Blogcritics Author: Retro Music Chick

Music Review: Eric Stuart Band - In the Country of Kings

Retro Music Chick — Thu, 18 Oct 2007 16:36:53 EDT

A jewel in this country star's crown.
In the Country of Kings may be the Eric Stuart Band’s best album to date. Too-long delayed, the album follows RevUp Records BombShellShocked and features a re-mixed version of the much-underplayed single “Paint the Town.” In another fan-friendly addition, Eric re-released 1995’s “The Bottom Line” (He often opens...

Announcement: Short-content feeds

Phillip Winn — Sun, 26 Aug 2007 12:00:00 EDT

Sunday, August 26, 2007, marks the switch of all Blogcritics.org article feeds from full-content to short-content. This is the result of several converging factors, and is unfortunately a permanent decision (as permanent as any decision can be on the web, that is). We are aware of all of the reasons that this is a Bad Idea, and we are aware that some of you will be quite upset about having to click on something to read the free content, and we're sorry. Unfortunately, despite great effort, full-content feeds are not currently economically viable. Two other factors are involved: full-content feeds have resulted in an unprecedented level of content theft, with BC content appearing on many websites, usually spam sites, without attribution or permission. This duplicate content causes a cascading set of problems, not the least of which is that search engines generally aren't favorable to duplicate content, and don't always guess correctly. Finally, our RSS advertising partner is strongly in favor of short-content feeds. We hope that you'll continue to subscribe to BC via RSS, and when an article grabs your eye, it's only a click away, still free on the BC website. Thank you for your understanding.

False Idols

Retro Music Chick — Mon, 7 May 2007 16:26:55 EDT

“The radio plays what they want you to hear” — Reel Big Fish, “Sellout”Mike and I have the same argument at least once a month. Inevitably the subject will turn to music, and inevitably, I will bring up the genius of Tom Waits. (On a sort of related note, our friend Adam once suggested in jest a Tom Waits drinking game, that is, whenever I mention Tom Waits, everyone takes a drink. Jason replied that within moments, they’d all have alcohol poisoning.) Mike hates Tom Waits. He hates Tom Waits and Morrissey and David Byrne and Karen O for the same single reason: He can’t stand their voices.Mike is my alt-rock love god. Green Day is his favorite band. Personally, Billie Joe Armstrong’s nasally screechy little-girl-wants-a-pony voice makes me want to pop my own eardrums. The boy listens to terrible, terrible music. Okay, so I like Muse and OK Go is good party music and anyone who reads Mix Tape Blues knows I spent a lot of time lying on the floor listening to the Killer’s “Mr. Brightside” but let’s face it — these guys all suck.The biggest problem with the American music industry is the lack of voice. Brandon Flowers and Gerard Way and Kelly Clarkson and Hilary Duff all have the same, innocuous singing voice. One without character or sensibility or emotion, simply a vehicle for carrying tepid, mass-produced, asinine pop lyrics. Matthew Bellamy and Chris Martin orally raped Thom York and stole his vocal cords to use for their own sick purposes, making what was once unique now commonplace.I blame American Idol. American Idol promotes the most middle-of-the-road, ineffectual, inoffensive vocal styling to bored housewives and teenage girls who think singing is about standing on the stage with one’s arms in the air. This is not music. I argued once with My Professor because he put Kelly Clarkson on a mix he made me, and he complimented her “big voice.” Most people can carry a tune. It’s not hard. Being able to fill a vacant space or hit the high note so hard you have to bend backwards is simply a practice of breathing, not vocal ability. Simon would have laughed Tom Waits off the stage. Morrissey would have lasted a few rounds because he’s attractive to the gay audience, and Janis Joplin might have done well with the judges but voters would have texted her less-than-perfect ass right out the door. Never mind that these are some of the most influential and critically acclaimed singers of the latter half of the twentieth century, they don’t package well, and that’s what matters in the music industry these days.Being able to convey emotion, that’s what music is about. Billie Holiday could make a song her own simply by opening her mouth. Debbie Harry’s voice made you want to kiss her for fear of getting your ass kicked if you didn’t. Cyndi Lauper’s Bettie Boop squeal gave her ditzy pop songs a solid character, something you could stand behind. Remember when Britney Spears butchered Joan Jett’s immortal “I Love Rock and Roll?” Me neither, because no one saw Crossroads, but you get my point. The gates of pop music hell opened right there.Music is more than lyrics or guitar licks. The appeal of Tom Waits is the honest passion in his voice. If Taylor Hicks were to sing “Bad Liver and a Broken Heart” you wouldn’t ever believe that this guy’s been drunk on anything stronger than cough syrup, but when Waits rasps, “No, the moon ain’t romantic/it’s intimidating as hell” you feel a hangover coming on, you understand the song, you find a part of yourself in his voice because it’s your voice. Waits understands heartbreak. Chris Daughtry does not. When Danny Elfman shudders, “I’d love to mess your pretty hair/I’d love to see you dead” you get the beautifully violent sense of what love really is, not Clay Aiken crooning how he’d like to be eating your shit and buzzing in your ear. All the American Idols are interchangeable, season after season it’s slight variations on the same thing, wan interpretations of small-town claustrophobia and hearts with hairline fractures. The music industry knows we hunger for the median, we simply want noise to fill empty spaces conversation once occupied. We cram our iPods with as much soulless crap as we can to drown out the sound of homeless people on the subway or our children in the backseat. We don’t want to listen, we don’t want to feel, we just want to hear something besides the sound of our own overcharged heartbeats, the growling of our junk-ravaged stomachs, the ticking of the clock that says life is passing us while we wait in traffic with Sirus set to six. We can align with the false sense of misery My Chemical Romance feeds us because we can’t face our own real sorrow, that is, the vacuous commercial shells we’ve become. We channel our nameless frustrations through the baseless hate of Linkin Park. We equate love with grinding on the dance floor. If it doesn’t hurt our ears, we love it and if we don’t love it, we’re stupid, we don’t have fun. Where we once controlled the radio, the radio now controls us, telling us this is how we have to feel, this is what we have to think. Big Brother with a guitar.Turn the radio off. Pour a stiff drink, and toast to heartbreak whether it’s yours or not. Drive with the top down and remember summers you were too young to know. Dim the lights and see the orchestration like gossamer in front of you. Kill your idols.

Award-winning author and music columnist currently writing for st8ke.com. A New York State ranked soprano in my previous life, I no longer sing but take other people's music very seriously. I think in song lyrics and have an uncanny (and probably annoying) ability to relate every song I hear to a distinct memory, person, or place. The Original Blog, updated almost daily.

Satire: Teen Suicide - What's Stopping You?

Retro Music Chick — Wed, 14 Mar 2007 07:37:46 EDT

"She belly-flopped in front of a car wearing a suicide note... just another case of a geek trying to imitate the popular people and failing miserably." -- Shannen Doherty, Heathers Last month's issue of Spin ruined my day. I opened my mailbox to find Gerard Way's stupid pasty Bowie-wannabe face staring at me from the pitch-black chasm of his metal coffin, suffocating among the unpaid bills and slicing his wrists on credit card offers. "Kids were gonna kill themselves. Then they heard our music," blurbs the My Chemical Romance frontman. Funny -- that's how I feel when I hear My Chemical Romance -- l like I want to do myself in.The article goes on to give quotes from a bunch of weasel-faced wankers on message boards such as ImNotOkay.net. My favorite was "I even wrote my suicide letter. I even planned a date that I was going to kill myself. But then, My Chemical Romance came into my life." I hear that phrase a lot on Sunday morning talk radio, only instead of My Chemical Romance, it's Jesus, and there's no chance Gerard Way is the savior -- patron saint of mopey mallrats, sure, but certainly not the He Who Will Redeem. "What the world needs now is some new words of wisdom, like la la la la la la la la la" -- Cracker, "Teen Angst (What the World Needs Now)" I say, if all it takes is some asinine song lyrics and some black eyeliner to save your life, you probably weren't that suicidal anyways. The music industry is cashing on the surging popularity of teen angst, manufacturing it so that if you're not miserable, you're obviously, "suppressing the darker side" to be "the happy bunny" this so-called "everyone" wants you to be. Horizontal arm scars are a fashion trend much like skinny jeans, (and just as ugly) and your most recent suicide attempt is a lunchroom buzzword. This culture of teenage suicide encourages self-mutiliation by making it acceptable to give into pain, because apparently, some white-haired douchenozzle in LA gives a crap about your self-inflicted sense of alienation. Instead of telling you to grow the hell up and stop being such a whiney little wank-job, the Hot Topic/My Chem culture encourages surrendering to your idiotic tendencies because it's the hip new thing to do. By putting so much emphasis on self-destruction and thus bringing it to light gives it the power to become a heroic trend, much like eating disorders and school shootings. Teenagers love to talk nonchalantly about their problems, like "whatever, I just cut myself and bled all over the carpet and my mom was all mad because it's brand new, but whatever, it's no big deal, it doesn't hurt, I cut myself all the time to let out my inner torment," because other morons, (usually girls) will squeal "omg, that's, like, so sad and you are, like, so deep!" They love the attention their angst gets them--teenagers want bLaCk_WhIsPeR_13 to *huggles* them and say, "there there, please don't hurt yourself, I

Mix Tape Blues - Copyright Edition

Retro Music Chick — Tue, 16 Jan 2007 08:57:11 EST

I tried to set up a mix CD exchange on this forum I post on, and almost immediately Queenie McTattlePants posted, "you can't make mix CDs, they violate copyright laws" and then Princess Kissybutt added, "Artists who don't respect other artists copyrights can't expect to have their copyrights respected."Oh give me a break. I'm not selling the CDs on the street, I'm not turning a profit. That to me, is violating copyright because I'm making money off someone else's work. How does it hurt anyone if I burn a couple Smiths songs and a Seatbelts tune onto a CD and mail it to Pretty_Nanci_Fairy in Omaha? It doesn't. Actually, many of the CDs I own are because I bought the album after hearing it on a mix CD -- The Lightning Seeds CuckooCloudLand, ("Pure" Effie 1), Trash Can Sinatras I've Seen Everything ("Hayfever" also on Effie 1) Tom Waits Closing Time ("Rosie," I Hope that I Don't Fall in Love with You," and "Grapefruit Moon" For You, For Everything, for Always) and The Killers Hot Fuss("All These Things I've Done" Music for Your Basement Apartment) So actually, I put some money in Brandon Flower's hipster pocket! Now maybe he can buy himself a shave!By that logic, if you lend a book or a DVD to a friend, you're violating copyright, because your friend didn't pay for the book themselves. And get ready to dance the prison samba if you buy a CD from the dollar bin at a used music store or a garage sale because you weren't putting twenty bucks directly into Pete Doherty's arm.Ever notice how the only people who complain about people "stealing" music are the richest bastards in the universe? And how all the independant artists, the ones who could use the money so they didn't have to work at a bakery and could focus on their music, are the ones giving away free tracks on their websites? That's because it's about the music for them, it's not about new cars and tequila distilled from diamonds. I don't even need to point out the lack of severity of my crime in contrast to say, the war in Iraq, school shootings, or grown men dressed like Peter PanNow I remember why I hate posting on forums -- because there's always that obnoxious idiot who thinks she is Queen of the Universe, who has to throw her unwanted opinion into every topic. My mom always said, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything." I bet your mom said the same thing, and it's true. If you don't want to exchange mix CDs, don't, but let the rest of us have fun. And you can come say "I told you so" when the coppers toss us in the joint.

Greatest Hits and Go to Hell: The (Reluctant) Best and (Not So Reluctant) Worst of 2006

Retro Music Chick — Mon, 1 Jan 2007 16:57:03 EST

I’m the retro music chick, which means, by definition, I don’t subscribe to the modern music scene. But sadly, I also have to go to the grocery store (the retro music chick makes a mean lentil soup) so I am often subjected to the radio. And occasionally, I like what I hear, so I’ve compiled my list of the top four songs of 2006 — these songs have the substance of something old, with the freshness of something new — and in #2’s case, as always, something inherently blue.1. “Starlight” - Muse. Black Holes and Revelations wasn’t as good as Absolution, (despite what my friend Mike says) but this track inspires what the other songs lack — a sublime sense of purpose and an intricate sort of love. This is the kind of music Muse is meant to make. (Black Holes and Revelations)2. “You Have Killed Me” - Morrissey. Mozzer and I have an abusive relationship — he will always crank out neo-angsty crap, and I will continue to listen to it. Ringleader of the Tormenters is the wankerific follow-up to 2004’s You Are the Quarry, which manages to boast two great singles while still being one of the worst albums I’ve ever heard. “You Have Killed Me,” however, captures the delicate balance of the greatest Smiths songs — the overly happy Marr-esq guitar melody interwoven with lyrics which totter playfully on the edge of emo. Sure, it’s just “These Things Take Time,” but that’s a great song — why not make a sequel? (Ringleader of the Tormenters)3. “Breathe” - Anna Nalick. There is no end to female pop stars plucking out vaguely emotional lyrics over synthesized guitar chords (Kelly Clarkson, anyone?) Since Michelle Branch and Vanessa Carlton disappeared from the scene, radio ladies have lacked any semblance of depth. Until now. Simple, a little dippy and not the least bit innovative, “Breathe” still remains a strong pop hit. I grit my teeth, but listen over and over again. 4. “Learning the Hard Way” - Gin Blossoms. I’ll confess, I have a weakness for cheesy early '90s pop-alt bands, and the Gin Blossoms are the best of the bunch. Infectious and charming, this song works melancholy sheepishness like oil paints to create a portrait of youthful restlessness. (Major Lodge Victory)I’d also like to point out that frontman Robin Wilson kissed my eager, pale cheeks several times when I saw him at Magic City Music Hall in October 2004, the very same venue where Andy of Big Bad Voodoo Daddy plopped a sweet little pucker on my pretty little head and Dirk Schumaker let me leave his hat on. Of course, I also have to do my part to warn people of terrible, terrible music, so I’ve included my bottom four as well. These are songs so ungodly, I don’t like seeing their name in print. Stay strong.1. “Bad Day” - Daniel Powter. If I was on a date with Tom Waits and this song were to come on, my day would instantly be ruined. Trite lyrics sung like he’s being strained through a tube sock filled with lime Jello make this tune ultra-cringeworthy. I would also like to give a shout-out to every tow-headed dirtbag with a guitar — stop it. Stop writing songs designed for middle school dances. Stop writing fake-pretty songs designed to get chicks into bed. Dave Matthews started it and now I’m going to end it, starting with...2. “You’re Beautiful” - James Blunt. I do not know a single person who likes this song — granted, that’s because all of my friends are over 15, but that doesn’t detract from my point. This song is awful. Awful, awful, awful. And it might not be so bad if not for his banshee wail screeching the tepid chorus obviously written for some obnoxious pre-pubescent mallrat in response to the eight hundredth time she’s looked at her size negative four body in the mirror at Abercrombie and Fitch and bemoaned in an equally abrasive voice, "I’m so fat!" while hoping she’ll be so overtaken with your words of unshakable devotion to her plastic anorexia that she’ll conceive your child in the parking lot of The f***ing Gap.I’m okay. Really. In fact, I’m so okay that I wish that I could go back in time and attend James Blunt’s high school, just so I could know him better as a person. And beat the living daylights out of him.3. “Don’tcha” - The Pussycat Dolls. These girls managed to take the pettiness of a high school locker room and bring it to the dance floor. “Don’tcha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?” No, but I’m sure glad she’s not a skanky bitch like you. And while we’re on the subject of dancing...4. “Sexyback” - Justin Timberlake. Anyone who reads the Mix Tape Blog already knows how much I hate this song — so much, I’ve put a hit out on the former N’Sync fuckstick (or was that Lance? I’ve got this condition, I get boy-bands confused). This song contains what is known as an “earworm,” that is, an annoying melody that crawls in your ear like a spider and before you know it, your head explodes when her eggs (in this case, the backbeat) hatch. If Justin Timberlake were to, say, get eaten by a werewolf, I can’t imagine myself shedding a single tear.Naturally, the album of the year is Tom Waits' Orphans: Brawlers, Bawlers and Bastards. Because Tom Waits is a genius. Because Tom Waits is the man of my dreams. Because he’s Tom Fuckin’ Waits!Songs for New Years:“A New Year” - Death Cab for Cutie“Baba O Reilly” - The Who“This’ll Be My Year” - Semisonic“The Times They are A-Changin’” - Bob Dylan“Everybody Have Fun Tonight” - Wang Chung“New Year’s Day” - U2“Forever Young” - Alphaville“What a Wonderful World” - Louis Armstrong

Arguing With A Hipster About Tom Waits

Retro Music Chick — Thu, 7 Dec 2006 18:21:38 EST

Tom Waits' Orphans debuted recently, and I, being the obsessive Tom Waits fan that I am (a promo poster for “Downtown Train” hangs over my bed, and I went through a phase where I was dressing like said idol, which, on a girl, is not especially sexy) was frothing to own it. But, like a character on The Heart of Saturday Night, there’s nothing in my pockets except for small change. Forty-nine bucks is a little out of my price range, Tom.So, hands shoved deep in the empty pockets of my trousers, I moped my way down to Oneonta’s Hipster Paradise, Maxwell’s, hoping to at least catch a listen of Waits’ musical miscreants. Sure enough, the Guy Behind the Counter (who bore an uncanny resemblance to Rick Ocasek, if Rick decided to stop showering for a week or so) had Orphans blaring from the scratchy speakers.I asked him which one of the three discs (Brawlers, Bawlers and Bastards) we were listening to. We were listening to Brawlers. Good stuff. Generally I tend to stay towards the earlier end of the Tom Waits spectrum (The Heart of Saturday Night gets my pick as the second greatest album ever, lagging only behind The Who’s immortal Tommy) and end my listening around the Swordfishtrombones era. I like Alice (which, although released in 2000, is very obviously from earlier recordings) and own Blood Money. Mule Variations is a good borrow-listen-return, but Real Gone was just too hipster-friendly—that is, clanging banging nonsense that every wank-job reading this is shaking his flippy-haired head and saying, “She doesn’t know anything about Tom Waits.” I understand what he’s trying to do in later albums and it’s freakin’ awesome how he’s stretching the bounds of what we consider music, but it’s just not appealing to me—I feel like Real Gone lacks any sort of truth to it, like it’s just a manic man’s ramblings, and simply being crazy as hell doesn’t make a genius of a man. “Dead and Lovely” is a unique track in the same vein as Alice, but “Day After Tomorrow” while a sweet sentiment, sounds like something John Mayer might write on a good day. I explain this to Hipster Rick, and he disagrees. He would, after all, he works in a head shop and has flippy girl hair."Waits’ albums are like paintings, and each song blends together to form another aspect of that painting."We’re discussing Small Change, a crucial album in the spectrum of my Waits timeline (January 2006, broke as usual, living with a pervert in Brooklyn) but I disagree with his interpretation. The songs that flow together work towards the larger picture, that is, the portrait of a disenchanted and lonely individual seeking solice in whiskey, strippers and strangers, but just as the painting is starting to form, (“Tom Traubert’s Blues” is one of the purest Waits songs in existence) “Step Right Up” jars the listener out of the painting. It’s a wonderful song, but it’s random both melodically and lyrically — cool as hell, but random. The album settles back into “Jitterbug Boy,” “I Wish I was in New Orleans” and “The Piano Has Been Drinking” before another razz-ma-tazz spike-heel paced number, “Pasties and a G-String,” this one fitting a little better than “Step Right Up” in terms of lyric material, but still jarring the listening from the scope. The pieces that do work as a painting blend together too much, forming a murky soundtrack in gray and brown, without much to discern between them. I point out The Heart of Saturday Night as a better illustration of the painting theory. Hipster Rick disagrees. He does not like The Heart of Saturday Night. Musically, however, it fits his argument. Each song on that album blends into the next, not in a monotonous, unending way (as on Coldplay’s Parachutes) but rather each as a gentle brushstroke, illuminating the world Waits wants us to see-all night diners, truck drivers, weary girlfriends and sympathetic bartenders.“I used to listen to your music and think “Boy, I’d love to lie nearly dead in the street with that guy” — Jon Stewart on Tom Waits, 11/28/06 Waits lost much of his charm in expanding the definition of music. The smirking, down-and-out master of metaphors (among my favorites, “It’s colder than a ticket-taker’s smile at the Ivar theater on a Saturday night” from Nighthawks at the Diner) We loved him when he was a little drunk, sheepish, his voice raspy but not the stuff of nightmares. Now his music is much darker, twisted growling ramblings, like a carnival barker from hell. And it works—sometimes. “Underground” (Swordfishtrombones) is an outstandingly cool, shivery-weird song that also gets bonus points because it was used in the Ewan McGregor movie Robots, which I saw with my boyfriend, therefore creating a scene of unparalleled happiness. Too much of that, however, and aspirin is needed. It’s music, yes, but so are little kids smashing wooden blocks together and neither are pleasant to listen to.Sometime in the eighties we lost the Waits we loved, and loved the Waits who came back, but it’s the equivalent of seeing your old high school sweetheart ten years later and he’s still just as charming, but life has changed him so it’s as though he’s another person completely different than the boy who pushed you on the swings in Norman, Oklahoma. Like most of my ex-sweethearts who’ve long since gotten boring, I blame their wives. Kathleen Brennan, I love you because Tom Waits loves you, but you managed to simultaneously save him from becoming a lounge-parody of himself, but you turned him into something only you could love. It’s romantic and, like most great romances, it’s depressing to the rest of us. Hipster Rick and I finish brawling and I’ve got to get to work, so I bid both Rick and Waits a goodbye. Outside the mongrel wind gnaws my face and I think about every time I’d put on a Waits tune, how each song wasn’t simply an illumination of a moment, but the moment itself. Whether he’s crooning or clanging, it is those moments which make his music unparalleled.The Retro Music Chick’s Five Favorite Tom Waits Songs:1) “Drunk on the Moon” (The Heart of Saturday Night) 2) “Tango ‘til They’re Sore” (Rain Dogs) 3) “Little Trip to Heaven (On the Wings of Your Love)” (Closing Time) 4) “Alice” (Alice) 5) “Tom Traubert’s Blues (Three Sheets to the Wind in Copenhagen)” (Small Change)

The Pop Star Cycle

Retro Music Chick — Mon, 13 Nov 2006 17:08:43 EST

Current Listen: "Wild Sex (In The Working Class)" - Oingo BoingoAh Britney. Britney Britney Britney. You continue to amaze, becoming more and more of a caricature with each passing week. I'm not a tabloid fanatic, but this news bit did strike me, only because my mom and I had a conversation about this a few years ago.There is a cycle to being a pop star, and with the recent allegations of her divorce from the train wreck that is Kevin Federline, she's one step closer to completion on said cycle.Step One: Pretty blonde teenager makes a pop album. Fame ensues.Step Two: Pop Star "grows up" by alternating cute Lolita image for nasty slut. The delusions begin that she is, in fact, a musician. Step Three: Attempt acting. Movie bombs.Step Four: First failed marriage and rehab. (Oh, I'm sorry, it was "exhaustion.")Step Five: Third album disappoints. The Greatest hits album does the same.Step Six: Second marriage, baby(s), and weight gain. This is accompanied with blaming the paparazzi for everything while crying on talk shows. Step Seven: Slim down, dump husband. Talk show circuit, more crying and the promise of a comeback.And now we're just waiting for:Step Eight: Mediocre comeback. This includes the Casino circuit, maybe a show in Vegas, taking second billing to All You Can Eat shrimp cocktail.Step Nine: Semi-retirement with kids, and an occasional piece in the "Where are they now" section of your favorite celebrity rag.In the words of Stephen Colbert: I CALLED IT!As for Kevin Federline, he'll end up on The Surreal Life. My friend Mike and I were discussing the idea behind Mike Judges' Idiocracy and decided that it was probably based on Kevin Federline. Think about it -- the man spawned four children. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, perhaps? Only they'd have to ride short horses and they'd bring plague and pestilence with crayons up their nose. Although I have to admit, "Fed-Ex" is the greatest nickname ever.

The Queen Is Dead, Boys, And It's So Lonely On A Limb

Retro Music Chick — Mon, 16 Oct 2006 20:03:02 EDT

I am not going to wax poetic over the closing of CBGB's. I'm sad to see it leave, but I was never there, so I have no personal attachment and I can't be one of those wankers who weeps for a cause they know nothing about. Ian got the also-defunct July for Kings to sign my CD there once, but that's as close as I ever got. While I admire all the greatness that came out of the early days, (The Talking Heads, Blondie, and Patti Smith, specifically) I'm more saddened by what it's become and how it's dying a pop star death instead of a punk one.CBGB's died years ago. The birthplace of punk burned as soon as Hilly Kristal decided to market tee-shirts to teeny boppers. Why didn't he buy the club lot with the blood money Hot Topic paid him? I bet if you asked any such sporting bimbo to name three bands, not including the Ramones (the tee-shirt of which her mall-emo boyfriend is wearing) that came out of the infamous Bowery bar, she might be able to stammer, "Blondie," but only because that tee-shirt is hanging in her closet.Worse, he's moving the club to Las Vegas. Vegas, baby, Vegas. How many punks can you imagine in Las Vegas? He'll probably host a star-studded opening with Hilary Duff (sporting her ultra-punky "Stuff" line) and Kevin Federline on the mike. I hope Joey Ramone haunts him for the rest of his days. There's a word in the punk world for this kind of treatment -- sellout. If we wanted to properly memorialize CBGB's, we'd let it die. Having Patti Smith sing at the closing ceremonies was a good touch, but the truth remains that CBGB's is not unlike an aging pop star -- desparately clinging to a dead era, exploiting the glory days with a big glittery show in the has-been capital of the world. He might as well design the club with plastic plants in giant brandy snifters and an all-you-can-eat buffet. Can you imagine David Byrne flailing across the stage in his big suit, wailing, "This ain't no party, this ain't no disco, be sure to tip your waitress?"Death is the only suitable finale for a punk -- a violent, iconic death, not sequined jeans and crab cakes at what should have been a funeral long ago. "This place is not a temple," said Patti Smith. "It's a state of mind." Hopefully those who were once there will remain in that state of mind, a bittersweet recollection of what it used to be, and for those who grow up knowing CBGB's as a Vegas venue, well, that's no state of mind I wish to be in.