Walking Manhattan. Ellen Levitt

has been added to the National Register of Historic Places. The address was 315 Bowery … and don’t you forget it.

      None of this tells you much, though, about what it was like to attend a show there. I went to a number of shows at CBGB throughout the 1980s and some in the 1990s, and although it was usually fun, it was also crowded, loud, reeking of beer and sweat, and a sea of elbows. It also had remarkably disgusting bathrooms (which have been preserved and displayed at, among other places, the Metropolitan Museum of Art).

      Almost every time I ventured into “CB’s,” the owner was at or near the door. Hilly Kristal was a gruff, disheveled guy who looked like someone’s dad who wandered into the wrong place. His eyeglasses were at the tip of his nose, and he was usually involved in paperwork or talking with someone. He watched over the place like a hawk.

      In July 1999, I exhibited black-and-white photographs at the adjoining CB’s 313 gallery (313 Bowery) with a few other photographers, and while I was hanging up my framed prints, Hilly stood a few feet away from me, sawing away at wood planks. I’m not sure what he was working on at the time, but every once in a while he would let out a big sigh. I asked him about it and he gave an exaggerated shoulder shrug, just like my father would.

      The first show I recall seeing at CBGB was The Dickies, a punk band that specialized in wacky, rapid-fire covers of mainstream rock and pop songs. Amid the proceedings, in walked actor Matt Dillon. My friend Antoinette approached him and said, “You’re rich, give me some money.” He handed her a dollar.

      Who else did I see perform? I remember some names—the NiteCaps, Richard Hell, Token Entry, Murphy’s Law—plus assorted punk bands at the Sunday-afternoon “hardcore matinees,” a string of garage-rock bands, and others I just don’t recall. It was always an experience, even if the ladies’ room was as nasty as the men’s.