CBGB Dies Quietly- Comparitively Speaking

I am torn.

It seems that everything I connect with happened before "my time". Any chance to be involved with it now would be an ugly sham. Everything that was and still is, is now somehow diluted. Bastardized. Killed and brought back to life to roam the earth as a mere shadow of itself toting business cards, t-shirts and trucker hats. Jesus died for somebody's sins but not mine.

Another era that died a long time ago gave its last gasp last night as CBGB closed its doors for good. I won't miss it. Not really. What I miss about it was what happened there 30 years ago, not what has happened in recent history. What leaves a bad taste in my mouth is the fact that it will probably be turned into a Starbucks. A filthy, dark, messy shrine to punk will be paved over with chai lattes, rock hard scones and musical selections hand picked by Cheryl Crow. In some ways, it just doesn't seem right.

Now, I don't know for a FACT that it will be a Starbucks, specifically. But I am certain it will be turned over to some high end something or other that is determined to raise the property values in the neighborhood. Kick out the junkies, the artists, the down and outs. We just don't want to SEE them. Well, as much as it makes me sad to see people being self destructive they are a part of the fabric of this city. They are a reason to be in the city. They remind us that we are human and that we are not the squeaky clean, plush carpet, white couch facade we hide behind. We're messy. We fall apart. We feel deeply. And sometimes, just sometimes, our pain can't be whitewashed, dressed up, or shabby chic'ed away.

I struggle to keep my inner Holden Caufield at bay. Everything is for sale and yet nothing has much worth. The bigger something gets, the more diluted its product, service or message becomes. When I first heard "Teenage Wasteland" I was blown away. I had never heard anything like it. Now that it is being used to sell product, it has lost its bite to me. It seems the advertiser did not listen to the lyrics. It seems like no one does anymore. And when Bob Dylan is pitching women's underwear you can't help but get the impression that everyone has given up and handed their lives over to the machine. If you can't beat 'em, you might as well make a few bucks, right?

Where is the balance? I believe my work is worth something. I believe I deserve to live in this city and raise my son and eat. I see people posting on craigslist all the time, railing about how working for free is bad and you should always get paid and yet... and yet I've never been thrilled about the work I've done for money. The most worthwhile things in my career have been the things I've done without regard for money. I try to come to some conclusion about where money should be in my life and I have yet to come up with any answers. Part of me believes that I should just ignore it. It is none of my concern. Then the rest of me screams in absolute terror- are you mad?

CBGB had to die. The need for it is long gone. The need to create and to express with abandon has left this city. Now no one wants to get off their ass unless it's to meet Spielberg or cash a check. Oh- there's Holden again. Down boy, down.

Maybe Patti Smith can help me, me and my Holden Caufield. This is from today's New York Times article;

"Kids, they'll find some other club," Ms. Smith insisted during her set. "You just got a place, just some crappy place, that nobody wants, and you got one guy who believes in you, and you just do your thing. And anybody can do that, anywhere in the world, any time."

After her set was over and the club had partly cleared out, Ms. Smith returned to the stage for a silent postcript. As fans held up outstretched hands, Ms. Smith reached into a bag and handed out little black pins. They read, "What remains is future."

Man, I wish I had one of those pins.