CBGBs Twentieth Reunion
CBGBs Twentieth Reunion
The Ramones, Talking Heads and Blondie hang out around the pool table
When I moved to New York in late 1985, CBGB (OMFUG) (Country Bluegrass and Blues, Other Music For Uplifting Gourmands – funny, only shows I saw there were rock shows, certainly not any of the named genres) had already hosted scores of legendary shows. Talking Heads, Blondie, Ramones, Television, the Cramps, Sex Pistols, all played amazing and influential shows to packed houses. The bathroom there was a legendary and literal shit hole, but the PA sound system was considered one of the best in NY City. I myself saw some amazing shows in that Bowery dump: In Living Color, Life in a Blender, the Smithereens. However, by and large, by the time I got to New York, CBGB was like a regular bar, a place you’d go after work for a few Rolling Rocks and to hear some dirtbag band play so fucking loud it made your ears bleed.
Several of my coworkers at SPIN were friends with the Ramones, so they hung around all the time, whether in the VIP room at Limelight or eating cheap baked ziti in the bar downstairs from Joey’s apartment. Talking Heads too, were fairly ubiquitous in those days. I had worked with each member of Talking Heads separately, ran in similar circles, and had met or photographed each of them. Blondie, well, now Debbie Harry was a horse of a different color. Mysterious as Garbo, twice as hot, and so photogenic, she was the absolute gold standard of a rock star I’d die to photograph.
So when Jodi Peckman (from Rolling Stone) phoned one sunny Autumn Friday afternoon and asked, with a twinkle in her voice, “Sitting down? Don’t ever say I didn’t do nothing for youse,” she chuckled, “CBGB’s 20th Reunion, Ramones, Talking Heads, and, wait for it…Blondie!” Jodi knew, and tossed me about the biggest bone in the business.
The appointed date and time came, and I shlepped two cabs’ worth of lights up to the Bowery (I know, you’re supposed to go “down” to the Bowery from most of the City; metaphorically and geographically both, but from Tribeca it was “up”) and into the virtually deserted rock mecca. We set up lights around the pool table and more down in the actual bathroom and awaited the arrival of our subjects. The Ramones showed up first, happy for the free beers Hilly Kristal provided for the shoot. They were always an affable bunch, happy to be invited.
Next were Talking Heads. Three quarters of them, that is. This was the period when it wasn’t clear if they were still a band or not and apparently David Byrne had opted out of this shoot. It was painfully clear from talking to any of the other Talking Heads that they weren’t particularly happy about this state of affairs. Pretty much any question was answered with, “Ask David,” and it seemed like they were just as baffled as the rest of us as to why they all couldn’t just get over it and make music. This was a year after Rodney King proclaimed, “Can’t we all get along?” and I believe I heard that phrase come up a time or two. Tina Weymouth, Chris Frantz, and Jerry Harrison were all there, with bells on. I had photographed each of them already, so we were thick as thieves while enjoying Hilly’s unusual hospitality. Let’s just say the legendary bar owner was not known for providing a lot of open bars, but I guess the star power that afternoon won him over.
Jerry Harrison and I got right back into this discussion of T-shirts (Jerry: Man, check out this Agnes B shirt, looks as good as it feels. Chris: Dude, $300? This Gap T? $29. And repeat.) As Chris and Tina were circulating and chatting happily, I realized this was actually somewhat of a reunion to these folks: all these people had known each other for twenty years, ridden the wave of music careers and exploded out of CBGB’s like rockets. And why wouldn’t they be happy? Of the hundreds of bands that played CBGB’s back in those halcyon days of the late 70s, these three had become the biggest by far.
This convivial atmosphere was all very nice, but I was on pins and needles of course. I’ve had temperamental musicians leave my sets for all sorts of reasons, in all sorts of ways. I wouldn’t relax until I was editing final chromes on the light table at Soho Color. And of course, the later it got, the more I wondered if I should cut my losses, shoot the two bands who showed up, and forget about Debbie.
Nobody forgets about Debbie, duh. Chris Stein and Deborah Harry showed up, to a great cheer of greeting. And boy oh boy did she look fabulous, full face of makeup, killer outfit, this was going to be great!
That is, until Chris Stein gestured me aside to explain that they were pissed at Jann Wenner (publisher of Rolling Stone) and though they had agreed to appear in the august publication they were only going to do it wearing firefighters’ masks. WHAT?! I swear I heard the record scratch sound effect going off, at like volume eleven. “Are you fucking shitting me?” I don’t even remember what the issue was, why they thought that appearing in an article with most of their faces obscured was how they were going to roll and if I didn’t like it, well, that’s rock and roll. Oh, and something about this little stuffed bear wearing bondage gear too, that was like super important to both of them, go figure. I went ahead and began to shoot, seething about how I was ripped off and would like to see the manager about this Debbie-Harry-in-fire mask thin, but generally being too damn busy making sure the shots came out to really worry about it. I either didn’t know at the time or don’t remember later what the issue was, just that they were mad and going to take it out on Wenner through me.
I’m writing this thirty years to the day later. Just this morning I heard a story on NPR about CBGB’s Fiftieth Anniversary. Funny, the first three music clips they played were none other than the Ramones, Blondie, and Talking Heads, in that order. Reflecting back on that afternoon around the pool table at a local bar, I realized that this one moment was the absolute peak of hipness I would ever achieve. “What did you do today, Chris?” Oh, just hung out at CB’s, knocked back some beers around the pool table with the Ramones, Blondie and Talking Heads. As one does.
Two thoughts on Debbie Harry and her mask. In Peter Matthiessen’s amazing book The Snow Leopard, the protagonist never does actually encounter the eponymous beast. In some ways, the one that got away makes for a much better story. That time I got to photograph Debbie Harry but she insisted on wearing a mask is ultimately kind of more fun than just another day on the photo set.
The second thought? Zoom in. Holy shit, it’s Debbie Harry, no doubt about it, getting just about as much glamour and sex appeal out of those eight square inches as anyone else can muster with an entire body. Bette Davis eyes? Nah, Debbie Harry eyes. Who cares about the issue with Wenner, or the fucking teddy bear or whether Byrne showed up? Not me, I got my shot and my story, and I’m sticking to them.
Great story, Chris. I saw the Talking Heads at CBGB in 1976, 1977. Just saying. Then, great friends of mine moved to NYC around 1985 and played many times at CBGB, befriending Hilly. RUDE BUDDHA. A couple of them were PhD candidates in Religious Studies. 3/4, if not all of them, dead from drugs by the mid-1990s. Amazing the ones who survived for twenty or, my goodness, fifty years!!
Oh, wait. I was in love with Debbie Harry before Tori Amos. I have an unwritten screenplay that starts off with "The Hardest Part."