We really just stopped for chips and a Coke (everything carbonated was a Coke to me back then, being from the South). At the cash register, we thought that a cassette by a band called The Sex Pistols was about the funniest thing you could buy. I think we were 13 or 14 years old at the time. It was Nevermind the Bollocks. We started a band that week. Eventually, we all kinda’ lost interest (there wasn’t a Jody, but if there was he would have quit and got married).
I now have drums in the basement again. But it has been a very long time since I played with an actual band, and a very, very long time since I penned an original song. But during that time, I’ve been lucky to see some pretty awesome shows. And some terrible ones. Few were as bad as whatever the name of the band was the first time I walked into CBGB in New York. Few beers were as watered down. And no bathroom has smelled as bad.
But this was the birthplace of The Police, The Talking Heads, Blondie, The Ramones, Iggy Pop, and so, so, so many more bands. I went there three more times. And each time I think I saw a progressively worse band play. I would have kept going anyway, just to be there (I probably just went on bad nights). I just enjoyed looking at torn concert posters on the wall. I’ve gotten to hang out at venues all over the world, from the 40 Watt Club (I went to college in Athens, after all – thank this place for REM, the B-52s, and many more), to the Troubadour, the Whisky a Go Go, and the Roxy, in Los Angeles, and everything in between.
But CBGB was one of my favorites. It was always a weird cab ride (although every cab driver knew exactly how to get there, without me having to say anything other than CBGB). I always hoped I’d happen to walk in and see one of those magical nights where Patti Smith or some other idol of their heyday was on stage randomly. That never happened. But you could feel the energy of something amazing that had happened there. The launch of something special. After seeing some pretty amazing shows at places like the Troubadour and Whisky in LA, I always felt like that feeling wore off. But it never did with CBGB. I’d go back to my hotel room before I went and change out of a suit and into jeans and a plain black shirt and find my way there whenever I could. I used to always pack a plain black shirt no matter where I was going. I never got to tap into that magic that they had. But I was happy enough to bask in its glow (er, aura) for awhile.
These days, I see a CBGB shirt and it puts me right back in my garage, playing my drums. I can close my eyes and see that cassette, randomly in a convenience store in Dahlonega, Georgia. And I can remember every word to songs we wrote. Colors we dyed our hair. Weird haircuts. Broken drum heads. Cracked cymbals. Chains snapping off of bass drum pedals. Double bass drum pedals during that weird Slayer phase. I can remember that first drum set. The way it felt to sit in that stool after saving up all summer working my first job. The way I bled all over the drums when I cut my finger while playing. The way I could sit and jam with my parents to Never Been To Spain and other classic rock goodness.
All those feelings, and this article, from a shirt I saw today. Sorry if this isn’t your jam.