Mostly, however, CBGB just grew more encrusted: with dust, with band posters stuck on every available surface, with bodily fluids from performers and patrons. Ms. Smith did some casual spitting of her own during her set.
Casual spitting? It aint so casual when you are the recipient. How authentic.
...that happened to house artists and derelicts side by side, inspiring some hard-nosed art.
I don't like derelicts and I certainly don't like hard-nosed art (whatever the hell it is) but I understand how being cool trumps all else.
Yet punk, as codified by the Ramones, has turned out to fulfill some perennial adolescent need...
Exactly. ADOLESCENT. As in adults don't listen to the garbage or think it was some kind of Important Movement or write long, indulgent passages on it's demise.
But what of the future of music for losers, misfits, weirdoes and other strange persons:
"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."
Bottom line: it's much easier to be cool than good. So don't learn to play or sing or write--find a scene that let's you do your thing and hope there are enough like-minded misfits that will listen.
Believe it or not, the Chinese seem have a more rational perspective than the American press:
CBGBs, a small rat hole of a club known as the spritual home of American punk closed its doors Sunday in Lower East Side New York after more than 30 years as a birthplace of underground rock bands
By its own admission "a small, dirty, beer-soaked, dark pit" the club -- officially named CBGB OMFUG -- or Country, Bluegrass, Blues and Other Music For Uplifting Gormandisers -- was described by music magazine NME in 1975 as "toilet, an impossibly scuzzy little club."
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