Standing before a Sherwin-Williams store, Mark Ronson confessed he felt nothing, despite it being the former site of the iconic Buddha Bar.
In the 1990s, as a less-than-enthusiastic New York University student, he worked tirelessly to secure a DJ slot at this very downtown corner, Varick and Vandam.
Back then, Buddha Bar pulsed as a hub of New York’s cool, a swanky lounge where supermodels danced to the city’s most innovative DJs, and bouncers strictly kept hopefuls on the curb.
Ronson simply gazed up at the paint store’s sign.
“I desperately wanted to play here,” he recalled. “But it did absolutely nothing for my career. All that effort just to spin here, and now it holds no significance for me. It’s likely far more beneficial as a paint shop today.”
Mark Ronson outside the onetime site of Buddha Bar, a New York nightclub.
Now at 50, Ronson is a world away from those nights spent lugging heavy record crates from one gig to another. His journey from electrifying dance floors led him to a stellar career as a record producer, songwriter, and film composer. Collaborating with an impressive roster of artists including Amy Winehouse, Bruno Mars, Adele, Billie Eilish, Dua Lipa, and Lady Gaga, he has amassed nine Grammy Awards, an Oscar, and numerous multiplatinum successes.
He’s currently pausing to reflect on his past, vividly recounting his DJ apprenticeship years—a period he remembers with both affection and dismay—in his newly released memoir, “Night People: How to Be a D.J. in ’90s New York City.” Recently, he embarked on a walking tour of his old stomping grounds, revisiting these memories.
“Even now, standing right here, I still feel a buzz,” he remarked at the intersection of Canal Street and West Broadway.
This location once housed the New Music Cafe, a humble spot that transformed into a sweltering hotspot during its renowned “Sweet Thang” parties. Today, it stands as the upscale Palace NYC, boasting an Art Deco aesthetic and offering bottle service.
Mr. Ronson stands near the entrance to what was once the New Music Cafe. “What was cool about it is, it wasn’t overly trendy,” he said.
“Its appeal was that it wasn’t excessively trendy,” Ronson explained, noting that the clientele originally included “downtown regulars” and “registered nurses” before it began attracting A-listers like Mike Tyson, Wesley Snipes, and Leonardo DiCaprio.
His most unforgettable moment was the night Biggie Smalls, whom he crowns “the King of New York” in his book, made an appearance. Ronson, on the turntables, was skillfully mixing Mary J. Blige’s “You Bring Me Joy” with Barry White’s “It’s Ecstasy When You Lay Down Next to Me.” Months later, Biggie returned, this time accompanied by Jay-Z.
“It was for one of their birthdays,” Ronson remembered. “They walked in wearing matching white hats, and it was absolutely electrifying. I was in this surreal space, watching the artists from my record covers literally come to life before my eyes.”
Despite a privileged upbringing spanning London and Manhattan, Ronson’s path to becoming a DJ seemed unexpected. However, as he details in his memoir, he was inherently a ‘night person’ from childhood, a trait he attributes to his parents: his socialite mother, Ann Dexter-Jones, and his father, Laurence Ronson, a music manager turned real estate mogul, who both “lived for the party.”
Following his parents’ divorce, Mick Jones of the rock band Foreigner became his stepfather. Their spacious 10-room apartment on Central Park West transformed into a lively 1980s party hub, described by Ronson as “teeming with musicians and eccentrics.” Yet, he remained sufficiently shielded that he didn’t fully immerse himself in the club scene until age 16.
“I was a fairly well-behaved kid,” he confessed. “I rarely snuck out and steered clear of drugs.”
His true passion, however, was music, and he yearned to experience The Shelter, an all-ages dance club located on Hudson Street.
“Downtown felt incredibly distant, and my first serious girlfriend lived on Prince Street,” he recounted. “I remember her artist mother giving me directions: ‘Take the C train to Prince Street.’ It all sounded like a foreign language to me back then.”
Mark Ronson at Limelight in New York in 1993.
Today, he found himself standing outside the former site of The Shelter. Before him lay Officine Gullo, an opulent kitchen remodeling studio, its stainless steel ovens gleaming through the glass.
“It was simply incredible to arrive here and witness a thousand kids, all sharing that intense excitement, slowly inching forward in line,” he reminisced. “In winter, everyone bundled up in huge coats, and some kids, clearly having indulged too soon, were already twitchy and dancing while waiting.”
“Since the parties ran until four or five in the morning,” he added, “we’d devise intricate cover stories about sleepovers and other alibis.”
This marked the true beginning of his downtown life. Now, he resides nearby in TriBeCa with his wife, Grace Gummer (daughter of actress Meryl Streep and sculptor Don Gummer), and their two daughters.
Our tour continued towards Don Hill’s, another club where Ronson once DJ’d, now closed for years. He reflected on the cultural shift at the turn of the century, when New York embraced hipsters and indie rock with fervor.
“That was the first cultural wave where I truly understood I was no longer at the forefront of cool,” Ronson admitted. “I felt a bit intimidated by it. Everything was suddenly ‘Oh, look at those really skinny jeans.’”
“I had been DJing for a decade,” he continued. “By then, I was thoroughly exhausted by the whole scene.”
The demanding schedule of working from 10 p.m. to 4 a.m. for years also brought with it drug use, which he candidly addresses in his memoir. “I didn’t set out to write an intensely personal book about addiction and my own drug habits,” he stated, “but I felt it would be disingenuous to omit those experiences.”
He then transitioned from the DJ booth, launching the next chapter of his career as the acclaimed producer of Amy Winehouse’s “Back to Black.”
“It’s like a scene from one of those movies, where you just see all your former selves getting in and out of cabs, going in different clubs, carrying crates,” Mr. Ronson said.
Occasionally, while strolling through his neighborhood with his daughters today, he catches glimpses of his younger self: a driven hustler, cigarette pack in hand, records meticulously packed in crates.
“It feels almost cinematic, a bit cliché,” he remarked. “It’s like a movie scene where you see all your past selves hopping in and out of taxis, heading to different clubs, always with those heavy record crates.”
The final destination of our walking tour was 171 Varick Street, the former home of Tilt, a club where he once commanded the turntables.
Now, it’s a Dunkin’ Donuts.