Blondie Beats the Odds at the Opry House

Throughout Wednesday's Blondie concert at the Grand Ole Opry House, after the gig, and even into the next morning, I couldn't get the number 77 off my mind. In rock parlance, 1977 is synonymous with punk. Somehow, 45 years have passed since The Clash and the Sex Pistols led the charge for intrepid young bands with fresh ideas about rock putting their work out into the world and taking it on the road — among them Blondie, whose self-titled December ’76 debut got a rerelease with wide distribution that year. The Damned, whose Nick Lowe-produced first LP Damned Damned Damned also dropped in ’77, opened Wednesday’s show. Singer Dave Vanian was in full ferocious voice as I found my seat. 

In July, Debbie Harry — Blondie’s namesake, voice and face — celebrated her 77th birthday. That marks a half-century removed from the “27 Club,” the grim moniker for the array of well-known musicians who died at 27, succumbing to pressures from fame and other issues. Harry, guitarist Chris Stein and drummer Clem Burke had already reached their 30s by the time Blondie broke big with 1978’s mega-hit Parallel Lines, which was certified platinum within nine months of its release and has sold millions of copies worldwide. Naturally, with success comes stress, and Blondie’s history reveals how close the core trio came to being swallowed whole by the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle. Too many of their peers are gone, and it doesn't feel like a stretch to say the hiatus they took between 1982 and 1997 saved their lives. Sadly, some health issues forced Stein to pull out of the band’s spring tour, and he’s having to sit out this leg as well; Andee Blacksugar filled in admirably. The natural chemistry and camaraderie the group gave off Wednesday — just a couple of days before the release of a massive retrospective box set fittingly named Against the Odds — was years in the making.

Brushes with death, of course, build perspective about what's important. It’s easy to downplay the trauma we've collectively fought our way through these past two-and-a-half awful years. As recently as two summers ago, the threat of concerts like this never happening again felt frighteningly real. This wasn't lost on Harry, who took her sweet time taking it all in between songs. During breaks in the 19-song set, she engaged so casually with the crowd that on a couple occasions, Burke interjected mid-tangent to count off the next tune, reminding Harry that this was the Opry, not a house party. 

The show could’ve passed for a house show, immaculate acoustics notwithstanding — even from the nosebleeds it sounded clear as a bell. The set didn't meander, but parceled out Blondie's cavalcade of hits from the late ’70s and early ’80s in strategic fashion. The calypso-styled Paragons cover “The Tide Is High” and disco-punk “Atomic” — my personal fave — came early. Spirited performances of “Rapture, “Heart of Glass,” “Call Me” and “One Way or Another,” meanwhile, rewarded showgoers’ patience. The less-familiar material deserves mention too. Before the show, I'd never heard the bracing “Detroit 442,” melodious “Maria” — from 1999’s reunion LP No Exit, and one of keyboardist Jimmy Destri’s choice contributions to Blondie’s catalog — or “Long Time,” an irrepressibly funky co-write with Blood Orange's Dev Hynes that appeared on 2017’s Pollinator. I'm glad I have now.

Spend enough time in Nashville, and you become wary of touring acts waxing rhapsodical from the stage, with varying degrees of sincerity, about performing on hallowed ground. Harry & Co. began their encore with “Ring of Fire,” which has been in Blondie's repertoire since the early ’80s, but they avoided that potential pitfall. From what I heard eavesdropping on post-show conversations as the nearly sold-out crowd made its way to the exits, few if any stones remained unturned. For me, the prospect of seeing bands on the rise, trying to catch lightning in a bottle, will keep me seeking out live music till I physically can't anymore. To witness a legacy act of this ilk, however — holding it down this capably, with this much gusto, this late in the game — is moving in its own way, making the case that being truly successful means having nothing left to prove.