My problem with rock ‘n’ roll music is easily explained, but not so easily remedied. As I grew old enough to start attending live concerts, I was living in London and the advance guard of the soon-to-be punk rock revolution could be heard rumbling in basements and rundown rehearsal studios across Britain.

My concert-going career got off to the best-possible start when my brilliant friend Neil Gaiman took me to see Lou Reed at the London Rainbow in 1976. It was Lou’s Rock ‘n’ Roll Heart international tour. We had seats near the front; Lou opened with “Sweet Jane” and nothing in my life was ever the same again. I was fifteen and Neil and I went home and started our own band.

1977 brought with it the famous Summer of Punk and all through that glorious year—and the next—my bassplayer, Graham Smith, and I wandered through a musical wonderland in which we basked in the uncensored sonic assault of The Clash, Blondie, The Ramones, Generation X, The Buzzcocks, The Damned, The Stranglers, The Jam, The Runaways, The Cure, XTC, and a host of others. We were lucky enough to see some of those great bands over and over; I ended up catching the mighty Ramones in concert 19 times. Looking through the gig guides each week in New Musical Express or Sounds, we sometimes could just not decide which shows to go to in any given week: How could we possibly be expected to choose between The Dictators at the Roundhouse or The Rich Kids at the Lyceum Ballroom? It was, truly, an absurdity of riches. And herein lies the root of my problem: Nothing could ever compete with that adrenaline-fuelled smorgasbord of anarchic club nights, and so I could never again enjoy live music quite as much as I did during my youth.

One solution was to keep on going back, in later years, to see the survivors and that explains the 19 Ramones show. The decades rolled by, but you could always count on twenty-one high speed, perfect, catchy punk songs at any given show. When you jumped up and down in front of the Ramones while they were on stage, time stood still. Singing along with the crowd at the Academy in New York City during The Ramones’ farewell tour in 1996, I could almost have been back in London in ’78. Yeah, the guys were a little older, and C.J. had replaced Dee Dee on bass, but they were still one of the most vital and exciting live bands of all time. Now Joey Ramone is dead. So is Johnny and Dee Dee. As is Joe Strummer—the greatest artist of the punk era—and Sid Vicious, Johnny Thunders and Jerry Nolan of the New York Dolls, Malcolm Owen from The Ruts, and Dead Boys frontman Stiv Bators. The punk movement had a lot of casualties. But all through the years there was one other band that carried the punk rock torch for me: Social Distortion.

Though singer, songwriter, and lead guitarist Mike Ness is the only original member, it doesn’t matter that much. Mike is Social Distortion and a Social D concert in Tucson is always good news. They have a solid fan base here in the Baked Apple, and their shows usually set out, as demonstrated by Monday’s packed house at the Rialto Theater. Not only do I never miss a Social D concert in town, I sometimes travel considerable distances to see them, which is why they have now surpassed even The Ramones as my most-seen band.

I have a short attention span and don’t much care for all-day music festivals with endless back-to-back performances. So, when I’m going to see a favorite band I often skip the warm-up act because I want to focus on the artist I’m there to see. The just-completed Social Distortion tour featured two opening acts I wasn’t familiar with: Lucero and Frank Turner. Fortunately, my girlfriend and I decided to check out the bands online and see if the music spoke to us. Lucero had a good sound and reminded me a little of The Old 97s. Frank Turner literally blew me away. Yes, the music spoke. Frank’s rousing video of “The Road” begins with this message: “All right, this is Frank Turner. It’s 8 o’clock in the evening. We’re about to film 24 shows in 24 hours. Let’s go!” The immediately engaging English singer opens up on a rooftop in London and then travels from one friend’s house and party to another, producing a fascinating, personal, and dynamic video that is pretty much the best thing I’ve seen this century. So, not only did my girl and I decide to head down to The Rialto early, as there was absolutely no way we were missing Frank’s set, but we booked a room at Hotel Congress—right across the street—so we could let loose, party, and stay up late without worrying about driving home.

Frank Turner in action. Photo © Frank Turner

Frank opened with a couple of solo acoustic songs, then brought on his excellent band and the results were stellar. He has the fire of Joe Strummer, the conviction of Billy Bragg, the witty lyrical turn of Lach or Bob Dylan, and dresses, looks, and leaps around stage a little like a young Bruce Springsteen. Wrap all of that up in a series of catchy, energetic, uplifting melodies reminiscent of the best of the early Alarm and Levellers and the result is an unforgettable concert experience.

After the show, I made my way to the merch table, and there was Frank himself—humble, friendly, accessible—selling his own CDs. It was a very do-it-yourself punk moment. Frank and I discovered that we had some mutual acquaintances from the UK, shared a love of The Clash, and I said: “I could talk to you non-stop for an hour, but I know you’re busy.” He, smiled and said: “No, no, it’s fine, please stay,” and invited us out for a drink after the headline show but, alas, we had other plans. Next time Frank, thank you.

Social Distortion were brilliant too. It was easily the best Social D concert I’ve seen in a decade and that’s saying something. But as I fell asleep in the cozy iron-framed bed at Hotel Congress, in the wee hours, it was “The Road” that circulated happily through my head.

When Joe Strummer died, far too young, at the age of 50, one obituary threw down a momentous question: “Who among you will take up the challenge?” By that, the writer meant which artist, which songwriter, will have the courage, vision, and talent to follow in Joe’s footsteps? Frank Turner may just be that person. And I have learned that once in a long, long while, you can find something that’s every bit as good as the best moments of your youth.

I first heard of Blondie back in the mid-1970s—long before they were international superastars—and while they were still on the indie label Private Stock. In the early days of their career they were regarded as a punk band, toured with Television, and were part of the New York underground scene, along with the Ramones, Talking Heads and other luminaries. Now, many years after the string of mega pop hits like “Heart of Glass,” “Atomic,” “Rapture,” and so on, it’s a little difficult for some to remember Blondie the way there were. But I do.

I first saw them in London in 1978. It was their initial European solo tour and they headlined at the Rainbow in Finsbury Park—a large and elegant seated venue, a bit like the Rialto only bigger and fancier. I was a young lad with two tickets to see this “unknown” American act, and really, I couldn’t give one away. Nobody wanted to go with me. The kids I went to school with, blissfully unaware of the punk rock revolution fomenting in their own town, were still spacing out to Emerson, Lake & Palmer and Yes.

I finally convinced a biker friend of mine, John, to take the train with me up to north London. He didn’t much care much for live music but he was always up for an adventure. We arrived early and took our seats—eighth row, right in the center.

After a while, the warm-up band started playing and they were extremely weird. I remember that the house lights were left on, as if Blondie didn’t want to take the chance of being upstaged. There were four guys in this group: the guitarist and bassist both sang, and they had a demented keyboard player who pounded on a bizarre stack of synthesizers that had wires and cables hanging all over the place. Their songs were jangly and dissonant. The show was energetic and mildly interesting, but they were a little too odd for me. When Blondie came on, the theater wasn’t even half full, but I didn’t care. Debbie Harry was only in her thirties then, and as lovely a rock ‘n’ roll deity as I had ever seen float across the stage.

On the way home, I asked John what he thought about the concert. “Well, Blondie were okay, but that warm-up band were amazing! They’re going to be huge.” John really didn’t know a thing about music so I dismissed his prediction as the babblings of an amateur. I later found out that the strange opening act were called XTC.

I’ve seen Blondie many times in the intervening years, and I danced to “Sunday Girl” at my high school prom. Blondie’s supremely talented bassplayer, Gary Valentine, was let go in the late 1970s and they were never quite as good without him, although they still play his wistful song “I Am Always Touched by Your Presence Dear.” From the time they came back to London after the release of Parallel Lines, there were never again empty seats in the theaters and Blondie were instantly adored.

I once saw Debbie and romantic partner/songwriter/Blondie guitarist Chris Stein do a secret show at CBGB’s with a pickup band. I sat in a cozy little VIP section with Matt Dillon on one side of me, and the Talking Heads on the other. It was pretty cool. In the 1990s, my band used to rehearse in a room next to Blondie at an elite studio in New York, and we got to chat and hang out a little. Chris Stein and I both played Steinbergers, and he’d painted out the “berger” on his guitar, so it just read “Stein,” which I found to be very clever.

The Logical Lizard hanging out with Blondie lead guitarist Chris Stein in New York, back in the rock 'n' roll days. Photo by Lach.

Last year, when Blondie set out on their big reunion tour I happened to be in NYC and took my brother and my former 1980s sweetheart to see them at the Sony Theater in Times Square. I assumed that the band would be old and tired, but it was easily the best Blondie show I ever saw: they were tight, extremely well rehearsed, full of energy, better dressed and sharper than ever, and cracked through a set of greatest hits. The song list was predictable, but who doesn’t want to hear “Hanging on the Telephone,” “Dreaming,” and all those other pop classics?

So, not surprisingly, I was expecting something similar at the Desert Diamond show this past Tuesday. Blondie, right here in my adopted home town, at a small venue! I took my dear friend Lisa Marie—a talented local silversmith, a serious music lover, and long-time Blondie fan who had never actually seen them in concert. I was a little concerned when I got my first peek at the venue. It looked more like a hotel ballroom, where you’d hold a wedding reception, than a concert hall.

When Blondie came on at about 8 pm (awfully early for New York rockers) they blasted straight into “Call Me,” which makes for a hell of a good opener. Debbie was in a bright red dress with mismatched Converse sneakers: one red and one blue, just like Clem on the cover of Parallel Lines). Unfortunately, the sound was dreadful, like listening to a transistor radio through two sheets of soggy cardboard. Most of the audience were of retirement age and, despite the very modest volume, I noticed a lady next to me wearing earplugs.

As an original fan, I felt it my duty to show the band some love, so Lisa and I ran to the front and sidled up to the stage, right by Debbie. Periodically we were yelled at, or ordered back to our seats by security, but we made the most of it.

Debbie Harry onstage with Blondie, Desert Diamond Casino, Tucson, September 1, 2009. Photo by Caroline Palmer.

Only Debbie, Chris Stein, and drummer Clem Burke remain from the original lineup. Last June, Jimmy Destri, the keyboard player and one of the key songwriters was still with them, and I really missed his presence here in Tucson. He’s a great performer. So, the sound sucked, the audience were mostly old and confused, and Blondie were finishing off their national tour with a Tuesday night show in a partially-filled casino in Tucson, Arizona. It must have been a bit of a downer for them, but they were troopers and didn’t let it show. They surprised me with “Fade Away And Radiate,” not exactly a conventional pop hit, and a long ska/reggae jam in the middle of “The Tide is High.”

So, I’ve been to better Blondie shows, but in all these years it was the first time I ever got to see them elbows-on-the-stage in a small venue. They may be older, but you know what, so am I, and Blondie still kick the pants off of most contemporary acts. I’ll pony up my cash to see them anytime.