CBGBs Rawked

The club burned into fabric, the name scrawled like bathroom graffiti after last call. CBGB’s isn’t just letters, it’s a shrine to noise and sweat, a basement church where punk learned how to scream. The shirt recalls the beer-soaked amps, rattling chains, and a hundred bands that changed music with three chords and no apologies. Carry that history like a scar, a relic from the Bowery nights when the walls dripped and the floor shook.

The fringe-cut top runs like a Small/Medium, cropped and short, with wide accommodating stretch in the fabric. The fringe bottom moves with you and adds space for fit.

Every shirt is torched by hand, one at a time. A bottle of etching gel in my grip, a projector blasting the sacred geometry of rock, cotton stretched under the glow. I burn the design directly into the fabric. The reaction hits like a chemical storm, pulling colors no screen print can touch.
On black, it comes alive in tones of burnt orange, rust, bone, even white hot. On navy or forest green, it blooms bronze and smoky gold. Each reaction is unique. The shirt takes on its own scars, its own identity.
This is wearable relic-making. Not a copy, not a print run, but a shirt altered by hand, etched into existence with bleach and nerve. Wash it, thrash it, live in it- the mark only deepens with time.
Perfect for anyone who wants a shirt that feels alive. Rock fans. Punk kids. Vintage collectors. Streetwear rebels. It belongs to you once it’s done.
You’ll wear it three nights straight and wonder why you ever owned anything else.