CBGB was like a witch’s house with its stucco exterior, swinging wooden doors and opaque windows smeared with layers of fliers and wheat-paste residue. We walked in, and I was entering the dreams I envisioned from the pages of Rock Scene, which included the row of beer signs hanging from the ceiling leading to the stage. It was $3 to enter, which at that time was fairly steep, at least for teenagers from Connecticut with just enough coin from lawn-mowing jobs to pay for gas, cigs and a few Cokes. We were out of money and wondering how to get in when I noticed Richard Hell hanging around the door. I asked him if he could help. He had a stamp on his hand and licked it and pressed it on ours, and we slinked in.
From “The First Time I Saw Bands at CBGB (in 1976)” by Thurston Moore for the New York Times; Photo by Tom Jamieson (@tom_jamieson)