POSITION OF A VAGABOND MISSIONARY
In an office that overlooks Central Park, David Johansen finds the videotape he's looking for, a recording of his New Year's morning show at the Hotel Diplomat. There's a soundcheck to make over at the Ritz, there's a photographer waiting to shoot for the Voice, but Johansen doesn't seem to be in any particular hurry.
POSITION OF A VAGABOND MISSIONARY
DAVID JOHANSEN
by Mitchell Cohen
In an office that overlooks Central Park, David Johansen finds the videotape he's looking for, a recording of his New Year's morning show at the Hotel Diplomat. There's a soundcheck to make over at the Ritz, there's a photographer waiting to shoot for the Voice, but Johansen doesn't seem to be in any particular hurry. He watches himself on TV: Spraying the drummer with seltzer, mugging for the camera, exhorting the audience to sing along on "Personality Crisis" ("I sound like Dean Martin at this point"), changing from a leopard-skin pillbox ("my Edith Prickley hat") to a 50-gallon cowboy hat.