HUNTERS IN AN URBAN JUNGLE
Chris Stein, Deborah Harry and I are sitting in an office of Blank Tapes Studio, catching up on the recent past and future prospects of Blondie. At the same time, the duo are hustling through a last-minute blast of errands before taking Chris’s historical photo exhibit to London, where they’ll promote their book Making Tracks, the new Blondie album, The Hunter, Deborah’s forthcoming film role in Videodrome, a worldwide tour set to begin in midsummer, Stein’s own independent label, Animal Records, and whatever else they’re planning for their spare time.
HUNTERS IN AN URBAN JUNGLE
BLONDIE
Toby Goldstein
by
Chris Stein, Deborah Harry and I are sitting in an office of Blank Tapes Studio, catching up on the recent past and future prospects of Blondie. At the same time, the duo are hustling through a last-minute blast of errands before taking Chris’s historical photo exhibit to London, where they’ll promote their book Making Tracks, the new Blondie album, The Hunter, Deborah’s forthcoming film role in Videodrome, a worldwide tour set to begin in midsummer, Stein’s own independent label, Animal Records, and whatever else they’re planning for their spare time.
It’s obvious from a deceptive calm filling the room that 25-hours days are familiar landscapes to Chris and Deb. Stein, congested and weary from a bad case of flu, deftly jockeys conversation with phone calls and instructions to engineers, just as he’d earlier chatted in between concentrating on the mixing board where he finalized a new, outrageous Iggy Pop album. Chris’s wheels might have been turning at double speed, but the only outward evidence of his compulsiveness was the breathless torrent of words he unveiled, indiscriminately spouting rage, hurt, ironic humor and personal philosophy.