Standing in front of a Sherwin-Williams store, Mark Ronson confessed he felt nothing. This wasn’t just any paint shop; it once housed the legendary Buddha Bar.
Back in the 1990s, as a somewhat disengaged New York University student, Ronson would go to great lengths to get a DJ slot at this very downtown establishment on the corner of Varick and Vandam.
In its heyday, Buddha Bar was the epitome of New York cool. It was a pulsating lounge where supermodels moved to the rhythm of the city’s most innovative DJs, and the bouncers ensured that only the crème de la crème made it past the velvet rope.
Ronson gazed up at the bright Sherwin-Williams sign, a stark contrast to the vibrant past.
“I desperately wanted to play here,” he reminisced. “Yet, it did absolutely nothing for my career. All that effort, and now it feels utterly meaningless. Honestly, it’s probably serving a better purpose as a paint store now.”
Now 50, Ronson is light-years away from those grueling nights spent lugging heavy record crates from one gig to another. His journey from igniting dance floors evolved into an illustrious career as a record producer, songwriter, and film score composer. He’s collaborated with music icons like Amy Winehouse, Bruno Mars, Adele, Billie Eilish, Dua Lipa, and Lady Gaga, earning him a staggering nine Grammys, an Oscar, and a string of multiplatinum successes.
Today, he’s pausing to revisit his past. His recently released memoir, “Night People: How to Be a D.J. in ’90s New York City,” offers a candid look at his formative years behind the decks, a period he recalls with both deep affection and a touch of dread. He shared these memories during a recent morning stroll through his old stomping grounds.
“Even standing here now, on the corner of Canal Street and West Broadway, I still feel that spark,” he confessed.
This very spot once housed the New Music Cafe, a humble place that transformed into a sweltering hotspot during its legendary “Sweet Thang” parties. Today, it’s the opulent Palace NYC, complete with Art Deco aesthetics and exclusive bottle service.
“Its charm lay in its understated nature; it wasn’t overtly trendy,” Ronson explained. The crowd was a diverse mix of “downtown heads” and “registered nurses,” before eventually attracting celebrities like Mike Tyson, Wesley Snipes, and Leonardo DiCaprio.
One of his most exhilarating moments was when Biggie Smalls, “the King of New York” as Ronson calls him in his book, made an appearance. Ronson was behind the turntables, skillfully merging 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 with Jay-Z.
“It was their birthday, I remember,” Ronson recounted. “They walked in wearing identical white hats, and it was absolutely surreal. I was in a place where the legends from my record sleeves were suddenly alive and in front of me.”
Despite a privileged upbringing in London and Manhattan, Ronson became an unexpected DJ. His memoir reveals he was a “night person” from childhood, a trait he attributes to his parents, socialite Ann Dexter-Jones and music manager-turned-real estate mogul Laurence Ronson, who “lived for the party.”
Following their divorce, Mick Jones of the rock band Foreigner became his stepfather. Their spacious 10-room apartment on Central Park West was a lively hub for parties in the 1980s, “teeming with musicians and eccentrics,” Ronson notes. Yet, despite this vibrant environment, he remained somewhat shielded, only discovering the true club scene at 16.
“I was a fairly well-behaved kid,” he stated. “I didn’t really sneak out, nor did I experiment with drugs.”
However, his passion for music was undeniable, and he yearned to experience The Shelter, an iconic all-ages dance club on Hudson Street.
“Downtown felt incredibly distant, and my first serious girlfriend lived on Prince Street,” he recalled. “Her mother, an artist, once gave me directions, saying, ‘You take the C train to Prince Street,’ and it sounded like a completely foreign language to me then.”
Now, he stood before the former site of The Shelter. Before him was Officine Gullo, an opulent kitchen remodeling studio. He gazed through the glass, past the gleaming stainless steel ovens.
“It was incredible to come here and witness a thousand kids, all sharing the same raw excitement, slowly shuffling forward in the queue,” he recounted. “In winter, everyone bundled up in huge coats, and you’d always see a few kids who had clearly indulged a bit too early, already jittery and dancing while waiting.”
“Since the parties ran until 4 or 5 in the morning,” he added, “we became masters of crafting elaborate alibis about sleepovers and other such excuses.”
This marked the beginning of his downtown existence. Today, he resides just a short distance away in TriBeCa, sharing a home with his wife, Grace Gummer (daughter of actress Meryl Streep and sculptor Don Gummer), and their two young daughters.
Our walk continued towards Don Hill’s, another former haunt where Ronson once DJ’d, now closed for years. He reminisced about the cultural shift at the turn of the century, when New York’s scene became dominated by hipsters and indie rock.
“That was the first time I truly felt out of sync, realizing I was no longer at the forefront of what was cool,” Ronson admitted. “I felt a bit intimidated by it all, seeing the rise of incredibly skinny jeans, for instance.”
“After ten years of DJing,” he continued, “I was completely burned out and ready for a change.”
The demanding schedule of DJing, often from 10 p.m. to 4 a.m., also took its toll, a reality he candidly addresses in his memoir. “I hadn’t planned on writing such a deeply personal book about addiction and my own drug use,” he shared, but ultimately felt it would be disingenuous to omit those experiences.
Leaving the turntables behind, he transitioned into the next chapter of his career, famously producing Amy Winehouse’s seminal album, “Back to Black.”
These days, strolling through his neighborhood with his daughters, he occasionally catches glimpses of his younger self: a driven hustler, cigarette pack in pocket, laden with record crates.
“It’s almost a bit cliché,” he remarked. “Like a montage from a movie, where all your past selves are getting in and out of cabs, heading to different clubs, all while carrying those heavy record boxes.”
Our walking tour concluded at 171 Varick Street, the former location of Tilt, another club where he once spun records.
Now, ironically, it’s a Dunkin’ Donuts.