The Possibilities of Punk

UP UNTIL about six months ago, CBGB's was the only rock bar I ever felt comfortable in. All you needed was a long scarf and a worried look. You could slouch in an abandoned corner while honey-nippled starlets from Starret City brushed past your willing jeans. Or you could play pool with a guy who'd just come off the stage. This was the only club on earth where the talent treated the press as compatriots. Maybe that's because some of the talent were press (I know of three critics who made their rock debuts at CBGB's). Then there were the emissaries from the industry — producers and agents looking to manage something unmanageable. Some were actual executives with corner offices and views of the Queensboro Bridge. They were as forsaken as the clientele, but you could always tell a tin-pan intellectual from a punk because the punk had better skin.