CBGB is a rock star past his prime – singing hits we’ve heard a thousand times and new songs we don’t want to hear at all.

Despite the heartfelt efforts to save the club from its demise over a rent dispute – with the latest charge led by Little Steven Van Zandt – it’s time to let it die.

No longer relevant as a cultural spawning ground, the club’s everything that punk rock isn’t – an institution, a landmark, a stop on the same New York tour bus which brakes at the Plaza Hotel and the Empire State Building.

Withdraw the artificial life support. Let it be remembered in our rock ‘n’ roll hearts, but don’t let it wither on the Bowery.

The venerated venue, which opened in 1973, was truly the birthplace of punk. It was where the Ramones sniffed glue, where Patti Smith first danced barefoot, where the Talking Heads turned psycho killers, where thousands of bands screamed their hearts out and plastered their stickers on the walls. It gave kids all over the world a fresh idea of what music could be.

As a heralded institution, it’s unequaled, but as a place to break bands, the club hasn’t mattered for years. It only draws a crowd for special industry events – or anniversary parties.

All eyes are upon it now because the lease, held by the Bowery Residents Committee (a non-profit group to aid the homeless), is up on Aug. 31 and hasn’t been renewed. There is a court clash and negotiations over unpaid back rent and future rent, which the BRC wants to double.

To support the legal battle, the club is holding punk bandstudded benefits (with big-bang bands such as the Circle Jerks and the Dead Boys) throughout August and September.

This past Monday night, the big guns came to town: Little Steven Van Zandt; Tommy, the last standing Ramone; Lenny Kaye; and Blondie’s Debbie Harry.

CB’s founder and owner Hilly Kristal turned to Little Steven for help in his fight. You gotta give props to the E Street Band guitarist, garage-rock guru and “Sopranos” star for pulling out all stops for the cause.

It still lends street cred for bands to play once at CBGB, but it’s only because of the lore and the legend. Then they move on to Mercury Lounge, Rothko or Southpaw – just three of dozens of decent rock clubs in Manhattan and Brooklyn which have a pulse, cleaner bathrooms and a more band-friendly environment.

On Monday, two early-30s Jersey guys in well-worn Springsteen T’s stood on the street, deciding whether to check out the benefit. Johnny said he went to the club a year ago to check out the schedule – but hadn’t returned. Frankie was there nine months ago, when his band played a date.

How do they feel about the club possibly closing?

“It would suck,” Frankie says. “It’s a landmark.”

But is it vital to rock ‘n’ roll ?

“I’m not so sure,” he says. “Not at the level it used to be.”

On cue, a double-decker tour bus drove by, as a slew of tourists flashed their digital cameras.

Kids may buy the T-shirt (a $2 million business in 2004) but they don’t go to the club, and definitely won’t use the gross bathroom.

Even those who care don’t care. Those older people who grew up on an appetite of punk in the ’70s and ’80s, don’t go to the club either on a regular basis – but they want it hermetically sealed.

Can you imagine if Andy Warhol’s Factory, Danceteria or Max’s Kansas City were still here? We’d be run amok with Hard Rock Café-ish places, tour stops full of lifeless memorabilia.

Look, it’s sad to have CBGB die. There was a lot of love there.

There’s comfort in that narrow aisle alongside the bar, the paintpeeled ceiling and the layers of stickers – each one representing the dreams of a new band.

But sometimes you can put your arms around a memory, to paraphrase Johnny Thunders. And it’s time to do just that for CBGB.

The memory, in this case, is sweeter than reality.