CBGB’s was long and narrow like my chicken coop. Unlike the coop, however, walls were covered in posters and stickers so thick you couldn’t see through to the paint, if there was any paint. The constant smell of stale beer and urine made a person want to throw up. Lemon-lime Fresca, a soda, served on tap at the bar somehow settled the stomach despite its unbearable sugar rush. 

Originally a biker bar, owner Hilly Kristal wisely asked them to leave and never come back because they scared all of us punk rockers. After the exodus, CBGB’s became a mere dive bar. The circus-like red letters on the marquee, CBGB & OMFUG, stood for Country, Blue Grass, Blues and Other Music for Uplifting Gormandizers, but no one could remember that; we just called the place CB’s.

I had just finished playing a set with Comateens, my first band. The place was crowded with the usual Mohawk-coifed night crawlers. Walking off stage, I had an air about me. I fancied myself a rock star and acted the part. I was twenty-three.

Suddenly, someone’s sweaty palm gripped my wrist stopping me short. I turned my head and saw no one. The hand emanated from below. Looking downward, I found a heavy-set older man with a full beard sitting in a wheel chair holding me tight. It was awkward and so uncool. We were in the middle of the club. People were looking at us! I tried prying myself loose, but couldn’t. I had no idea who this guy was and before I could escape, he asked the oddest question, “Are you the songwriter?”

“Yes,” I answered slightly intrigued. Back then people were not interested in who wrote the songs. They were only into fashion, a look, a sneer, an attitude; certainly not musical talent and definitely not who wrote the song.

“You’re a good songwriter,” he continued still cuffing my wrist, “I want to give you one tip if you don’t mind.” 

“Sure,” I said totally embarrassed; waiting for some comment like “get to the chorus faster” or “take some music lessons”, but none of that came.

“Just remember,” he said. “You’ll never write a best song because there is always another one inside of you. So don’t panic if you can’t think of something or you think that one of your songs is so great you’ll never top it. There will always be another better one.” And with that, he released me. I gazed at him for a moment, chuckled nervously and said, “Okay,” and then quickly walked away.

The whole interaction diminished my pompous rock star strut. Instead, I shuffled around the club contemplating what it all meant; the man, the song tip, the whole encounter until someone interrupted my daydream by asking, “What did Doc Pomus say?”

“Who?” I replied.

“That was Doc Pomus you were talking to. He wrote A Teenager in Love, Save the Last Dance for Me, This Magic Moment, Can’t Get Used to Losing You, Suspicion, and Ray Charles’s Lonely Avenue.

“Really?” I said looking around the club for the person I thought so strange and ill-fitting who was now gone.

Recently, I found out that (at the time of our meeting) Doc Pomus was conducting songwriting seminars at his studio with the likes of Patti Smith and Lou Reed. Had I been more present to the situation, I might have been invited. I certainly would have liked to have attended, but it wasn’t in the cards. I can still feel his hand around my wrist and the way he sort of wiggled my arm. The rendezvous remains today a part of my past that, if I could do over, I would do differently. And the Pomus tip is something I hold golden. It’s something I employ not only in songwriting but in all writing.

RAMONA JAN is the Founder and Director of Yarnslingers, a storytelling group that tells tales both fantastic and true. She is also the roving historian for Callicoon, NY and is often seen giving tours around town. You can email her at callicoonwalkingtours@gmail.com.