My mother is a ’70s rock show elitist. She saw the Stones, she saw Led Zeppelin (twice) and yes, she went to CBGB’s when she was 17 and got drunk at the bar while Blondie was performing. She saw Television too, the most-hyped band playing at CBGB’s at the time, but wrote them off as “pretty boys.” I am forever living in my mother’s concert shadow. Any show I go to, she has seen three better ones.
CBGB’s (which stands for Country, Bluegrass, and Blues — now you’re in on the secret) opened in 1973, trying to cater to a country and blues crowd. The owner, Hilly Kristal, let the punk band Television play there on a whim that same year. Television were so well-received, they were invited back and brought along a new band, the Ramones — the rest is history. Everyone from Guns N’ Roses to Patti Smith have played at CBGB’s, but far from being an elitist venue, more no-names than big ones play the stage seven days a week.
On Aug. 31, the lease expired for CBGB’s and the new landlord, Bowery Residence Committee, is not willing to extend the lease, citing the low rent of CBGB’s lease — and the fact that $100,000 of it is currently unpaid. Other issues such as improper rent increases and the doubling of rent if a new lease is to be drawn up further complicate the court case. Numerous organizations and people, from New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg to Public Enemy have petitioned to save CBGB’s, one of the last important rock landmarks in New York, but to no avail. The lawyers could be tied up in court for months, but Kristal plans to move the venue to Las Vegas if its forced out.
Armed with this knowledge and the sheer determination to one-up my mother, the only certain thing I knew about my trip to Manhattan this summer was that I was going to have my first, and possibly last, trip to CBGB’s.
Showing up randomly, I felt that not knowing the band I was about to pay $12 to see was in the CBGB’s spirit, where some of punk’s forerunners and big names got their humble beginnings. With the 260-capacity room containing no more then 30 people, it couldn’t be too far removed from the old days of punk rock. On this night, however, I discovered why the club was empty and disproportionably female: the band was much more Rooney than Ramones and was languid at best. After the following band, featuring a lead singer with a matching jacket and guitar decal combo, I decided I had had enough CBGB’s for one night.
Despite my disappointment over the bands, I couldn’t have been more thrilled at the actual club. Unlike that black CBGB’s shirt that every 13-year-old Good Charlotte fan must own, the awning was white, which led me to being lost for over an hour within five minutes of the front door. The area outside the club was teeming with scenesters, even without a big name playing. The place was a total hole in the wall, the floor uneven and littered with beer bottles, the black paint on the ceiling peeling and the walls covered in staples and stickers. It was filthy, the stage was small and the entire place screamed neglect. Everything was, of course, perfect. They got my $12, now it’s your turn to shell out: http://www.savecbgb.org.
