Die Punkster Die

In the ghetto next door to mine, the Hispanic kids are getting into punk rock. This has mainly meant skateboards and vandalism. The fashion is interesting, though. They've invested heavily in the merry-go-round notion of punk as recycled heavy-metal accoutrements. The kids are wearing shirts sporting the logos of The Partisans and Vice Squad, properly forgotten bands from the second wave of '70s punk. Maybe some entrepreneur has found a way to finally clear out an old warehouse full of useless and dated music memorabilia.

In which case, it would only be redundant for those kids to hang out at CBGB's.

For some time now, the sole constant at CBGB's has been the absence of innovative bands-and idiotic Japanese tourists dolled up in full punk regalia. You didn't have to pick them out from a crowd, since there was never a crowd.

But things are different tonight. We're in the midst of the Save CBGB Festival, which showcases "artists of the past & present" in a series of benefit concerts to save the venue. The festival has inspired folks to suddenly pay inflated prices to go to a club they've ignored for the past two decades. Tonight, we are all Japanese tourists.

In my defense, I'm here because The Adolescents have put out an impressive new album with O.C. Confidential. They're headlining this bill of classic West Coast punk bands reuniting for the cause of covering the ass of owner Hilly Kristal, who somehow thought there would be no repercussions if he didn't pay the club's full monthly rent. After all, that same strategy worked so well for the guys running The Bottom Line.

I like the idea of the L.A. punk scene helping to save its East Coast home base. The Ramones, with their obsessing about horror movies and girls, was the only classic CBGB's band who spoke to my own adolescence. I could tell Patti Smith was a hippie back in '78, and I didn't care about Television because I'd already heard BeBop Deluxe and Little Feat. Talking Heads seemed kinda cool. They dressed like the kids at my high school. Otherwise, the club's nightly acts most likely sounded like so many Crossfire Choirs.

I'm here mostly because I got on the guest list. There's no way I'd pay $40 to save a club that pulls in a cool $2 million each year in merchandising, mostly from pre-faded CBGB's t-shirts.

The last time I was at CBGB's was right after the smoking ban went into effect. I sat near the entrance and drank all night while watching clubgoers stop in shock as they walked in and finally learned what CBGB's truly smells like. It stinks.

I've arrived just in time for the start of D.I.'s set. Frontman Casey Royer has aged into McLean Stevenson, prattling on between songs like he's guest-hosting "The Tonight Show." It's a fun set, but it ends on a baffling note when Royer declares, "Save the 'GB's! Fuck the government!"

What he means is "Fuck the homeless!" The forces trying to evict CBGB's are, after all, the homeless advocates incorporated as The Bowery Residents Committee. Maybe he felt saying that fucking the homeless would clash with his lecture about how we're harming the environment. Personally, I think they're both public services.

Today's big news was that the homeless advocates have presented CBGB's with formal notice of eviction. Hilly's sounding comfortable that his lawyers will keep that move tied up in court for a while. I'm distracted from those deep thoughts by CH3 hitting the stage. They're a great, underrated band that continues to knock out rock 'n roll that transcends dated punkiness. CH3 has the right spirit, too. "Was anybody here the first time we played here in 1987?" they ask the crowd. "Your parents? Your grandparents?"

To most of us, CBGB's has never seemed that magical. The only notable thing about the club is that it's the best venue for discreetly enjoying public sex while a band is playing-and that only works when the place is really packed, which is rare. I do witness one clandestine drug deal, but even that seems like a sad recreation.

There's no reason to turn the joint into a punk museum. What's to preserve? The old fliers are long gone from the walls; the bathrooms are the only punk rock thing left. That, and an old Levi & The Rockats poster hidden way above the bar, next to some painted lettering proclaiming a "Special Big Weekend" from 1979 with several forgotten bands and The Swimming Pool Q's, who are still around. I'll call the guys in Atlanta and tell them to fly up and pry that off the wall.

There's nothing worth saving. There's just the Circle Jerks about to take the stage, and they've already made a fine case for punk bands disdaining reunions. I stop to take one final look around before heading out. That doesn't have anything to do with the place closing, though. I've been taking a sad final look around CBGB's since 1991.