By Michael E. Miller
By Allie Conti
By David Villano
By Jose D. Duran
By Michael E. Miller
By Allie Conti
By Kyle Swenson
By Luther Campbell
Frank Owen is on his best behavior. "I'm not getting drunk tonight," he announces firmly, wagging a cautionary finger at Kulchur outside of the Beach's Books & Books. The 41-year-old British author has a promotional appearance there this evening, and then it's back to his hotel. "I'm going on CNN tomorrow morning," he adds, "so forget about anything crazy."
Most writers would hardly have to apologize for a teetotaling regimen on their book tour. But Owen's new book isn't exactly a clinical exercise in traditional reporting. Clubland: The Fabulous Rise and Murderous Fall of Club Culture opens in 1995 with Owen inside downtown Manhattan's Limelight, wading through a late-night throng of "vacant-eyed club kids," and snorting a line of ketamine off the back of his hand.
"Fancying myself one of the last of the gonzo journalists," he writes, "and willing to do almost anything for a juicy headline, I intended to sample the psychedelic catnip that everyone in clubland was calling 'the new Ecstasy.'" After all, he reasoned, if you're going to write authoritatively about club culture, you'd better be intimately familiar with it.
The Village Voice cover story that resulted from Owen's fieldwork eventually led him to the meat of Clubland -- the loosely intertwined nightlife empires of New York City's Peter Gatien and Miami Beach's Chris Paciello, demimondes considered the hedonistic high-water marks by many of their city's respective scene-sters. The details of Paciello's case should be more than familiar to most Miamians, but Owen serves them up with an engaging relish, blending straightforward reportage with dips into hard-boiled prose. And given the subject matter, what could be more appropriate than dragging Raymond Chandler onto the dance floor?
Indeed Paciello's rise is nothing if not a classic slice of pulp fiction come to life: After a 1994 botched robbery that left Staten Island housewife Judith Shemtov dead, the 23-year-old Colombo mob family associate fled to South Beach, where he quickly reinvented himself. Trading in his thuggish mannerisms for a high-society patina, he built a trio of nightspots -- Liquid, Bar Room, and Joia -- which were soon grossing millions and, as they became a playground for Hollywood celebrities and leggy models, helped to define the Beach as an international chic tourist destination.
By 1999, when Paciello's past finally caught up with him in the form of federal murder and racketeering indictments, he'd progressed from "Page Six" mentions alongside Madonna to the respectability inherent in hosting the re-election victory party for Miami Beach's mayor. This would be the Fabulous Rise cited in the subtitle of Owen's Clubland. Less clear, though, is where the Murderous Fallkicks in.
Paciello may currently be in the FBI's witness-protection program, but his life seems to serve less as a warning than as a textbook for aspiring overseers of VIP rooms. Even from the cover of his newfound anonymity, in 2001 Paciello was able to sell the rights to the nameLiquid for $50,000, according to a source with knowledge of the deal. The purchaser, Bad Boys Unlimited's Billy Shaw, opened his "new" Liquid a block north on Washington Avenue, obviously hoping the mystique associated with Paciello's heyday would remain a profitable draw for out-of-towners.
Two years on, both Shaw and his grandiose plans for worldwide Liquid franchises have disappeared, yet Paciello's glow endures. The Liquid building itself was taken over by rapper and Source magazine co-owner Raymond "Benzino" Scott, who reopened it as Club ZNO last month, banking on there being at least some of that old cachet still left in its walls. "The building is a landmark," Benzino told Kulchur, brushing aside any qualms over its previous tenant's crimes. "Chris Paciello did a great job of making Liquid equal South Beach, and that's what we want with Club ZNO."
Likewise Paciello's plans to murder several nightclub rivals -- as heard on police wiretaps -- have done little to dampen his local reputation. "I personally believe that if Chris ever came back to the nightlife industry in South Beach, he would dominate it instantly," Michael Capponi, Paciello's Bar Room manager and now host of popular nights at Prive and B.E.D., muses in Clubland. "Down here we have some very fond memories of Chris." Asked by Owen just what this says about the Beach's moral character, Capponi shoots back: "What does it say about all superficial lifestyles? How about, party people will forgive anything for a good time."
In that light, Billy Shaw may want to consider relicensing the Liquid name. Paramount Pictures and überproducer Scott Rudin have signed up Boys Don't Cry director Kimberly Peirce to bring Paciello's story to the silver screen, complete with a $1.5 million screenplay -- one of Hollywood's biggest sales of the past year -- from 25th Hour wordsmith David Benioff. Perhaps not coincidentally, Liquid remains an active corporation with Paciello as its president and his younger brother Keith -- now a Beach resident -- as its vice president.Paciello's lawyer, Ben Brafman, continues to dispute reports that his client is receiving a consultant's fee from Paramount, telling the New York Daily News that "Chris has no intention of personally profiting from the tragic death of Judy Shemtov."