Blondie, Parallel Lives Read online

  The final bone of contention to be resolved ahead of Parallel Lines’ release on September 8, 1978 was the sleeve. The final front image, which depicts a cheery band lined up behind an ashen-faced Debbie standing defiantly with hands on hips, had been rejected by the group but put forward by Peter Leeds. It underlined the feeling that Leeds viewed Blondie as his employees, adding to the list of collective grievances the band was now harbouring against him.

  In July, while Parallel Lines was being prepared for release, Blondie set out on a support tour with fading sixties heavyweights The Kinks, enabling Clem to encounter one of his boyhood influences. “It was great touring with them, we were going down good, getting encores,” he enthuses. “It was great meeting Ray Davies. He wanted to put Debbie in a movie. Remember the Preservation albums? He wants to make a film of that and he wants Debbie to be in it. But I don’t know if it’ll happen.” (It didn’t.)

  Three weeks later, the group travelled to Europe for a run of shows with The Buzzcocks that finished in Rotterdam the night before the album was due to hit the stores. The group arrived in London just as the weekly ‘inkies’ were passing judgement on the disc.

  In Melody Maker, Harry Doherty opened up by observing that “Blondie’s third album seems designed to cater for two distinct requirements: a) to satisfy the near-hysterical cries for the pure pop of the band’s debut album; and b) to consolidate their popularity with the hard-rock audience that helped chart the second set, Plastic Letters.” He went on to praise Chapman’s production (despite expressing reservations about how he felt the producer restrained Debbie’s vocals) and seemed particularly taken with ‘Fade Away And Radiate’, concluding, “Having subjected the album to intense scrutiny (i.e. I’ve had a tape for a couple of weeks and played it nightly), I’m of the opinion that the compromise between the first and second album is a healthy one and should ideally serve to confirm Blondie’s importance in the present and future.”

  In Sounds, Sandy Robertson appeared to experience some kind of epiphany. “I just decided there is no such thing as Art Rock; all there are is different levels of commerciality,” he wrote. Unlike Doherty, Robertson dismissed ‘Fade Away’ as “one moment of token experimentation”, but managed to force out a more positive, “Still, the Blondie magic remains in evidence. That thin but captivating voice, the shuffling drum beat that resembles nothing so much as someone falling downstairs with a pile of suitcases, the punchy guitars.”

  On tour, the group discovered their European schedule had been changed from that agreed in New York. The issue came to a head when Chris telephoned Peter Leeds, who said he was too busy to tell Blondie of the changes. “He was still treating us like kids. He knew we weren’t that dumb but he couldn’t bring himself to treat us as equals,” Stein stated. After Blondie’s New York lawyer told the band it was written in their contract that they didn’t have to pay Leeds’ travelling expenses on tour, they made sure that this was so. “That tour was pretty sleazy. Our backdrops and rugs were stolen,” recalls Chris. “Again, we never saw a cent.”

  Half a dozen gigs in England were bookended by sold-out shows at Hammersmith Odeon, the first of which gave Clem the opportunity to pay homage to Keith Moon, who had died two nights earlier. “I went downstairs in the hotel and all the British tabloids had the headline ‘Keith Moon Is Dead’, so that day became kind of a dream sequence for me. We played the Hammersmith Odeon and I wanted to get some gasoline and an axe to use on the drums and no one would give them to me. So I threw my whole drum kit in the audience, not wanting them back, because I wanted to sacrifice them for Keith. And the roadies went and got them back, which I was upset about. It was a real emotional time for me because he had meant so much to me.”

  Reviewing the Hammersmith gig, Sandy Robertson railed against what he perceived as Chapman’s dilution of the group’s sound: “An added bonus that comes with seeing Blondie live is that you get to hear just how fine their new songs really are when stripped of the emasculating Mike Chapman identikit production that robs the Parallel Lines album of any claims it may have had to rock authority. Stuff like ‘11.59’ and ‘Pretty Baby’ stands right up there alongside the earlier efforts such as ‘X Offender’ and ‘Kung Fu Girls’.”

  As the group had discovered on their previous visits, the UK music press was notoriously difficult to satisfy. As Chrysalis’ publicity machine ensured more copy than ever before, Blondie found that they were compelled to justify what they were doing and why they were doing it.

  “On the whole the English press has been very good to us; the music press,” adds Debbie. “The legitimate press is another matter. Straight people. They’re kind of strange. I mean, it’s sort of exciting to actually get into the equivalent of the Daily News or the Enquirer. But the music press has been really good to us, even though some of them are cunts.”

  “The music press is good but you get so wrapped up in it you start thinking it’s for real, but it’s all just a fucking big cosmic joke and they know it,” Chris elaborated. “But you get here and everybody starts reading the papers every day. In America no one knocks themselves out to get the papers … I don’t think the English press is gonna affect what happens to Blondie one way or the other, except for the fact that they affect the fans. Lenny Kaye said the English press had affected Television and were instrumental in their break-up. I certainly don’t think they could have that much effect on us. It’s constructive, because I think we have to go into a different direction from just being a plain old pop band myself, and I think people telling you that is good.”

  “We’re more than just a plain old pop band. I think we have more idea what we’re doing,” asserted Clem. “All this stuff for me is like I’m totally living out my ideal. My utopia is this, believe it or not. All my dreams come true is actually all this so it really makes me feel good to see people writing reviews about us, to actually say, ‘Well, the drummer played off beat there,’ or, ‘Debbie’s hair was out of place that night.’ That makes me feel so great that they actually take notice. It really makes me feel that we’ve achieved something if they can actually take the time out to write about this and that.”

  Accepting that some of the ambivalent reviews for Parallel Lines were indicative of the band in a transitional state, Debbie observed, “Now we’re sort of at an in-between stage, commercially and artistically. We’re at a stage where we are what we are, and we’ve been clearly defined, and there is a market for us, right? So we’re taking steps in our direction, you know. We’re moving on, we’re doing things, but we’re doing things that people can identify. We’re not taking a total turn from what we’ve been classified as. But, like, the next things that we do, we could very well do a total turnaround.”

  By now the group were finding the media’s emphasis on Deborah’s looks truly tiresome. “Debbie gets slagged off just because she’s a fucking idol and people look up to her,” insists Chris. “That’s why she gets slagged off ‘cos they have to tear her down ‘cos it’s like obligatory, you know.”

  “I didn’t create the situation,” said Debbie. “My face seems to sell. I can’t help that. When you come to watch a group play, you normally watch the vocalist, unless you have a mad infatuation for the drummer. You want to know what I really wish? I wish I got more money for it, that’s what I wish. There are all these posters out, and there’s only one of them that I get money from.”

  “But the thing is, there’s two sides to it,” remarked Jimmy. “I probably would never have had music published as early as I did if it wasn’t for Debbie’s charisma. Debbie’s charisma is helping me get ‘Picture This’, a song I co-wrote, up into the charts. There’s two sides to the coin – people ask isn’t it really hard working with Debbie Harry, people never ask isn’t it nice, isn’t it good – which it is. We have a star, we’re glad to have a star, but you must remember we would never have got as far if the representation within ourselves had been stifled – which it’s never been. The thing that makes Blondie albums good – wh
ich they are – is the fact that they are six people.”

  “It was never really a nuisance,” affirmed Clem. “If you’re a drummer, you have to accept a lot of things. The drummer’s only as good as the people he’s working with. I needed Debbie, and I accepted that. I was never going to be successful on my own.”

  “Most of those bad reviews are based on some dumb sexuality,” Chris asserted. “Debbie is the victim of a lot of reverse sexism … And it’s quite obvious to me that a lot of critics’ attitudes are based on this ‘How can she do this? How can she go out and expose herself to all these men?’”

  “Me getting all the attention may invite the charge of cheap sensationalism, but you’ve got to do things like that. I’m not that much of an art freak that I’m going to say ‘No. No. My art, my art.’ This is the business, it’s businessart so you have to use everything you’ve got to your advantage. It would just be foolish for us to ignore it,” said Deborah. “This funny thing is that at one time, according to the standards of the day, when we were an art-rock group everybody put us down and said we were a garage band because we were screwed up and funky. And when we got good, we got slick, we got some tight professional touches, and now people say we’re not art-rock, we’re just commercial crap.”

  In the end, the band took the view that the British press were often simply fulfilling a need to fill space, “Nigel, being English, explained this to me and it’s such a simple thing – the fact that the press over there is a weekly thing, they have to constantly change their views to keep their readers interested,” recalled Chris. “What I found, over there, is that whatever the one paper says the other’s always gonna say the opposite.”

  Irrespective of anything that was being written, a sizeable proportion of the nation’s youth had decided Blondie were for them. The English gigs had sold out some weeks in advance and the group were received with enthusiasm at times bordering on hysteria. While Chris could celebrate “venturing into the hinterlands of Britain as we lived out our fantasies of Beatle-mania”, the upbeat mood was dampened by the deteriorating management situation. It must have been even worse than it looked as, when Kris Needs asked Debbie to look back on her 1978, she cited it as “the most disruptive transitional period for us”:

  Arriving in Manchester on the afternoon of September 14, I turn up at the Britannia Hotel, first finding Chris and Debbie’s room, getting an update on the tour, before we join the rest of Blondie gathered in a room in their stage gear watching themselves on Top Of The Pops. An hour later the same six are sitting in a Manchester Free Trade Hall dressing room waiting for that 90 minutes which starts around nine. Debbie usually seems to start the day quiet and withdrawn, gradually loosening up towards the gig. In every city the kids have had their tickets for weeks, Debbie’s face pouting from a thousand lapels every night. Manchester erupts as the group start their instrumental theme before Debbie appears, yells “Surf’s Up!” and they’re off with ‘In The Sun’, followed in rapid succession by ‘X Offender’ and songs from all three albums, energy levels stoked by the rabid crowd climbing on shoulders, throwing gifts ranging from sweets to the odd item of underwear. ‘Fade Away’ is the big set-piece, Clem and Jimmy starting the cliff-hanging intro with the lights down, until Debbie returns in mirrored gown and shades, sending blinding white light beams at the crowd to stunning effect. She drops the gown for the home stretch rock-out, which powers through ‘Pretty Baby’, ‘Youth Nabbed As Sniper’, ‘I’m On E’, ‘One Way Or Another’, ‘A Shark In Jet’s Clothing’ (wherein the band are individually introduced) and ‘Kung Fu Girls’.

  The nightly pattern seems to be initial excitement at The Presence which gives way to pure, unbridled ecstasy as the lengthy set builds to its euphoric climax. Blondie stage invaders are hilarious, leaping up, kissing Debbie, raising arms in triumph then jumping back into the melee. She now expertly teases and stokes the fervour, touching out-stretched hands, dancing sporadically and high kicking with pillow-fight aggression. Meanwhile, Clem Burke’s head-shaking drum acrobatics leave little doubt as to who’s the natural successor to the recently deceased Keith Moon. ‘Denis’ brings the house down, while tonight’s encores are ‘Rip Her To Shreds’, ‘Attack Of The Giant Ants’ (with on-the-road fan Eddie Duggan unable to make a scheduled appearance in an ant-suit because he can’t get the head on), T. Rex’s ‘Get It On’, and ‘Jet Boy’ for their New York roots. Unbelievably, Blondie aren’t very happy afterwards, due to some equipment problems and a couple of goofs, but they’re in a minority.

  Then comes the getaway, when sheer survival becomes the uppermost concern. Outside, there’s a relentless hollering chorus of “Blondieee … Debbieee” as several hundred teenage fans clamour around the Apollo’s stage door, strangely reminiscent of an eerie swarm of bees. I stand next to Debbie in the small backstage entrance, waiting for the right moment to hop just a few feet onto the coach. Getting the nod from the tour manager who places himself as a human shield, Debbie pulls down her baseball cap, looks at me and smiles. “You ready? Here goes.” It’s just yards between door and coach but seems more as we run a gauntlet of grabbing hands, one whipping the cap off Debbie’s head, much to her annoyance as it had her Jilted John badge on it. The three-minute drive to the Britannia Hotel seems accompanied by most of the crowd, banging on the coach, pulling at the door, always howling. Predictably, many simply race the coach back to the hotel and we have to do it all over again. I ask Debbie if it’s like this every night. “Oh, last night was much worse!”

  In the hotel bar, the touring party turn in after a swift night-cap, leaving Clem, Jimmy and me deciding to venture to Manchester’s Russell Club to check out The Yachts, whose Stiff-released single Clem is a fan of. Their Farfisa-topped sixties-influenced power-pop sounds like a Debbie-less early Blondie. Jimmy is delighted, declaring, “He’s got exactly the same model I have!”

  Next morning sees a bleary-eyed journey to Birmingham, the in-coach listening including Siouxsie And The Banshees and Dave Edmunds. The Birmingham City Hall soundcheck sees one of those storm-in-a-teacup Blondie arguments, often seemingly there to release the pressure. An hour later it’s like it never happened, but the conflicts can feel awkward for those not directly involved. Debbie’s been given a yellow T-shirt with an ape on it by one of the stage-door autograph hunters, so tonight her colour is yellow; from mini and T-shirt to socks and tights. Confronting another sold-out crowd, Blondie are initially perplexed as to why they remain seated throughout the first part of their set. The group is obviously on form tonight and know it but, puzzlingly, the audience stay in their seats, nobody dancing, or even standing. Despite increasingly animated antics from the group, such as Debbie trying to turn ‘Denis’ into a chant of “Ali! Ali” in homage to that night’s heavyweight bout between Muhammad Ali and Leon Spinks, watching from the wings it’s not hard to notice concerned glances shooting between a group who thrive on audience feedback.

  A sortie around the hall reveals a hefty squad of white-jacketed security men heavy-handedly enforcing signs in the foyer warning that the show will be stopped if anyone stands while the main act is on. The crowd is obviously straining at the leash, needing just one word or sign from their leaders, who are oblivious to these restrictions. A “Come on” from Frank and Debbie’s beckoning wave during ‘Youth Nabbed As Sniper’ bursts the levee, the hall rising to its feet as one before rushing forward like a human tsunami. It’s so sudden the bow-ties are caught unawares and powerless as the front of stage no-man’s-land becomes a sea of outstretched hands and delirious upturned faces. After nearly an hour of being suppressed the crowd are simply going mental.

  “That’s better,” smiles Debbie, as the band kick into ‘One Way Or Another’ for a home stretch climaxing with riotous encores of ‘Get it On’ and ‘Jet Boy’, Clem striding through his drum kit to hurl his snare into the crowd, Nigel Harrison hitting himself painfully in the eye with his bass, Jimmy humping his keyboards and Chris actually basking in the phlegm raining down f
rom the punks.

  Afterwards in the dressing room is a total contrast to last night, the euphoric band relieved they weren’t the cause of a hall full of seat-bound arses. They got through with handicaps too: Debbie’s voice was in a fragile state throughout (“I just had to maintain control”), while Nigel’s bass-in-the-eye injury looked painful. “This gig tonight was really weird; you saw what happened. The audience was sitting down through the whole first half of the set and we didn’t know it was because of the security,” says Chris. “Everybody said that it kept running through their minds that they’d read the press and thought we stunk! There was such a rush when everybody ran up to the front, it was like doing three gigs at once. Really amazing.”

  “It surprised us ‘cos we didn’t think they were getting off on it. It was really weird. Scary,” adds Debbie.

  Meanwhile, the huge “Blondieee” chant enveloping the transformed hall continues out into New Street, where our police-escorted tour coach is forced to part a roadblock crowd of hundreds, Moses-style. Complete pandemonium erupts when Debbie appears at the coach door and lobs her bouquet out of a window.

  Tonight’s breakthrough confirmed again how Blondiemania has hit the UK, transcending punk, new wave or any genre; one of those wonderful occasions when a band knows, in a moment of stunning clarity, that it’s cracked it and things will never be the same again. Although building all year, it took the craziness of September 1978’s tour to demonstrate that, after two years of hard graft and harder knocks, they’d taken the UK on a bigger scale than they or anyone could have dreamed of. The world had a new superstar in the old-fashioned sense; an enigmatic, Monroe-style figure with attitude fronting a fervently innovative punk-pop group.

  The Blondiemania phenomenon was clearly evident when the group arrived for a signing session at Our Price records on Kensington High Street. The unprecedented scenes of mass hysteria around the store provided Blondie with a surprise as cathartic as it was unexpected. “They expected maybe a few hundred people and two thousand people showed up at Kensington High Street; they had to block off the road and everything. Fantastic,” beamed Debbie.