Old, Fat Rules: A Hostile Crowd at CBGB

Written by George Tabb on . Posted in Posts.



"Come on," Jolly
says to the cabdriver with the turban on his head, "ya gotta have something."


I tell Jolly to shut his
mouth. We wait in the cab for Holmstrom to buy some beer in the store on the
corner of Worth and Broadway.


"But I gotta have something,"
whines Jolly, who used to be "The Resident Punk" at Punk, "anything
at all!"


I calmly explain to Jolly
that John Holmstrom, the editor of Punk and our pal, is in the process
of buying us beer so we can get more fucked up.


"I’m tired of
beer," yells Jolly. "You just drink it and drink it and you get drunk
and it’s boring."


I look at him with his white-man
afro right out of the 70s, and wonder if there is any gray matter left beneath
it.


"Man, I wanna get high!"
says Jolly.


"Hi," says the
cabbie to Jolly.


"Bro," says Jolly
to the cabbie, "you gotta get me fucked up. You got any pot, bro? Come
on, bro, some marijuana. Weed. You know, pot?"


The cabbie either doesn’t
understand Jolly or is ignoring him. I’d like to think it was the latter.


"Dude," I say
to the Resident Punk, "I can see Holmstrom in there now buying chips and
shit to go along with the beer. Chill."


"But I wanna get high!"
yells Jolly.


"Hi," repeats
the cabbie.


"Buddha," Jolly
says to the cabbie, "you got to have something. You have to enlighten us."


"Light?" the guys
says from the front seat as he turns on the cab’s interior lights.


"No," yells Jolly.
"Something to fuck us up. Drugs."


"Yeah," I chime
in, figuring the conversation couldn’t get any stupider, and I was bored
of waiting for Holmstrom.


"Drugs" repeats
Jolly.


"Like heroin,"
I say.


"Harem?" asks
the driver. "I like harem. Girls. Yes."


Just then Holmstrom opened
the back left door near Jolly and slid in with a case of beer.


"Hey guys," he
says to us, "I got the beer."


"I’m tired of
beer," says Jolly.


It was the night of the
25th anniversary party for Punk at CBGB, and just as with my wacky cab
ride later that evening, the preceding events were stupid, repetitive and funny.


The party had started at
six at CBGB’s 313 Gallery, where artists like Roberta Bayley, Bob Gruen,
Niagara and Holmstrom had hung their work. I, of course, missed the art opening,
as it’s really not my thing. Besides, Temptation Island was on,
as well as a really good Lifetime movie where this woman goes crazy and kills
her cheating husband and then gets put on trial and loses custody of her kid.
Or was it the kid who killed the father and the mother covered it up?


Anyway, art shows aren’t
my thing. I knew there would be lots of "punk celebrity" types there,
but those people drive me nuts. And that’s probably why I did what I did
when my band Furious George played our set that night.


I arrived at CB’s around
9:15. In time to catch the end of Charm School, one of my favorite local bands.
Following them were Napalm Stars, which feature my friend, Tim Steigal, who,
when he talks, which is 24/7, sounds like Tennessee Tuxedo and Jello Biafra
on speed. He’s really funny. For a glam rock pussy, that is.


Anyway, as his band gets
on stage with some sissy from Hanoi Rocks, my bass player Stevie and I start
to get really wasted. We drink a couple of shots of Cuervo and follow them up
with a few bottles of Rolling Rock.


Sometime later I find myself
in the basement of the club, which, in the last decade or so, has become its
own sort of swinging lounge. There I find Hilly Kristal, owner of CBGB World.
Hilly is talking to some hot chick who turns out to be Elda from the Stilettos.
I tell her she was my teenage crush, which is true, and that she still looks
the same. Which is also true.


Then I drink some more,
go upstairs and see Holmstrom pied in the face by some ECW wrestlers. Return
to the basement, where I proceed to get really wasted on some drugs some guys
and girls give me.


As I’m getting more
and more fucked up, I start running into a lot of punk rockers I recognize from
"the old days." I mean the old days. Like the Ramones’
third album days.


Anyway, these punk rockers
all look, well, old. The men have beer bellies and are balding, and the women,
well, look tired. And I bet they all live in the burbs and drive those ugly
Jeep things.


So I start getting pissed.
I mean, what happened? These people now look like the same old hippies we made
fun of at Dead Boys shows.


A lot more bands play, including
the all-mighty Thor and the Dictators, as well as Niagara, who, not just in
my opinion, shoulda worn some more clothes. Then Furious George is up.


Stevie and I get on stage
and I wonder who is the more fucked-up. The kid did drink a lot, but I think
I have him beat because of the drugs. But he does plug his bass into a guitar
amp and then yells and screams that it doesn’t sound right, so maybe he
was higher. Then again, he is a bass player…


Michael, our drummer, borrows
some drum shit from another band because I forgot to tell him to bring his cymbals
and snare, and finally we’re ready to play.


"It’s great to
be here at the 25th Anniversary of Maximumrocknroll!" I say as the
audience of old punk rockers just stare at us. I introduce our guest bass player
for our first song, "Sonic Reducer"–none other than Jeff Magnum
from the Dead Boys. I put Evan, my old bass player, on guitar and I take off
my shirt and sing.


The audience is not impressed.
Even though I shaved my chest for the event. A few people clap, but most just
choose to ignore us and talk about how they were so cool back in the day.


We do our second and third
songs with our regular lineup and a few more people clap, but no one really
seems to be paying attention. Except the guy with the mohawk and his girlfriend
up front. The guy looks to be a little older than 20, and his chick, well, she’s
wearing leather pants and a leather shirt, and from the right angle (above her,
which I was) I could see her breasts. Nice. How you doin’?


As we’re about to start
our next song, someone yells we suck. I say some smartass remark back, and more
people start yelling we suck.


Now I start to feel more
at home. I hurl a few more insults and hear Sticka, the stage manager, telling
me to shut up and play.


"I’m not gonna
shut up and play," I say into the mic.


The audience tells me I
should.


"Fuck you you bunch
of fucking hippie pussies," I yell.


"Fuck you!" the
audience yells back.


"Fuck me?" I yell.
"Fuck you. I’m still up here playing. What are any of you doing? Driving
your kids around to soccer practice in your Volvos? Getting drunk and watching
golf?"


People start to spit at
me and a few bottles are thrown. I’m hit in the leg and it hurts.


"You know something?"
I begin to feel the devil horns sprouting from my bleached head. "Back
in the day–you know, when you were all oh-so-popular–none of you paid
any attention to me. And certainly none of you fucked me."


More bottles and spit.


"And I’m glad
you didn’t fuck me," I continue, "because you were skanky then,
and you’re just as skanky now."


The booing starts, and the
mohawked kid gets all offended, as does his girlfriend.


"Shut up," I tell
the both of them. "You were just sperm when this was going on."


I then go on to tell the
crowd that I was cute "back in the day" and that the girls should
have fucked me, and the guys should have been nice to me instead of beating
me up on a constant basis.


"But look at you now,"
I say to the audience. "Your pussies all stink like cat vomit, your tits
sag to your knees and you guys couldn’t even get it up with Viagra!"


The crowd now turns from
pleasantly not-amused to downright hostile.


Just the way I like it.


"Fuck you, George Tabb.
You’re old and fat!" I hear some chick yell.


"Fuck you, bitch!"
I yell back.


"Shut up you asshole,"
she snaps.


"I’ll shut your
asshole up with my 10-inch cock," I tell her. "I’ll stick it
so far up your ass it will tickle your tonsils."


I get a few laughs, but
mostly spit.


So we play a few more songs,
and then I start in again.


"You know something?"
I say. "I don’t need your tired pussies, or your punk rock pity. I’m
fucking your daughters."


"What did you just
say?" yells some old punk rock chick with dyed black hair near the bar.


"I said I’m banging
your kids. I’m eating up their nubile nectar and taking them from behind
better than their daddies ever could!"


At that point I think it
all degenerated into hell. But I’m not sure. All I remember is after our
last song, when we went to the back of the stage, Legs McNeil, the Resident
Punk at Punk before Jolly, gave me a look.


A look of stunned amusement
and wonder.


He had once told me that
punk rock was dead. I think maybe, just maybe, he changed his mind.


 


Speaking of punk rock,
the new Insane Clown Possee CD Bizaar on Island Def Jam Music Group…
isn’t. I don’t know what it is. But it sure does suck. Hopefully Eminem
will smoke their asses. Word?


"My loneliness is killing
me…" Sorry. Britney Spears attack. Arrgh.


The X-Possibles have a new
self-released CD with tunes like "March of the Body Snatchers" and
"Speedy Delivery." Their singer, Tibbie X, is really hot, and when
I recently saw them play at CBGB I had a hard time keeping my stretch jeans
from ripping, budda-bing, ya know what I mean? Anyway, they sure are punk, playing
fast, loud and really snotty. It’s actually quite a treat to hear a band
like them in this day and age of Limp Bizkit.


Another female-fronted band
I saw recently, who also released their own CD, is Daddy. I saw them play at
Don Hill’s and the singer is hot. She also likes to get undressed in public
a lot. Which is fine by me. Her name is Laurel, and when she sings it kinda
sounds like operatic punk/metal. Cool if you dig that kinda stuff. But her being
naked is enough for me.


The Negatives’ We
Rock–You Don’t
self-released CD is fucking dope. I mean, these
guys sound like Iggy meets the Dead Boys meets Black Flag. And to top it all
off, they come from Baltimore. Great stuff.


Meat Depressed is a great
name for a band. And their new CD, Deface the Nation on Good Cop/Bad
Cop Records, is pretty darn swell. These guys also played the Punk party
and did a kick-ass Ramones medley. On this CD are tunes like "It’s
Time to Fuck," "I Can’t Hear You (La La La La)" and "Mad
at the World." I later partied with these guys along with Jolly and Holmstrom,
and, man, are they funny. But they’re from Massachusetts. So they can’t
be that funny.


Piss Ant is a band from
Los Angeles. The singer chick gave me a tape and they rock pretty hard in that
old-school punk sort of way. And she’s got huge boobies, and isn’t
afraid to show them off. Woo-hoo!


The LawnDarts’ new
CD Volume 2 on Lawndarts Records is mucho fun. With loud guitars a la
Lemmy and Johnny Ramone, screaming vocals and really catchy riffs, this disc
will probably do real well with the kids. Songs like "My Girlfriend’s
Got a Gun" and "Misery" are right up my alley. I like these guys,
and if you don’t, well, I’ll get my friend Allyson to beat you up.


The Offspring’s new
CD, Conspiracy of One on Columbia, is boring.


Ringmaster’s Ringmaster
in Camouflage
, a self-released CD, is pretty swell, but nothing like their
live show. Their guitarist, who wears red leather pants and listens to Rush
and Foghat, can really play a mean lead, while the singer, well, I really do
love her outfits. You go, girl.


The Vandals just rereleased
Oi to the World, their collection of Christmas tunes that are just too
fucking funny, on Kung Fu Records. Tell me that "Hang Myself from the Tree,"
"Oi to the World," "Christmas Time for My Penis" and "My
First Christmas (As a Woman)" aren’t brilliant song titles. The music
is punky cool, and the lyrics, well, I’m jealous!


Ms. Spears is developing
quite a nice little body, huh? "You drive me craaaazzzzy!"


I got two self-released
CDs from a girl named Stephanie St. John. While her name could be that of a
wonderful porno star, alas, her bands, Stephanie & the Band of Davids and
The David First Project, are kinda just plain ol’ Alanis Morrisette and
P.J. Harvey sort of stuff. Why she sent them to me, I’ll never know.


Sick Of It All recently
released their zillionth album, this one called Yours Truly on Fat Wreck
Chords. Real New York hardcore here. No pussy music. And these guys are badasses.
Even if I didn’t like this CD, I would still say it rocks, ’cause,
well, I’m that kind of guy. Plus, their song "Hello Pricks" is
the bizzbomb. Bizzbomb. I heard that word recently. Don’t know what it
means, but I like the sound of it. Kinda rolls off the tongue. Bizzbomb. Ooooh,
that tickles.


The Sun Demons’ self-titled
CD on Smart Money Records rocks. Period. In fact, their first song is "Mighty
Rock." And their singer is good old Jolly Prochnik. Resident Punk. I wonder
if he ever found some pot.


Lastly, I got the new Cocksparrer
CD, Cocksparrer Live, on Ringside Records. This band of skinheads has
been around quite a while, and don’t you just love the fact that not only
do they look like big penises, but they have "cock" in the band name?


You can get the 25th Anniversary
Issue of Punk at CBGB or at See Hear. Just telling you.


"I’m not that
innocent." God, and that gold outfit she wears? Bizzbomb!


 

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