words: Dante Ross
photos: Mark Hartman
You might have never heard of Sal Abbatiello and you probably never heard of the world famous Disco Fever nightclub in the South Bronx before, either—and that’s a damn shame. There’s a reason Adrock of Beastie Boys’ fame wore a Fever shirt at the “Hip Hop Honors” show. Bronx born and bred, Sal Abbatiello owned and ran the Fever nightclub, which at the time was referred to as “the Mecca.” In the early ’80s, if you were a rapper of any sort of merit, this is where you went to be seen and heard. Before the world famous Roxy brought hip hop downtown, Sal had it popping up top with his clientele of hardcore locals known as Fever Believers. Sal even had the privilege of portraying himself in the 1985 flick, Krush Groove—he’s that damn cool. The lack of recognition to Sal’s contributions to hip hop in its infancy, is one of the biggest omissions in the history of. Later in his career, he helped invent freestyle music and debatably, put out the first freestyle record ever released. He also ran a successful record label/management company and helped write and release the classic joint, “Games People Play” by Sweet G, on his own Fever Records (which was also the first rap record that included R&B singing). A real standup cat with unbelievable gangster, Sal is truly one of the best interviews that I’ve ever done. The stuff that was too ill to make print is the stuff legends are made of, nuff said. With no further ado, ladies and germs, here’s Sal Abbatiello!
How did the Fever come about?
My dad owned a bunch of bars in the Bronx neighborhood spots. I opened the first white disco in the Bronx and I had an after hours joint and gambling spot, a bunch of stuff. I messed around and got shot twice in ’76 over some dumb ish, so I figured it was time for me to get my own thing together. So we open the spot up after my mom comes up with the name the Disco Fever after Saturday Night Fever. It’s an R&B club, a black spot, but it’s not really working.
We had this DJ, a white guy, he was lazy [and] always wanted to go home early. Sweet G was a local cat that used to hang out at the spot sometimes. He used to get up and rock the mic when the regular DJ broke out. He was playing Teddy Pendergrass, “Oogie Boogie Oogie,” all that late disco stuff. He would rock the mic, do crowd response routines and all that old school stuff and I saw how everybody reacted. I knew this was the new thing.
I knew I had to get friendly with G. He was on to something, so I asked him to take me to some hip hop parties. He took me to Club 371, a hardcore black club and I see Hollywood spin, I got to see [Grandmaster] Flash, Lovebug [Starski]. I was saying to myself, This is going to be big, I need to bring these guys to my club. We fire the white guy DJ [and] bring Sweet G in to spin on the weekend. One problem, he sucked as a DJ. But a great crowd rocker. I saw what was going on, I’m looking for young cats like Hollywood and I see this kid Junebug. He became my first serious DJ, though I first used Herc, but he didn’t rap. I needed a MC. I also brought in Flash, Lovebug and Hollywood.
Did you have any idea what you were doing and the importance of it?
We made a sense of community, which at the time, was what hip hop was, a small community of people connected by this music. Did I know? No. But I know this thing was exciting.
You mentioned the sense of community, where did that idea stem from?
I’m from the Bronx, I figured, to keep the club cool with its neighbors I need to help the community. I got everyone from the club bouncers and the Fever Believers to help clean up the Macombs Park, settled some neighborhood beefs, helped out my regulars, if need be, by giving them jobs and helped make stars out of my DJs. I gave 20k to the United Negro College Fund that I raised in the club and I also helped Greg Marius bring back the Rucker and helped create the Entertainers Basketball Classic.
I had no idea about this.
Yeah, I helped bring it back, Greg Marius from the Disco Four, me and Mr. Magic. This was in 1979, the year “Rapper’s Delight” came out. Before we had all the ringers in the league, I was the MVP the first two years. I’m proud of that and me being from the Bronx, being Italian, that could be a problem sometimes. Doing this stuff helped people accept and love me. I had a lot of love from black people. I grew up around blacks and Spanish people; I was raised on Gun Hill Road and Bronxwood Avenue right near Evander High School. My grandfather’s store was on 169th and Washington. I’m a South Bronx original.
So you got flack for being white in the hood when all this was happening?
I did and I didn’t. Black people love the idea of the mafia. So being Italian, running the club, some people were skeptical. Some were scheming, I mean, this was the Bronx in the early ’80s—things were ugly. The thing that really got me accepted and embraced by rap community and by the streets, was when guys saw me play ball at the Rucker. They didn’t know I could play ball—I was an Italian guy running a club. We’re losing by 14, I’m mad. My bouncer’s the coach, I yell at him to put me in. There’s about ten minutes left. I go in and I scored the last 15 points in a row and hit one right before the buzzer goes off and we win. [I’m] rushed [by the crowd], they got me up in the air, throwing me around, hugging me, and bugging out. All off a sudden I was a superstar. I got love from the 3,000 people that were there that Sunday and that night really solidified me in the streets and got me the a lot of respect. After that, if I had problems, it wasn’t ’cause I was white.
Was rap violence worse than now?
At the Fever it was intense. If there was beef in the neighborhood, you know the people beefing would be at the Fever that night and it might get settled there. In ’79, I got metal detectors, the first club in the country to do so. If you were a known gangster, we had a gun check we let you use. You could literally check your pistol at the door. We also had “get high” rooms for the stars upstairs, where they could smoke a joint hang with a chic, do a lil’ blow, smoke dust, whatever and not worry about it. Melle Mel wrote “White Lines” at the Fever in one of those rooms. Whodini wrote “Freaks Come Out At Night” about the Fever and at the Fever. It was a serious place, I had to install bulletproof glass ’cause we had a drive-by one night and my cashier almost got shot. I had to take serious precautions, it was the Wild West. I think today it might actually be safer ’cause people can’t get away with as much as they used to be able to.
What MCs were there when the Fever was rocking?
Starski, Junebug, Flash, Hollywood, Eddie Cheeba and later Brucie B and I still had Sweet G rocking the mic. We used to do a Tuesday mic night and every top rapper in the game would be there: Kurtis Blow, Sweet G, Kool Moe Dee, Cowboy, Melle Mel, I mean everyone who counted would show up and just rap.
Sal your life is a movie. I’ve known you almost 20 years; you’re a larger than life character. Before I blow it, tell me about freestyle.
Freestyle was after hip hop for me. I saw the initial energy I saw in rap, in freestyle. I meet my first freestyle artist, Nayobe, right across from the park I renovated. Her record “Please Don’t Go,” to me, is the first freestyle records ever. Freestyle was called Latin hip hop at first and that’s what it was basically, in the beginning. Freestyle to me was sexy, less violent and what was happening then. Besides doing rap records with Sweet G, I had the Cover Girls, Nayobe, Sandee on my label. I also managed damn near everyone in the freestyle game back in the days. I do two big freestyle concerts a year at the Copa still and I book a national freestyle tour as well every year.
Sal you’re an amazing cat. What do besides the freestyle concerts these days?
I do the freestyle shows and I raise my sons. One’s playing college basketball and the younger one is all-county and is about to break the Westchester High School scoring record. I’m really proud of being a father and a husband. It’s funny, I never wanted to leave my people in the south Bronx, never wanted to really play the game, but feel like I was as important in the history of hip hop as the Russells, the Andre Harrells and if I had lived my life and played it differently, I would be one of those guys. But if I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing. After all, I am from the Bronx.
