In case I haven’t made it clear in previous posts, I don’t remember much of the mid-80’s. I remember that I sang with a band. I remember that I was the size 4 of which I can only dream about one day being again. I remember that after leaving NPR I worked for an “alternative” (which, in those days, meant ‘punk’) radio station as Promotions Manager and DJ. I remember when Henry Rollins wasn’t a vegan (don’t ask for details… I’m legally prohibited from providing them) as well as bits and pieces of an evening spent talking with Viggo Mortenson who was, at that time, a nobody. And I remember (since it took me darn near 20 years to pay them off) that I had a lot of credit cards at the time. A lot.
I also remember CBGB’s. Or at least bits and pieces of having been there. Several nights. Over the span of a month-long stay in NYC that I mostly don’t remember.
Turns out, it’s a good thing I still remember what I do.
After Sunday, memories are all that will remain when the cramped club with its capacity of barely 300 people goes out of business after 33 years. Although its boom years are long gone, CBGB’s remained a Manhattan music scene fixture: part museum, part barroom, home to more than a few rock and roll ghosts.
You know what? I handled my approaching 40th birthday, my widening hips, my forfeiture of being “That Girl” in any given bar, and my battle with both gravity and the bulge infintitely better than this news.
It’s the end of the world as I knew it.
But I feel fine.
UPDATE: Fittingly, Patti Smith rocked CBGB’s to its grave.