“I’ve shrunk three inches,” he admits with an impish grin, but he’s still energetic, outspoken, and every bit the passionate activist who played a role in the course of gay American history. It has been 43 years since the Black Cat riot. Alexei and his life partner, David Farah, greeted me. Sliding glass doors at the back of the house let in abundant sunlight and a sweeping view of the Los Angeles basin. I met Alexei in 2010 at his beautifully renovated, mid-century ranch house high in the hills of Pasadena. If you were arrested and identified as being gay, you could lose your job, your income, your house, your family.” Kissing was a crime cross-dressing was a crime. “Police raids at gay bars were common at that time. It was a place to meet new people, maybe even meet a partner,” explains Romanoff. “In the 1950’s and 60’s, gay bar culture was a crucial part of our community.
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Working as a nurse and pursuing an acting career on the side, he was also intimately involved in the gay bar scene. We talked about making a plan to express our outrage.” Romanoff had once been an owner of the New Faces bar. “I wasn’t at the Black Cat that night,” he said, “but within hours I heard about the raid. Local businessman Alexei Romanoff is not happy. Their crime? Kissing for more than three seconds. At LAPD’s Parker Center, fourteen Black Cat customers have been booked for lewd behavior. Over at Los Angeles County General Hospital, bartender Robert Haas is in critical condition with a ruptured spleen. Millions of snow-bound Americans are glued to their TVs, watching host Pat Boone chat with Bewitched’s Elizabeth Montgomery as the floats glide beneath a cloudless sky. Motorized carts draped in luscious mantels of carnations, daisies, and of course roses glide up Colorado Boulevard in the Rose Parade. He doubles over, going unconscious on the way down.Īnother sunny day in L.A. Haas is struck, dragged out onto the sidewalk, and beaten so severely that his spleen ruptures. A cop seizes the bartender, Robert Haas, and yanks him across the bar. In response, one of the cops hits her, then shoves her to the floor. “Can I see some identification?” she asks the plainclothes officers. Shocked, the female bar owner comes forward. Just inside the New Faces, the fleeing men are tackled and thrown to the ground. A couple of plain-clothes officers follow. Two panicked customers rush out the back door, seeking refuge in the New Faces bar just across the street. As he falls to the floor, his bowels empty. One patron is clubbed from behind, then kneed in the groin. Moments later, a dozen uniformed cops from the Los Angeles Police Department charge into the bar, batons swinging. Another man is flung head-first against the jukebox. Blood spurts from his ear as it splits open. The butt-end of a pool cue cracks down on his head. One customer reaches out to open the front door. Patrons scream with fear, running for the exits. Wine glasses shatter, Christmas decorations come crashing down. “You’re under arrest!” He pushes the man to the ground. Without warning, one officer seizes a kissing customer by the shoulders. The bartender snips a string and the balloons cascade down onto dozens of kissing couples. “Happy New Year!” The Rhythm Queens take their cue, belting out a jazzy Auld Lang Syne. All eyes are riveted on the clock behind the bar.
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Suddenly, the jukebox cuts off, and for a brief moment all that can be heard is the tinkle of champagne glasses. It’s just a few minutes before midnight on New Year’s Eve at the Black Cat, and the Rhythm Queens, a trio of black women singers hired for the night, are getting ready for their big number. Many are beer bars with jukeboxes, pool tables, and pinball machines, inhabiting rundown buildings where the rents were cheap. The Black Cat is one of about a dozen gay bars lining Sunset Boulevard in Silverlake, the heart of L.A.’s gay community in the 1960’s. The bartender cranks up the Supremes’ “You Can’t Hurry Love.” At 11:30, a gaggle of glittering drag queens arrives in full-blown bouffants, sequins, and wobbly spiked heels. Six or seven additional plainclothes officers mill around in the crowd. Boys dance with boys, the jukebox wails, and a couple of undercover cops play pool over in the corner. “I love the colorful clothes she wears/ And the way the sunlight plays upon her hair.” A few miles away, in Silverlake, things are hopping at the Black Cat. In Hollywood, a radio deejay sets down the needle on the number eight song of the year.