One More Time

One last video from last night's CB's performance, in which Patti explains her first time seeing Television live at the club. It's such a bittersweet feeling. I felt so sad when I walked by the club on the way to work this morning. I anticpate there being graffiti outside that real estate for the foreseeable future. CBGB will live on in name. Go easy, brother.

Go Easy, Brother

Patti Smith last night, with special guests Richard Lloyd and Flea on bass.

AND THIS MORNING AT 9:30

Short video clips a bit later today...

Update: Here are some clips

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Fade Away

Okay, I know it's been awhile since my last posting, and I'm sorry. Is being sick last week and having the Macbook random shutdown problem a good enough excuse? Well, contrary to what you think they are legit excuses. But now I am happy to report that the self-proclaimed geniuses have (hopefully) fixed my computer.

I would also like to report with much happiness that I will be attending the final show at CBGB on October 15. Patti Smith is playing, but you can bet that other punk rock luminaries will be there; or at least the ones who are still alive!

I was talking to a good friend of mine about how it's time for that place to close down already. It has basically become a mockery of itself, selling to the Urban Outfitters crowd who desperately try and imitate a movement that no longer exists. Neil Young said it best, it's better to burn out than to fade away.

Final Breath

Within the month, CBGB will no longer be on the Bowery. Almost fitting, as its canopies no longer match the glass boxes thrown up in its midst. In the current issue of the Village Voice, Lenny Kaye of the Patti Smith Group (and mastermind behind the legendary Nuggets record) wrote an outstanding farewell piece to the swank pit he once called home.

Do yourself a favor and read it...

It's always the same ritual unfolding, load-in to load-out, sound check to sonic overload, visiting the stations of the rock-and-roll cross. Hauling the equipment in past the pinball machine. Positioning the amplifier on the splintered stage. Tuning the guitar, hearing the first chord seep into walls that have been tempered to the sound of electric noise. Shouting into the microphone, knowing it's never going to approximate the rebound of the audience throwing it back at you, after you've waited backstage for hours in that cramped lean-to of a dressing room with no door—somehow fitting in a club of such an egalitarian nature—and illegible layers of band stickers and graffiti letting you know who else has done their time here, a grand continuum. Straining to hear your-self over the treble pierce of the monitors, the drummer's snare cracking at your own eardrums. The lights burning into you, the crowd—and it could well be you out there—daring you to top yourself. Suicide or transcendence, take your pick, guitar or ax. (CONTINUE)