I have been a Blondie fan for nearly half of my life, and as at the tender age of nineteen, this says a lot. Having read three biographies, attended two concerts, and owning more copies of Auto American than I can count, my life has been beyond Blondie-riffic. Unfortunately, this New Wave/Punk love affair has not accompanied their new album, Panic of Girls.
In fact, Panic of Girls is the Blondie album I wish would go away. It has taken everything that punk stands for – mindless passion, disregarding any and almost all talent, leaving it as a form of unthinking and unbiased expression – and turned it into some kind of metaphor that doesn’t come across nearly as deep or pensive as it wishes to be, especially with the Spanish dialect of “Mirame” (I mean, entirely en espanol) whose sounds, while mildly pleasant, recall a late night dinner at a burrito joint, rather than an attempted comeback at musicianship.
The same is true with the intro track, “D-Day,” though it’s initially deceiving. It begins with pogo-ing punk drums, but once the vocals commence, it becomes very clear that Debbie Harry is no longer the singing siren she wishes to be. This is especially apparent in “Words in My Mouth” whose lyrics are as subpar as Debbie’s “singing.”
I wish I could say that my dislike of this album is simply due to the fact that it wasn’t made for Blondie fans, and that they just wanted to tap back into their artistic senses with disregard for their musical past, but they made this specifically for hard-core Blondie fans – the disc is released in a collectors set including photographs from their early days, a magazine chronicling their rise to fame and several buttons (a very punk move). Unfortunately, I don’t think that this album will be well received by any fan of any kind of music. In fact, this album so enraged me, that I would love to write the band a letter. In case you’re wondering, this is what I would say:
Dear Blondie, What ever happened to “Die Young, Stay Pretty?” It seems as if the 1979 release from Eat to the Beat is no longer a dogma to live by, and the release of Panic of Girls has cemented this suspicion. Don’t get me wrong, I’m one of your biggest fans – even as I write this, Debbie Harry is staring back at me in a neon pink glow reflected from my laptop screen. But as I think about it, maybe that’s what is missing – that neon pink, garish glow that once exuded from you, the New York punk veterans. It was the “Rip Her to Shreds” mentality that gave you your unrivaled sense of fashionable angst.
Your attempts at artistry are ill-digested, and songs like “China Shoes” and “Sunday Smile” have sob stories woven into every chord – both through the lyrical content, and through their sheer lack of talent. A single, salty tear fell onto my iPod screen within the first thirty seconds.
Though this album is terrible beyond reason (musically, lyrically, and even through the failed metaphors), maybe within its horrid state of being lies a huge success – after all, it is Panic of Girls (where panic is the whole concept) and hyperventilation through the safety-pinned noses of punks everywhere seems to be a pretty good indication of panic ensued.
Love always and forever, your adoring fan,
Kathleen Quigley
