Blondie Box Set Against the Odds: 1974-1982 Is a Textbook Example of How to Do a Band’s Legacy Justice
It’s hard to imagine now, but the term “punk” didn’t originally refer to a sound so much as an outlook. When the punk movement blossomed in Lower Manhattan in the early ’70s, bands as disparate as The Ramones, Television and Patti Smith were all unified by a commitment to creative independence. The scene they emerged from incubated the efforts of musicians who had little in common with the more stylistically uniform definition of punk that we think of today. Most notable among these were groups like Talking Heads, Tom Tom Club and, of course, Blondie—all of whom drew from art rock, disco, hip-hop, funk and reggae on their way to helping launch the new wave genre.
Blondie, in particular, crafted such slick, slinky pop hits—”Heart of Glass,” “Rapture,” “The Tide Is High,” etc.—that it’s hard to find a place for the iconic New York outfit within the anti-commercialist code of ethics their peers would come to represent. We certainly can’t fault anyone (especially people who didn’t live through the period) for locating Blondie right next to groups like The Cars and The Go-Go’s, whose musicianship is similarly easy to overlook in favor of their fizzy outer surface. But if you sit down with Blondie’s classic-era catalog from start to finish—six albums spanning their formation in 1974 to their breakup in 1982—you find a creatively restless unit who aren’t so easy to pigeonhole under the new wave banner.
If Blondie’s hits don’t exactly misrepresent them, the hits don’t tell the whole story, either. Moreover, it took Blondie about three albums for their sound to gel. Against the Odds, the first-ever Blondie box set, broadens our understanding of the band’s progression over time by giving us access to the first recording Blondie ever did, a basement session organized by journalist Alan Betrock, founder of the New York Rocker magazine (which at one time boasted Yo La Tengo’s Ira Kaplan as a contributor). In the liner notes, Betrock recalls in hilarious detail how green Blondie were as a live act: “They just couldn’t play live. They’d stop in the middle of a song; amps would go out; the guitar would go out; strings would break and they wouldn’t have extra ones.”
What a pleasant shock, then, to discover that this ramshackle early session offers a crystal-clear glimpse of all the elements that made Blondie stand out from the start—much clearer, in fact, than the band’s 1976 self-titled debut. The first sound we hear is a set of harmony “ooh”’s from frontwoman Debbie Harry on a cover of the 1965 Shangri-Las single “Out in the Streets.” Guitarist/co-founder Chris Stein, then-bassist Gary Valentine and drummer Clem Burke soon join in with a reggae-inspired groove. Next, an embryonic version of “Heart of Glass” titled “The Disco Song” still manages to startle in spite of its crudeness. (Both these versions have been available as reissue bonus content for years, but they make a much bigger impact in proper chronological order.)
Not unlike the Bad Brains classic Black Dots, which was recorded in a similar setting, the ambience of the recording hits you like a blast of fresh air that immediately sheds light on who this band actually was. Within seconds, we can hear the pluck of young musicians cleverly subverting girl-group tropes, with enthusiasm outweighing proficiency in a way that’s pleasant to listen to. In other words, we can hear Blondie’s punk roots on record more than ever before. All of a sudden, the creative moves the band would later become more adept at executing make sense. Depending on your perspective, the first half or so of Blondie’s original catalog is either frustratingly disjointed or boldly eclectic—or both. If you’ve never experienced Blondie as an album band, then you’re in for a heap of surprises, for better or worse.
“Little Girl Lies,” for example, fuses classic ’50s-style pop with the kind of psychedelia one finds on the first few Grateful Dead albums. And before the band kicks into an uptempo, Springsteen-esque boogie, “Love at the Pier” hints ever so briefly at prog with an intro that wouldn’t sound out of place on Yes’ Fragile or even a Frank Zappa record. “No Imagination,” the next track on the same album, recalls the bombastic theatricality of early Genesis and Queen. “Hanging on the Telephone” captures quintessential 1980s production values two years ahead of the curve, while “Atomic” merges proto-electronica with garage surf. The examples—of fresh genre inversions, clever musical twists and quirky decisions—are so plentiful they could fill this review, not to mention the myriad qualities that made Harry a once-in-a-generation figure.