Now that was a decent place—a wild, drugged-out place, yeah, but a hot spot for freaks and any artist who loved them. By the time I started making that scene, Andy Warhol had stopped showing up, but his vibe still lingered in that back room he ruled—you know, the feeling that you could be a nobody weirdo one day and then pop out of Max’s a glam superstar the next. Everybody who went had a quality about them, a buzz, and the connections were legendary. I wasn’t surprised, when Blondie got big, to hear that Debbie Harry had once waited tables at Max’s, or that Iggy Pop first met David Bowie
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