Old, Fat Rules: A Hostile Crowd at CBGB

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"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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