Originally written 8/10/2010...

The following was my stream-of-consciousness rant that occurred after reading an article I found about how one of NYC’s premier nightclubs of the early 1990’s (and before that, of the mid-1980's) was being turned into an upscale marketplace. Following that, I checked on the status of the birthplace of punk, the former CBGB’s, which I knew had been turned into a clothing boutique, but didn’t realize the “rock” component to its current marketing campaign. To say that I went a little apeshit in my reaction is an understatement.


Rumors of the demise of the independent underground music scene are not greatly exaggerated. They are simple fact.

The scene is dead and buried. Forever. And the shovel was long-since tossed off the cliff. The last handfuls of dirt were carelessly tossed on by Hanson, Missy Elliott, Britney Spears, Xtina Aguilera, N*SYNC, and the rest of the Mickey Mouse Club Graduating Class of 1994, Eminem, Ricky Martin, 2Pac, Puff Daddy/P Diddy/Diddy, R. Kelly, The Blackeyed Peas, Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre, Avril Lavigne, Jennifer Lopez, Matchbox 20, Celine Dion, Kid Rock, 50 Cent, Linkin Park; tamped in by the bootheels of Miley Cyrus, Taylor Swift, Rihanna, Chris Brown, Kanye West, and Katy Perry; and is now being danced upon by the Jonas Brothers, Lady Ante-Gaga-Bellum, Justin Bieber, the combined casts of Hairspray, Glee and American Idiot, and every single person who has ever had anything to do with American Idol. Even the guy pushing the broom backstage when the lights go down.

Just like the collapse of the Hollywood studio system during the early 1970s, the music industry has now officially devolved into perpetuating a product that's nothing more than a corporate conglomerate of consumer-ready goods with little to no redeeming value. Nice eye-catching packaging at “affordable” prices, but absolutely nothing of substance inside. Kind of like the items that line our supermarket aisles today—no flavor, no discernable taste, no nutritional value whatsoever. And don’t get me started on the mind-numbing first foot inside of a Super WalMart. Your brain is sucked out as the automatic doors open with a hiss. There is a direct scientific correlation.

No more DIY aesthetic, hauling gear in rickety vans loosely held together by duct tape and dreams, playing dank, unknown little dives... eating Ramen and generic Froot Loops 3x a day, not washing your clothes for weeks at a time. It’s over, kids. That word “punk” that you all throw about so loosely? You don’t know the first thing about it.

Just because you paid some trendy salon at the mall to chop your hair into a Mohawk and dump some dayglow shit on it doesn’t make you cool. Unless of course you're using a hair dye like Manic Panic. But chances are, it still won’t make you even remotely cool, because I sincerely doubt you know the origins of Manic Panic. You probably saw a jar of it on a random shelf at Sally Beauty Supply and said to yourself, “Oh, COOL. I always wanted a lime-green streak in my hair.”

Riddle me this, my precious Emo moppets with your ubiquitous unisex black eyeliner and closets full of skinny jeans in a multitude of outrageous colors: Do you know who Tish and Snooky are? And please, please, please don’t ask me if they’re two of the spray-tanned Guidette chicks on The Jersey Shore, or I will choke the life out of you with my bare hands. (Answer, for those still playing along at home: They are the Bellomo sisters, who not only opened the then-outrageous punk boutique Manic Panic in New York's St. Marks Place back in the 70s, but were also part of the original lineup of Blondie and the Banzai Babies alongside Debbie Harry—a group that evolved into the seminal punk and eventually New Wave band, Blondie. At this point, you’re probably asking, “Uh… Who’s Debbie Harry?” or worse yet, “Who’s Blondie? Oh wait, yeah, didn’t they have that one disco song, and that one reggae song..? My mom sings along with it when she hears it on the radio in the car…”) It later became a venue for the hardcore scene and hosted Sunday matinees featuring acts like Murphy's Law, the Cro-Mags, Agnostic Front, Misfits, Bad Brains, et al. That particular scene was busted wide open for all to see when New York Magazine did a cover story about two girls-- one a suburbanite from Long Island, the other, the then-girlfriend of Johnny Gestapo and overall jaded/burned-out twenty year-old-- giving readers an insider's view of the subculture. I remember sitting in class and poring over said article when I was about sixteen.

I once asked an artist friend back in Houston (who is 12 years my junior) if he even knew what CBGB was. He sheepishly replied (as more of a question), “A clothing store..?” Either he was a complete idiot, or else he was clairvoyant. I love him to death, but I’m probably going to have to go with the first option, given the choice of the second. As it turns out, it dawned on me a few years later that he may have gotten CBGB mixed up with BCBG, which is indeed a global fashion house founded by designer Max Azria. You’ll see the irony in the next couple of paragraphs.

If you really want to learn something, if you really want to know the history, you can do yourself a favor and read about it in books like "This Ain't No Disco," "Making Tracks: The Rise of Blondie," or "Art After Midnight: The East Village Scene," just three of my personal bookshelf favorites. (“Wait, books… What are those..? Are those titles available on Kindle..?”), or you can hear it in every pop and crackle in the grooves of a vinyl Ramones LP (“Huh..? ‘LP’? What’s an LP? Vinyl? Oh, you mean like these awesome pants I bought at Hot Topic last week at the mall..?”).

But you can no longer make the holy pilgrimage to The Place Where it All Started, the roach-infested, piss-stained rat-hole at the intersection of Bleecker and Bowery that spawned the likes of Television, Talking Heads, the Heartbreakers, and the Ramones, and even hosted the Police and the Runaways during their earliest tours of America. Because it’s now an upscale boutique touting apparel, leather goods, even signature fragrances and skincare products: John Varvatos 315 Bowery.

Mr. Varvatos has all kinds of rock star testimonials plastered on his sleek and hip website, to lend it a stamp of gritty rock n’ roll street cred. He has featured the likes of Perry Farrell and members of Cheap Trick and Velvet Revolver in seasonal ad campaigns. He has even found himself in the good graces of original punk rockers like Iggy Pop, Blondie's Clem Burke, Handsome Dick Manitoba, The New York Dolls... Even folks like Jimmy Page, Aerosmith's Steven Tyler and Joe Perry, Peter Frampton, Lenny Kravitz and the boys in ZZ Top have lined up to sing praises of Varvatos' taking over the iconic birthplace of punk rock in this latest expansion of his fashion empire. And I'm sure they were paid handsomely to do so.

I’m sorry, but it’s all enough to make me puke. And I don’t mean just a little bit in my mouth. I’m talking raging influenza, from both ends. Followed by a prayer for a quick, merciful death.

I know, I should be happy that "music" is still being kept alive in the same space. But it's just not the same. It's a shameless shadow of what it once was. But then again, the alternative would be like trying to re-capture those 3 mythical days at Woodstock, or a moment from 1965 Haight-Ashbury and bottle it for the masses. You can't do it. It happened. You were there, or you weren't.

(And yes, I am well aware that I wasn't hanging around the Bowery at the age of four, five or six when all of this wonderfulness was hatching and happening. I know. And on the surface, that might make me seem just a little bit hypocritical. But I've read extensively on the subject for many years, and I appreciate the organic nature, the unique alchemy of what happened at that place and time. These stupid kids today couldn't find their asses if they used both hands, let alone appreciate the contributions of those who came before them.)

And to all of you Lady Gaga wannabe club kids who weren’t even a glimmer in someone else’s sperm count during the year 1990: You think you know all about Michael Alig and James St. James just because you watched "Party Monster," that cinematic equivalent to an abortion starring Macauley Culkin and Seth Green (and a miss-it-if-you-blink cameo by Marilyn Manson)? Sure, it was based on St. James’ celebutante memoir Disco Bloodbath(the recollections of which I’m sure were in no way swayed by his unparalleled intake of Extacy and cocaine while simultaneously spiraling into K-holes during that period...). That film sucked ass.

The Limelight, where much of the debauchery in Lower Manhattan circa 1989-92 took place, was a three-story deconsecrated Episcopal Church located at the corner of 6th Avenue (or Avenue of the Americas) and West 20th, a nightlife hotspot that hosted insane theme nights like Club USA, Rock and Roll Church, and Communion. It has since been touted by many as the Studio 54 of the 80's and 90's generations. I’m sure that this lofty comparison makes the former 70’s disco crowd cringe, but as time marches on, the cycle of cringe continues to turn its rusty wheels onward as well, rolling over the bones of those who leaned just a little too far out of the wagon.

It, like CBGB, is now blessed with a second life by being converted into an upscale shopping mall called Limelight Marketplace. Gelato, specialty teas and the wafting scent of gourmet breads beckon. I wonder if the ghosts of anonymous restroom trysts and drug deals past will continue to haunt the place when the lights go down.

And that, my darling ADHD Gen-Next kiddos, is what we call progress. Considering that Michael Alig is still behind bars for the 1996 murder and dismemberment of fellow Club Kid Andre “Angel” Melendez (the drug-dealing Columbian youth who dressed in flamboyant leathers and feathers)-- and let’s not forget former club promoter/raging alcoholic Neville Wells' fall from grace (now locked up indefinitely for the 2004 DWI conviction of 2nd Degree murder, Vehicular Manslaughter, and Vehicular Assault after his car plowed into a minivan at 3:00 a.m. and caused it to go airborne, severely injuring the driver and killing his daughter instantly as they were driving to their family business at Fulton Fish Market)-- I’d say given the present circumstances that there was very little chance for a Limelight “comeback” in the foreseeable future. And it's probably just as well.

I didn’t live in the City, but I was a vicarious Bridge & Tunnel Geek by virtue of the fact that I had some friends who knew the club scene with acquaintances who played many venues in the Village. I remember a couple of visits to the Limelight, during which time Neville Wells appeared to be a very friendly young man, greeting us and leading us to the front of the line, forgoing the astronomical $20 cover charge and handing us complimentary drink passes as we made our way inside… I don’t remember ever seeing Michael Alig, but at the time I probably wouldn’t have known who he, or Richie Rich, or RuPaul, or any of the other future Superstars were. I did see (and was hit on by a few) interesting club kid creatures dancing there. And as for CBGB’s, I made the pilgrimage and sat through an awful set by a band whose name escapes me to this day (the only thing I remember is that in between songs, the lead singer was throwing LP’s at the ceiling with such force that they shattered and rained down on the stage). The place was packed and hot, and stank from three decades’ worth of decay, dog shit (yes, you read that correctly), beer and urine. And I only saw one roach that night, a rather large fellow creeping along a wall. It was pretty dark in there, so god only knows how many thousands more I didn’t see. Still, I was there for the experience. And I definitely got what I came for.

Afterward, I staggered through the Bowery at 3:00 a.m., arms linked with two friends, bellowing the words to “New York, New York” at the top of my lungs. I suppose it was a minor miracle that I was not jumped by any number of muggers in an awaiting alleyway. My friends collected some epic tales down through the years, running into this celeb or that, and once being invited to traipse through the roped-off area at Limelight where the members of Depeche Mode were hanging out. I've heard tales of Dave Gahan being clocked in the face by one girl whose ass he drunkenly grabbed, and another story about someone else starting a fight with Guns n'Roses bassist Duff McKagan when he slurringly inquired where he might purchase some heroin. My own pathetic celebrity sightings included an MTV veejay named Steve Isaacs, in front of whom I embarrassed myself to epic proportions, though not at Limelight or CBGB’s but rather at a seedy basement dive called The Scrap Bar, where heavy metal and glam rockers hung out after-hours. The venue was once the infamous Village Gaslight, where many of the original 1960s Greenwich Village beatniks of the day got their start. Wow—talk about devolving…

So, all in all, at least developers didn’t turn Limelight into an Abercrombie & Fitch, a Barnes & Noble, a mega-Whole Foods, or an Apple Store with a Starbucks tucked inside. But they may as well have.

What’s next—the Hotel Chelsea being converted into spacious luxury condos? The mind reels.