Rufus Thomas and Solomon Burke. Dozens of projects sprang to life primarily because I had free rehearsal space.

By the mid-1980s I was producing the "Downtown Divas" revues at Limelight and the Palladium. A critic wrote that these revues were helping to revive the local music scene, but if anything it was the loft that was doing that. David Johansen, leader of the New York Dolls, described the place as "Gabriel's basement in the sky."

Finally, in 1987, I was forced out because a developer planned to demolish the building and replace it with a residential tower. And that's when the really strange thing happened.

Now prosperous, and headed for an apartment in Chelsea, I decided to leave my funky furniture, carpets, equipment and pretty much everything else behind. I told friends that I'd buy new, start fresh. There was no reason to clean things out, since the next tenant would be a wrecking ball. When I left that last day, the place looked as if I were going for a walk instead of departing forever.

A month later, the crash of 1987 put plans to demolish the building on indefinite hold. The next time I passed, the street-side entrance had been bricked up. According to Hugh, the new owners feared that crack addicts might break in.

Through the windows, you could see my old posters on the walls, my curtains and lamps, even my dishes on the shelves. And there it sat. A time capsule. Or, as some friends began to call it, "Gabriel's mausoleum in the sky."

Over the next few years, I left music, became an AIDS activist, founded OutWeek magazine, became a columnist for New York Newsday. Jam sessions and gigs faded into ancient history. But my past life was perfectly preserved in the loft, jarring me every time I whizzed by in a cab.

The situation felt so weird that I began having recurrent dreams. In these dreams, I would break into the building and creep up the stairs, past fading posters for CBGB and Max's Kansas City, to reclaim my rock 'n' roll life. I would live in the loft surreptitiously, tiptoeing so people didn't hear me. But the dreams always ended in cold sweat. Police officers would come storming in. Or I'd remember that I had left my cat in Chelsea.

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Gabriel Rotello is a producer of television documentaries.

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