A new wave powerhouse and still rocking it, from Glastonbury and back to the studio, returning to Parallel Lines once every few years is mandatory. Like a great pilgrimage, a fond memory lingers in the back of the mind. A welcoming, comfortable experience. Return to it. Feel bolstered by it. Fill up your empty heart with some experience you know to be fantastic. Parallel Lines is that. Iconic moments still feel fresh with their new wave and punk blend, the soft moments of the latter heard in slick guitar work, punch after punch of instrumental bliss. Parallel Lines is an outstanding album not just because of what it did, but because of what it still does, and how modern and effective it still sounds. Stagger through, then, with the defining sounds of the late 1970s, a sound which still holds now.
Punchy, brief guitar rock fun on Hanging on the Telephone into One Way or Another are defiant moments of sincere clarity. Utter brilliance the whole way through, in tone, in tempo, and most of all in its meaning. Underground rock bursting into the mainstream with a mean bite and meaner message. Stalkers, the New York scene of the times, and all the brutal bits of parasocial relationships come to a head in a track which details nutjobs and nasty encounters. But its punchy thrill, the explosive instrumentals and the constant, jagged screech of “getcha, getcha,” paired with the fire engine-like sirens, the ever-present rhythm section mounting, is one of the finest new wave tracks around. A perfect example of Blondie at their best, followed up with slick deep cut Picture This, it is hard not to fall for the alternative sound which inspired a whole generation.
From Sleeper to The Strokes, the instrumental efforts heard throughout Parallel Lines, the psychosis and paranoia, seep into subtle lyrical pieces of brilliance. Debbie Harry is the difference maker, with harsher-than-expected vocal stylings. Fade Away and Radiate is the closest the band gets to a push for a juxtaposition to this. A softer vocal impression fed into a mighty, menacing beat of the drum. Energetic thrills on 11:59 are worth their weight in gold. Parallel Lines is monumental not just for its hits but also its urgency, its sense of romantic encounters and the dissatisfaction of those microscopic details Harry sings of with such disdain. Escapism is on the outskirts of every song. It makes all the difference.
All of this is a build towards the faux fragility of Heart of Glass. Not autobiographical, but a punch at those puny encounters and the lack of machoism, the missing pieces of a paranoia-planted puzzle hidden well behind instrumental sleight of hand. Parallel Lines has major depths to it, far superior to most of the new wave efforts of the time. Even now, it stands tall. There is a reason people return to Blondie time and again, and much of the reasoning is finding yourself at the same crossroads as Heart of Glass or closer Just Go Away. A quietly relatable and effective album where the hits keep on rolling, the punches of the real world neither dolled up nor tucked away. They are laid bare, muffled by the consistent brilliance of the instrumental pull the band has, elevated by a left-field vocal performance which goes on to define the album even now.
