‘Personality Crisis: One Night Only�� Finds Punk Pioneer David Johansen Recounting His Many Lives

A friend of mine was at a party about 20 years ago and met David Johansen. At one point, as it pertained to their conversation, Johansen said, “I don’t know if you’re aware but I’m a musician.” “It’s funny you say that. I had a feeling you were,” my friend replied, “I think what gave it away was that time I saw you open for The Who at Shea Stadium.” I tell this story, not just because it’s funny, or because the first paragraph of an article is the hardest to write, but to illustrate that despite influencing everyone from The Sex Pistols to The Smiths to Guns N’ Roses, and having hit records and appearing in major motion pictures, David Johansen wasn’t quite sure someone he just met at a party had any idea who he was.  

“I was a one-hit wonder, twice,” Johansen says towards the end of Personality Crisis: One Night Only, the new Showtime documentary which was directed by Martin Scorsese and David Tedeschi. It’s a bit of not-so-false modesty, which is to say, Johansen seems genuinely humble but also, he’s got that swagger. As lead singer of the New York Dolls, he inspired generations of punk and glam rock bands but says, “We didn’t do it on purpose.” After becoming disillusioned with his solo career, he reinvented himself as gonzo lounge singer Buster Poindexter, who scored it big in 1987 with “Hot Hot Hot,” a song he describes as, “The bane of my existence.” 

Though Johansen was once the Dauphin of Downtown New York, much of the action occurs Uptown at New York’s Café Carlyle where the singer and a tight, versatile backing band run through a setlist that spans his career. It’s reminiscent of Frank Sinatra’s famed 1971 retirement concert with the idea being Buster Poindexter playing the music of David Johansen. “So here we are, both of us,” he says while sipping a bottomless supply of fruity cocktails in highball glasses. Halfway through the show you notice the glasses sitting atop a piano, mostly still full.

In between songs, we revisit the sights and sounds of Johansen’s past, either through archival footage or new interviews with his stepdaughter Leah Hennessey. Like millions before and since, Johansen was a bright and inquisitive bridge and tunnel kid who escaped the boredom of Staten Island by following the lights to Manhattan. He moved to the Lower East Side, participated in ‘60s protest movement, for which his mother called him, “a Commie dupe,” and wandered the halls of the Chelsea Hotel and the outskirts of the Warhol scene searching for knowledge, experience and kicks. “I went from hell to heaven. It was fantastic,” he says, relishing the memories. 

Johansen made his bones with the Dolls but the glory was short-lived. In the dude-centric 1970s, their image as cross-dressing male prostitutes did little to broaden their appeal outside their small, devoted fanbase. His bandmates’ substance abuse problems handicapped them from the start. Still, live footage shows them tearing into some of the best rock n’ roll songs of all time with a brilliant mix of humor, danger and balderdash. Former Smiths frontman and noted bigot Morrissey helped resurrect the band in the early 2000s yet with the death of guitarist Sylvain Sylvain two years ago, Johansen is the only remaining original member. 

Johansen’s intelligence and survival instinct would help him navigate the ensuing decades. He had success as a solo artist but tired of playing hockey rinks with “heavy mental” bands. He says the initial inspiration for his Buster Poindexter persona was to play shows at home in New York and not have to tour. More time is spent discussing his work playing blues with The Harry Smiths and Howlin’ Wolf guitarist Hubert Sumlin than discussing his acting career, which saw him sharing the screen with Bill Murray in 1988’s Scrooged and appearing in the HBO prison-drama Oz. Besides making music, he finds the most happiness hosting the esoteric Sirius Satellite Radio show David Johansen’s Mansion of Fun, playing everything from rock to jazz to opera.  

A natural storyteller and charmer on stage, Johansen radiates a certain melancholy privately. He discusses joy and sorrow being intertwined on his radio show and borrows the term “maimed happiness” from the philosopher William James for a Dolls song. Perhaps it’s the timing, while the live performances were shot on his 70th birthday in January 2020, the interviews were recorded during the isolation of the Covid lockdown. Though he’s buried many friends since the death of his first bandmate in 1972 , he doesn’t fear death, saying, “I never learned my lesson.” 

While he shares directorial billing with longtime editor David Tedeschi, Personality Crisis: One Night Only fits snugly alongside Martin Scorsese’s more recent work. Like the Fran Lebowitz documentary Pretend It’s a City, it’s as much about the ghosts of New York City past as it is about the person profiled. Like The Irishman, it’s contemplative and a little too long. The film touches on the different phases of Johansen’s career, attempting to tie together his restless intellect with his fearless creativity, but it’s hard connecting the dots if you don’t already know the story. Though I enjoyed the film and recommend it, I worry those unfamiliar with Johansen’s work won’t take away as much as a fan such as myself, which is a pity considering how deep his influence is and how many interesting lives he’s lived.

Benjamin H. Smith is a New York based writer, producer and musician. Follow him on Twitter:@BHSmithNYC.