BLONDIE!
FROM SPIDER MAGAZINE - July 1979

"Why don't you take these home for your mother, that's what I always do. My mother loves stuff like this!" I staggered under the weight of a giant basket of flowers, barely able to peek over the blossoms, spit out a dead leaf and said, "Gee thanks!" Sounds like an almost everyday occurrence. Your Aunt Rose or someone gives you a huge bouquet to bring home to Mom -- whadda ya do, refuse? It could be a wedding, a bar mitzvah, any big occasion, right?

Well, it was -- Blondie was headlining the Santa Monica Civic, and the donor of the flowers happened to be Debbie Harry, fresh off the stage in a shimmery Spandex jumpsuit, bright pink lipstick, and a sweat towel. The dressing room was crowded and hot, filled with record company people, stars and well-wishers, and there I was, more than a little drunk and holding this plantation, feeling like a jerk. "Aren't they nice?" Debbie said, Your Mom'll love 'em! Here!" She thrusts a stalk of celery into my mouth. "This dip is great!" And she disappeared into a crowd of photographers.

The first time I heard of Blondie, X Offender had just been released. Only no one was really talking about it yet. It was the pre-safety pin era: "punk" meant you wore a leather jacket, jeans and a T-shirt. Patty Smith and the Ramones were the new saviors, and the Blitzkrieg Bop was the Lord's Prayer. The term "New Wave" hadn't been applied to music yet. A few knowing people had come out of the discos and into the streets, glad that there was hope for rock 'n' roll, which seemed to be slowly dying. So there was this single --- sounded kinda Shangri-Las, early '60s tough girl, with '70s lyrics. And then there was the face that went with it: a face to launch a thousand ships, or a face to sell a million records.

By the time, a few months later, that Blondie was playing the Whisky, their first album was out, and it was great! I had to see them. The first night they played, with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, a handful of knowing people showed up and not much more. There were long pauses between the songs as Debbie hunted through her pockets for the set list and Chris back-talked the hecklers.

Backstage I was introduced to the band, and we made plans to go to a church rummage sale the next day. Wading through piles of skinny ties and rhinestone jewelry is one way to become old friends -- how long can you keep up a pouty sex-symbol image while trying to squeeze into a pair of loud green spike heels while quoting from a 1933 advice-to-the-lovelorn book? Debbie's Marilyn Monroesque image is shattered by her true persona. She still looks luscious and beautiful, but run-of-the-mill sex pots lean more to the sultry, and less to the bouncy, loud and giggly. Debbie's laugh is somewhere between an atomic bomb dropping and a tornado hitting, with a touch of little girl's snicker thrown in. She speaks in a throaty voice in a heavy New York accent. Jimmy Destri and Clem Burke have the thickest accents, though. They used to coach each other on proper rockstar etiquette: "C'mon Burke, d'ya really think dem shoes look good wid dem pants? Whaddaryah, crazy?" Or, "Jimmy, how d'ya expect to be a rockstar if yuh don't go to the Rainbow wid me?"

The first few times Blondie visited Hollywood, they stayed at the Tropicana, the most lenient hotel as far as rules and rule-enforcement go, which has been Party Central for the past few years. I watched Chris and Jimmy completely destroy a guitar, causing a lot of plaster to come off the walls, not to mention a huge hole (which was later stuffed with toilet paper and varnished with white shoe polish to avoid paying damages). That was in room 118, Debbie and Chris' room, so it was done on the last day of their stay. Jimmy was in 224 and lived for at least three days in a sea of empty vodka bottles and Olde English 800 cans. The floor was carpeted in crushed potato chips. The maid was probably scared stiff to go in there, although the bed was always made. Clem woke up every morning and first washed his hair, then "set" it for that Bay City Rollers look with beer, Coke, water, Vaseline, or Cepacol mouthwash...........whatever was available. Debbie and Chris' room was home base, a sane place compared to the others. Debbie'd complain about feeling like a mother and then tell Frankie to put on a jacket, or force Jimmy to have a hard-boiled egg when he'd say he hadn't eaten all day.

One afternoon by the pool Chris attempted to make a "Creem Dream" out of Joan Jett. Debbie and I dressed her up in a slinky black dress of Debbie's and made her up while Chris yelled, "C'mon, you can't sit like that in an evening gown, let's have some cheesecake!" Debbie and I valiantly tried to coach her modeling while Debbie assured her she was sitting like a truck driver and Joan panicked: "You're not going to show these to anybody, are you?" she wailed.

It wasn't long before Debbie started being recognized on the streets, and there were swarms of fans in the parking lot and pool area of the Tropicana, so they didn't stay there much longer, moving on to bigger and better (but less fun) things. Debbie tried to add some life once to a rather swanky hotel she was staying in by getting chauffeured up and down the halls in a big shopping basket. Going anywhere with the Blondies always meant either a caravan of cars or cramming twelve people into a five-seater circus-style, and yes, folks, it can be done. One night everyone was jammed into a Capri, singing Babylon at the top of their lungs with the New York Dolls blasting, running red lights, and just generally driving as though Sunset Boulevard was the Indy 500. All Jimmy cared about on the radio was I Feel Love, which, he claimed, was Donna Summer backed by Kraftwerk. Everyone else wanted to listen to Rodney Bingenheimer's show on KROQ. Debbie sang along with the radio constantly, which for some reason brought on lots of groans and a few "SHUT THE FUCK Ups."

The release of Plastic Letters meant less time for leisure and more interviews and appearances, but everything remained pretty crazy during spare time. Now, with Parallel Lines high on the album charts and Heart of Glass getting them some long-overdo airplay, and a fourth album on the way, who knows what's in store? It looks like the only direction for Blondie in the foreseeable future is up, but sometimes twelve people in a Capri is more fun than six in a Lincoln.