Blondie
Plastic Letters

THE REVIEW

The paradigm shift sometimes comes like a kick in the balls, sometimes gently like an idea that is born in a dream.

Maybe it's because I've reached the age where I finally understand what Bob meant by “I was so much older then I'm younger than that now” only recently, maybe it's because time passes and one starts to fear not squeezing enough out of that shriveled peach we call life, maybe it's because I've always been a boring child (no, that's not true, I only say it for poetic license) but until recently I just couldn't understand how someone named Jeffry Lee Pierce, who sang about love and death from the swamp, could have been the president of the US Blondie's Fun Club.

Because, due to the tedious and sterilely committed culture of the '70s, there was great attention to distinguishing so-called serious music from so-called frivolous music; and when I say “they did,” I essentially mean “I did” because until at least the age of fourteen (when I met the first metal fundamentalists) there weren't many other acquaintances around in my provincial small town with whom I could discuss music and records.

But all great systems are challenged by the incalculable unknowns, and Blondie is certainly one of those cases.

Champions of the New Wave and great friends with the legendary CBGB scene, they were undoubtedly the ones who achieved the most mainstream success thanks to their carefree manner, being excellent songwriters, more than decent musicians, and the unforgettable image of Debbie Harry.

Can you forgive a kid in the midst of pre-adolescent discovery for dismissing Blondie in the pile of frivolousness because of their glossy image and catchy choruses, guilty of not appearing gloomy, convoluted, sad, and easily assimilable and enjoyable even by the most ignorant friend in the group?

Yes, you can forgive because the search for one's identity, as we all know, often leads us to reject what is accepted and imposed by the masses.

But can you continue to believe that this snobbery can continue to permeate a more mature person, who is supposed to have completed their coming-of-age journey and now sweet and blissful, safe from any criticism, reigns over their present with their solid and badass personality?

Hardly.

As is known, I find myself in the unpleasant situation of having to retrace my steps and reconsider some of my old opinions on what is serious and what is frivolous, a situation, however, that already foreshadows (as a feeling for now, but one that will be increasingly harder to ignore) how this very distinction is a colossal load of crap.

So, what remains once you overcome this distinction? To drink it all up blissfully and contently without any critical spirit? To lower your pants to the culture of frivolity? To finally become a hedonist of an imaginary and special present?

But isn't it possible that freeing myself from this burden of taking sides, finally accepting reality without the perpetual challenge of confrontation, achieving my own squaring of the circle, might then push me away from the world of art and music itself, towards the warm embrace of life which needs no substitutes to be understood and internalized?

Well, I don't know this, and honestly, I don't care much, but I really hope that this new maturity has the features of Debbie, her imperfect beauty, her whimsical way of lip-syncing, her hair blonde only in the front, her shocking pink dresses, and the great fun it gives to see her perform.

About the album: just before the clamor, just before the breakthrough, just before the change and maturity (let's call it that, shall we) artistic. In my opinion, the best way to know and enjoy this fantastic band.