New York was a disappointment.

I moved here following the advice of this musician friend of mine named Bobby who had escaped from the generic suburb we both grew up in. He’d been living in New York since 1998 and told me I needed to get my ass to the city before our hometown killed me from the inside out. I couldn’t disagree. But what I found when I got here wasn’t at all what I was expecting.

            "Where’s the filth?" I asked Bobby, sitting on the barstool next to me in his skinny jeans, Dead Boys T-shirt, ratty Chucks, and leather wrist cuffs. It was the wee hours of another tired Saturday night in the East Village and we’d both downed a few too many PBRs. "They make this place look so cool on TV and in the movies, you know? Times Square’s supposed to be filled with crazies. Cabbies are all supposed to be lunatics. Muggings on every corner. Punks and thugs, and graffiti on everything. Alphabet City: Artsy, Brave, Crazy, Dead. Fuck, riding the subway feels about as dangerous as going to the mall."

            "Gentrification, man," he said. "The whole city. It’s never going to be like it was. Fucking Disney’s ruined everything. The East Village is turning into another ‘hip’ neighborhood for fucking day traders to meet golddiggers. I mean, they closed down CBGBs for Chrissake!"

"I would kill to have seen the Ramones back in the day. Or the Talking Heads. Patti Smith. Even Blondie—you know, before they sold out."

            "Shit was happening back then. Now it’s all sanitized crap."

            "I hate the present day. I need a DeLorean, like in that movie, so I can go back in time."

            And that was the beginning of it. It’s not like I was the first person to ever talk nostalgic. I don’t know, maybe it was the alcohol. Or maybe Bobby was just that kind of crazy motherfucker. Something went off inside him.

Bobby knew a guy down in D.C. named Xan who promoted small club shows. Xan knew a Ramones cover band. There were plenty of Ramones cover bands around, but Bobby said these guys looked and sounded just like Joey and company.

            We’d find a space on the Lower East Side, rent it out for the night, and decorate it as much like the old CBGBs as possible. I had some money left in my trust fund, so we had just enough cash to do up everything right.

            Xan didn’t take much to be sold on the idea. The faux-Ramones heard the idea and loved it. Hell, we were all excited. And when we saw the response from the people we gave fliers to, we knew we were on to something.

The night of the show, a thousand little punks were lined up in front of our shabby storefront, posing and snarling like it was August of 1974. A cloud of smoke from all the cigarettes almost blocked the CBGB sign we painted on the awning. The vintage T-shirts on display told a history of 1970s punk rock. A few people showed up wearing Sum-41 shirts, or a patch on their bag that said Good Charlotte. It was a good thing we had security, because these blasphemers could have been ripped to shreds if they hadn’t been quickly removed from the line. Anachronistic Mohawks and safety-pin piercings were allowed because they were considered enough a part of "original" punk. But nobody wanted the logo of one of those poseur modern "punk" bands to distract from the idea that they were about to see real history in the remaking.

            As the crowd flooded in, you could hear hardcore punk historians dropping tidbits of their knowledge at each other, testing the cred of the people around them.

"You know, the Ramones weren’t actually the first punk band to play CBs."

"I know. It was Television. They played Sunday nights starting in March of ’74."

"Blondie played for the first time the same month as the Ramones."

"Yeah, but they were still called Angel and the Snake at that point."

"Well, Debbie Harry was doing backing vocals for the Stilettos before she was with Angel and the Snake."

Others just stood around and did their best to stay in punk character. They didn’t want to be talking about history; they wanted to be living history. And those were the people we put the show on for.

The "Ramones" slunk to the stage and started into "Blitzkrieg Bop." Even though it was supposed to be the first time anybody had ever seen the band, nobody could resist singing along. The only way we couldn’t maintain historical accuracy was with the set list. Bobby and I did our best to research what the Ramones played that first night, but we just couldn’t find a reliable source. As a compromise, we decided to limit the cover band to only playing songs off of the band’s first album. Of course, there were so many classics off that record that nobody really cared about authenticity. All it took was one "Hey! Ho! Let’s go!" and everybody was having a blast.

It was the Ramones.

It was CBGBs.

It was the way New York was supposed to be.

The Ramones show scored us enough bank that we decided to do it again. And again. And then we decided to branch out. Xan tracked down a Talking Heads cover band. Then we found a Blondie tribute. After that, a spot-on Patti Smith impersonator asked if we’d give her a shot. Those shows all did well, but it was the Ramones shows that really brought the people in. We ended up doing six of them over the next six months.

            Halfway through what would turn out to be our last Ramones show, Xan brought a guy named Douglas Appleby up to Bobby and me. He stood out from the crowd because he was the only person wearing a suit. He shook hands like someone who told you everything you need to know about him with one grip. With a charismatic smile he said, "Are you ready to take this to the next level?"

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