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Friday, 13 November 2020

Dreaming about Blondie

It was a particular kind of contrarian who used to say they didn't like Blondie. It was like not liking salt and vinegar crisps. Or Galaxy chocolate. Or Bugsy Malone. Or Convoy. But some people hated. It was their job. 

 People in the late seventies loved to be contrary. Loved to think they were ahead of a curve they didn't, of course, give a fuck about. Blondie sold out, was the pish I heard from my The Exploited, Ramones, Crass, Dead Kennedys, Killing Joke loving friends and not so friends. They screamed left wing lyrics in the playground, but I bet all of the contrarians who screamed against the changing world, "Punks Not Dead!" all grew up and voted for the exploiting Brexit. 

 All of the above groups were great, I loved the punk finger held stiff in the direction of all that had come before... It cleared the way for beauty that came after and the thing was, I really couldn't be arsed fitting into some punk, post punk, new wave, indie box. I didnt fit, because as well as all of the above, I loved The Pretenders, Blondie, Abba, Charlie Pride, Toyah, Siouxsie, Glen Campbell, The Slits, The Dubliners, Johnny Cash, The Undertones (You could be contrary to the idiot contrarians and like "rival bands..." later, I got into SLF through their biggest fan in Banbridge, County Down, Roger Moorhead.). 

I loved a lot of New Wave stuff, at the time. I knew the singles, but Eat to the Beat and Parallel Lines were introduced to me by Alex Adamson. Amazing albums. And Debbie suddenly replaced the comic characters on my bedroom wall. 🖕
 

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