Dozens of young’uns pleaded with bouncers to gain entry to the penultimate CBGB’s show, to no avail. Inside, the capacity crowd was comprised of dark-clad twenty- and thirtysomethings too young to remember the good old days. The show featured a nicely random lineup: The club’s most famous alumni (Blondie) in redux form, playing acoustic, as well as far less famous, though more reliable, New York punk warriors the Dictators. After a bashed-out punk set by the Waldos, a four-piece led by fiftysomething former Heartbreaker Walter Lure, Blondie cohorts Debbie Harry and Chris Stein took the stage. Stein — now gray-haired, sportcoat-clad and a little frail, looked disturbingly like Steely Dan’s Donald Fagen in his shades-specked business-casual hipster suit. Harry, on the other hand, wore her age well, looking like a mod MILF in a sexy black-and-white dress.

Harry’s look – as well as the acoustic setup – seemed out of sorts with CBGB’s enduring piss-and-vomit ambience. Several in the crowd complained that Blondie didn’t perform a full-on electric set. Still, Harry and Co. were greeted like old friends, even if the crowd wasn’t terribly enthralled. The band worked its way through loose, quiet versions of old hits and covers, which translated surprisingly well in acoustic form. Harry was in fine voice, sounding clear as a bell on “Heart of Glass” and “One Way or Another” and dropping some pseudo-operatic swoops on “Call Me.”

There was barely a nod to the moment at hand. But before “Tide Is High,” Harry broke down, a little. “This is a little weird,” she said. “But anything for the old CBGB.” Then, in mock teenager whine, “What are we going to do now? Where are we gonna go?” Later, Blondie redux covered the Ramones’ “I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend,” dedicating it to old pal Joey. It was a sweet gesture, and more affecting than most of the set.

After an interminably long wait, during which an asshole bouncer harangued patrons outside not to loiter next door — seriously, at this point, who cares? — the Dictators tumbled onstage. Five New Yorkers who first graced CBGB back in the mid-Seventies, they’ve been peddling a knowing version of teenage punk dumbness since their first (and best) 1975 album, The Dictators Go Girl Crazy. Tonight, they almost knocked us dead, plowing ahead with the no-frills aplomb of old bluesmen. The Dictators’ singer, “Handsome” Dick Manitoba — a guy half the city knows as a sort of punk rock Sam Malone (his main gig is as owner and proprietor of Manitoba’s bar on Second Ave.) — enunciated as if his life depended on it, dropping a series of lines that could sum up his dying (or dead) scene just fine: “I live in the city/I breathe dirty air/I ride trains with b-boys/junkies, queens and squares.” Or, “Five white boys/Bangin on toys/We get paid/For making noise!” There’s always been something a little expert about their stoopid-rock, and on songs like “New York, New York” and “Weekend,” their three-chord mayhem, shout-along choruses and finely tuned sense of tension sounded big and tight.

Like Harry, Manitoba kept the banter to a minimum. Near the end of the set, he let slip: “I love you all, but I’m not gonna be sad up on this stage. Maybe I will in two weeks when you see me pushing a shopping cart up Bowery.” Also: “I remember the good old days, when you could come down here and get wasted for $2.” Then, as a lead in to “Baby Let’s Twist”, he intoned over and over, half seriously, “The good old days, the good old days…” Had I been wasted, I surely would have surely pumped many a fist. Others, splendiferrously wasted, did.