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Blondie

I can still remember the first time I heard “Heart of Glass” on the radio. It was 1978. I was twelve years old and at summer camp. Up until that point, music had never really affected me that much. Probably because most of the music I heard around the house was my parents’ music. Not that I have anything against Barbra Streisand or Neil Diamond, but that kind of music didn’t really appeal to the budding teenager in me. Blondie, on the other hand, touched my soul.

I know that sounds kind of, well, cosmic. But at twelve years old, even little things can have a big impact on you. And as soon as the song came on, I knew I’d never be the same. I cranked the volume up on my AM/FM radio as loud as it would go and filled my head with Debbie Harry’s angelic voice. “Once I had a love and it was a gas, soon turned out had a heart of glass.”

It may have been the first time I felt a chill run through my body. An indescribable tingle that ran from the top of my head to the base of my spine. It was one of those rare life moments that stick with you. Funny how much of everything in between is mostly a blur. But such is the power of music.

A year went by and my parents gave me a turntable for my birthday. That’s also something you never forget. Your first stereo. I remember that it was big and clunky and silver, with seemingly huge speakers I put on either side of my dresser. I remember the little, black thingy that came with it for 45’s. It’s hard to believe that none of these things exist anymore. Someone half my age might not even know what a 45 is. Sad. LPs were so much more thrilling than CDs. So much bigger and packed with so much more information. And you didn’t have to squint to see all the pictures on the jackets.

I cherished my LPs. Stacked them proudly on my dresser. Flipped through them on a daily basis. Read them cover to cover, inside and out. Arranged them alphabetically. Played them until they were scratched and almost unlistenable. In short, I worshiped them. It’s awful to think that I traded them all for less than $20 when I bought my first CD player. Strange to feel so guilty over something so impermanent.

Now, I keep my music in little compartments. Rarely if ever read the little booklets that accompany them. Frequently trade them in for something newer. And get bored with them after a couple of months. And yet, I still worship Blondie. Still have all those vinyl memories now stored on disc.

Anyway, back to thirteen.

At thirteen money was tight and albums were expensive. Maybe that’s why I cherished them so much. After all, I couldn’t go out and buy whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, like I can know. Each choice took some thought. I was bombarded with options from both the radio and from my collection on Creem magazines, which I read compulsively, relentlessly searching for new articles and pictures of Debbie Harry.

Funny thing is, my first album was not Parallel Lines. No, my first album was Rumors. “Dreams” also gave me the chills. Still does. But at thirteen, Stevie Nicks was a little scary. More forbidden. Taboo. Debbie was much safer. Still, Parallel Lines was bought shortly after. Just behind Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell, Queen’s News of the World, Boston’s Don't Look Back and Andy Gibb’s Shadow Dancing. My tastes were eclectic even at that age. But Parallel lines got the most play by far.

And back then I was lazy. I would play one side of an album over and over again, rarely taking it off the turntable, stacking my albums one on top of the other, scratching the hell out of them and not caring. Even today, when I listen to a CD of one of those old albums, my head still plays the skips and scratches like I was listening to the original LP. But the joy in this method was the reward I got for finally flipping the album over. “Heart of Glass” was nothing compared to “One Way Or Another”. Blondie rocked and I never knew it. “Sunday Girl” was beautiful, but “Hanging On The Telephone” was fierce. My adoration grew.

At fourteen I joined the Blondie fanclub. I was rewarded with individual autographs of the entire band and a plastic card that I lovingly stored in my wallet until my twenties. By then, it had worn down and was indecipherable. It was something I should have kept. Hindsight is 20/20. I wish I had known that back then. Tangible memories should never be discarded.

And then Eat To The Beat came out. “Dreaming” became a hit, but it was the fast paced “Eat To The Beat” that really sent me. “The Hardest Part”, “Accidents Never Happen”, and “Atomic” were haunting and equally as flawless. I drove my parents crazy blaring that album from behind the closed door of my bedroom. Blondie was evolving and so was I.

Then I discovered that Parallel Lines wasn’t their first album. I bought Blondie, the first album, and Plastic Letters, the second album. I was blown away. Blondie was punk. Blondie was bizarre. Blondie wrote weird lyrics and sang about giant ants and the Bermuda Triangle. Here was music you never heard on the radio. Here was something new and different. And this is what shaped my musical future.

Blondie and I both got older. “Call Me” was the beginning of the end. A final hoorah. It’s hard to say what makes a band go from cutting edge to drearily bland. Most groups hit that point for some reason. And I suppose it has a lot to do with the listener’s tastes changing. Mine certainly did. Blondie gave way to The Pretenders, Pat Benatar, The B-52’s, Siouxsie and the Banshees: all bands with a certain edge to them, all bands that also had their prime and then sadly became boring.

But Blondie was the saddest of all. Autoamerican, their next album, was awful. I never could get into “Rapture” or “The Tide Is High”. The music seemed like a sell out. KooKoo and The Hunted were even worse. And by the time Debbie Harry started her solo career, I was no longer interested. And still, I idolized her. The albums sat and collected dust, but my memories remained fresh and vibrant.

I suppose much of life is like this. Tastes change from season to season, year to year. We get older, wiser, more jaded, more demanding, less tolerant. The things we love one day, we hate the next. But the memory of that love seems to stay with us and still manages to bring us joy. That’s what’s so great about music. It’s ability to bring us back to different stages of our lives. It’s ability to constantly evolve and cause us to evolve right along with it. That’s what Blondie did for me. They brought me joy. They brought me change.

I’ve been fortunate enough to see Debbie Harry and Blondie in concert several times in the last few years. They certainly have bettered with age. The voice is still there. The talent has not ebbed. And the memories flood back with each song. I suppose, once a fan, always a fan. I certainly hope so. In any case, every time I listen to Parallel Lines, I get to feel like a thirteen-year-old kid all over gain. And that’s a pretty awesome feeling.

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