DISGRACELAND - Blondie (Rewind): Punk vs. Disco, Held Hostage by Phil Spector, and Riding with Ted Bundy

Episode Date: August 16, 2026

Blondie got their start as part of New York’s fertile punk scene in the late ‘70s, a time of great musical innovation. Also a time of great fear. Violent crime had the five boroughs in a stranglehold. Muggers, rapists, thieves, criminal deviants of all stripes ran wild in the streets. Or so they said. True New Yorkers like Blondie were tough, jaded, immune to the fears foisted upon tourists. Blondie’s Debbie Harry, in particular, was not a victim and not a mark. But she nearly became a victim to a soon-to-be infamous serial killer when she accepted a ride from a stranger. This episode contains themes that may be disturbing to some listeners, including depictions of sexual assault. This episode was originally published on November 21, 2023. To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at ⁠www.disgracelandpod.com⁠. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - ⁠GET THE NEWSLETTER⁠   Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND:   ⁠Instagram⁠ ⁠YouTube⁠ ⁠X⁠ (formerly Twitter)  ⁠Facebook Fan Group⁠ ⁠TikTok     To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy   Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoicesSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Elvis. Betrayal Weekly is back with brand new stories. From threatening text messages disturbing a small Midwestern town. It was from an unknown number. Who else is getting these messages? Why did it start with us? To long cons and stolen identities.

Who lies about being this sick? This was the last time I ever believed a word she said. Listen to Betrayal Weekly on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. It's Chelsea Handler from Dear Chelsea. This season, we've got some awesome guests ready to dole out advice. Guests like Tiffany Haddish. Kind of slide into people's DMs.

I like Bumble. Also, girl, Farmers Only.com. At state sales, funerals, auctions are usually good. There's a lot of good men there. Grocery stores near gyms. Darcy Cardin. Sherry O'Terry, Anna Farris, Dave Franco, Madeline Klein, Adam Scott, T.S. Madison, and more.

Listen to Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hello, it's me, Anna Sinfield, the host of The Girlfriends. I'm back with more one-off interviews with some truly kick-ass women on the Girlfriend's Spotlight. I'm going to climb this. It's badness hereditary. Let's see how we can stop killing. I'm not too intimidated by her. What are you talking about?

Listen to the Girlfriend Spotlight on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hey guys, welcome in to another rewind episode of disgrace land. And boy, oh boy, do we have a good one for you today, a controversial one. This one is on the band Blondie. More specifically, it's on the story about Debbie Harry, a story that I love, a story. that at its very core is so true-crimey and very controversial. A lot of people don't believe that this is true. However, Debbie Harry herself, she's the one who claims that this story of an abduction at the hands of none other than Ted Bundy absolutely happened to her. And frankly, those who are so-called

Ted Bundy experts, the proof that they offer up to dispute Debbie Harry's account, of what went down. It is complete weak sauce. I love this story because every time I talk about it on social media, a lot of people get upset and they come at us and they say we don't know what we're talking about, but I believe Debbie Harry. And again, it goes back to the actual proof. All right? So you can listen to this episode. You can tell us what you think. Be the judge yourself. Let us know. Aside from that, it's just a great story about the foundational era of punk rock in New York City in the early 70s and just a trailblazing artist, Debbie Harry, and her fantastic band, Blondie. You're going to love it.

Here you go. This episode contains content that may be disturbing to some listeners. Please check the show notes for more information. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Blondie are insane. The band got its start in New York's fertile punk scene in the late 70s, a time when fear and violent crime had a stranglehold on the city. Two members of the group were mugged on the street. One of them, Debbie Harry, was then raped at knife point by her attacker.

Debbie Harry also barely escaped with her life after she unknowingly accepted a ride from a serial killer. Debbie and Blondie were loved and desired by many good and bad, including producer Phil Spector, who once held them captive inside his lavish Hollywood mansion. But Blondie didn't need Phil Spector to make great music, some of the coolest genre-bending music of all time. Unlike that clip I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop for my Melotron called Robert Stack Attack, MK, 1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to a clip from Le Freak by Chic. And why would I play you that specific slice of, ah, freak out cheese, could I afford it?

Because that was the number one song in America in January 1979. And that was the month that Blondie released Heart of Glass. A song that out-punked punk pissed off some of their most devoted fans and proved they were capable of surviving just about anything. On this episode, Fear and Violet Crime, Punk vs. Disco, Muggers, serial killers, Debbie Harry, and Blondie. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. 1975. You step off the plane and LaGuardia is humming.

This is your first time in New York City. Maybe you came from the Midwest or some sleepy town down south. Maybe you hopped a puddle jumper from New England or took a 747 from across the pond. But you're here now, and it's crazy. The terminal is swarming with people. They knock up against you as you try to get your bearings. Limbo drivers are holding signs with the names of people who aren't you. Harry Krishna's float by, bells ringing, consciousness expanding.

And in the middle of it all, there's this guy. Average build, average height, average everything, handing out pamphlets to whoever will take them. Which includes you because you, my friend, are way out of your depth. A fish out of water. A hayseed, a gibrony. This man in front of you is going to make you take this folded-up piece of paper. because you have no other choice, because you're new here, and you're a victim in waiting. The pamphlet has an image of a hooded skull on the front with a large, bold text that reads, Welcome to Fear City. And then at the bottom of the page, a survival guide for visitors to the

city of New York. If this pamphlet is to be believed, right here, right now, robberies, aggravated assault, larceny, burglaries, they're all on a meteoric rise. Meanwhile, the mayor is making sweeping cuts to public safety in order to balance the budget. New York is no longer New York, as this pamphlet tells you. New York is a living hell, and in a living hell, there's plenty to be afraid of. Muggers, rapists, thieves, criminal deviants of all stripes. Everyone ready and able to rob you, mean you even kill you. You have no idea what these subhuman city types are capable of,

And you also have no idea that this pamphlet was created and distributed by police and fire unions as a subversive means to drum up support for Popeye Doyle and his partners, currently nursing a cold one on unpaid leave while a garbage strike strangles New York with rotting trash. All you're focused on are the guidelines written inside this piece of paper. Stay off the streets after 6 p.m. Avoid public transportation. Safeguard your handbag. And perhaps most importantly, do not walk anywhere.

Over in Manhattan, Debbie Harry and Chris Stein were doing what New Yorkers did. They were walking. But Debbie Harry and Chris Stein weren't a couple of rubs fresh off a plane from Des Moines. They weren't victims in waiting either. They were lovers, musical partners, leaders of the band Blondie, a band that thrived in New York's sketchiest corners. It would take more than a single-fold pamphlet to strike fear in their hearts. Fear wasn't in the plan.

Not tonight. Tonight, they were riding a very specific high. The kind of get-after-your-band plays a killer set inside a tiny club that reeks of beer, sweat, and piss. Tonight's show at CV-G-B with the Ramones was one for the books. Blondie sounded tight on that shitty little stage. Every show they played these days was better than the last. They were broke. They were struggling.

But all the same, they were quickly gaining an audience. A real following. Not just the dudes who whistled at Debbie in her bleach blonde hair that gave the group its name, but real fans of the music, of bands that were steering rock and roll back to its simpler roots. Back to New York's musical past. A little chagra-lars here, some Ronnats there,

but not quite. This was fast. This was loud. This was new. And just like Debbie and Chris weren't afraid of some fierce city freak lurking around the next corner, they weren't afraid of the next corner. new, new music, new fashion, new ideas. Embrace it all, Andy told them.

Andy Warhol was a regular at Maxis, Kansas City, the spot where Debbie briefly worked as a waitress. It was now one of the local nightclubs that booked Blondie on the regular. Debbie didn't want to go back to waitressing, just like Chris didn't want to go back on welfare. So they took Andy Warhol's advice. They didn't fear the new, and they also didn't fear having a good time. punk rock could be fun if you just let your guard down you can dance to it but people in new york circa nineteen seventy five weren't dancing to punk everyone was too cool for that even if debby harry one of the coolest fucking people to walk the planet then and now encouraged dancing the crowds just stood there

arms crossed quietly judging while the band played or in the case of blondie probably undressing Debbie with their eyes. The whole scene was a sausage fest. Even Patty dressed like a man. Debbie Harry did drag too, but she did girl drag, not boy drag. A blow-up doll who would gladly kick your ass. And though the punk bands in New York hadn't come to blows yet, the divide had already begun. Right there in CBGV, a line drawn in the sand. Rather a line drawn on the club's beer-stained floor. On one side, the Ramones and Blondie. On the other, Patty Smith and Towers. television, pot versus art, those who danced versus those who did not. Tonight, Debbie Harry was done trying to get another crowd to dance.

She just wanted to go home. She and Chris Stein made the short walk from CBGB to Chris's apartment at the corner of First Avenue and East First Street, aka First and First, aka the Nexus of the Universe, according to longtime New Yorker Cosmo Kramer, but I digress. It was dark. It was late. Their footsteps were in sync and impatient. Just as they reached the front door to Chris's place, however,

another pair of footsteps came rushing from behind them, loud and coming up fast. Debbie and Chris spun around and saw him. The hooded skull, deaths shrouded head, Fear City and Carney. The man wore a leather jacket and held a large knife. He wanted money, and they had none. What about that?

Fear City motioned to the guitar case and Chris'clock. his hand. Chris didn't want to give up his fender, but what was he going to do? The guy had a knife. So Chris handed it over. What about drugs? Chris had a few doses of acid in the freezer inside his apartment. Did he want those? Nah, man. Fear City didn't want to trip out. Fear City wanted to get high. The man now motioned to Chris's front door. Take me inside. Let's see what else you got. Debbie and Chris let him inside the apartment, a knife at their backs. The man tied Chris to the bedpost with a pair of panty hose. He tied Debbie's hands behind her back with a scarf.

He ransacked the place. He found a camera. In another guitar, this one, a Gibson SG that Chris had borrowed from one of his blondie bandmates. He took what he could get, but he wasn't done taking. He wanted more. He untied Debbie's hands and told her to take her pants off. And then, at knife point, he raped her. Fear City took the guitars in the camera and disappeared.

into the New York City streets. Blondie, a band that was making moves but was nonetheless broke and struggling, found themselves down two pieces of precious gear, and Debbie Harry found herself in shock. She was angry. She was furious, but she wasn't afraid, because Debbie Harry was determined to never become a victim.

She was a survivor. Betrayal Weekly is back with brand new stories. From threatening text messages, disturbing a small Midwestern town. It was from an unknown number. Who else is getting these messages? Why did it start with us? To long cons and stolen identities.

Who lies about being this sick? This was the last time I ever believed a word she said. New voices, each with the courage to tell their own story. He said, I have been kidnapped. Okay, just trying out normal. He was essentially on the run. Every family has secrets. The rug had been pulled from underneath me.

Oh my God. It was right in front of my face and I didn't even see it. Listen to Betrayal Weekly on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. It's Chelsea Handler from Dear Chelsea. This season, we've got some awesome guests ready to dole out advice. Guests like Tiffany Haddish. Kind of slide into people's DMs. I like Bumble.

Also, girl, Farmers Only.com. Estate sales, funerals, auctions are usually good. There's a lot of good men there. Grocery stores near gyms. Darcy Cardin. I remember being like, I know this is good advice, but like, I really don't want to do that. So you didn't take her advice? I didn't take her advice.

Are you still friends with that woman? No. She actually was kind of toxic. Neil degrass Tyson. I spent my whole life looking up. I was a geek kid. I had a telescope at age 12. And so.

So you didn't have sex for? for a long time. Sherry O'Terry. Were you a soap opera person? Young and restless. Okay. Well, first of all, you should know it's the young and the restless.

I can't even believe you're mispronouncing the title. Some of us abbreviated because we've been so weird for some of the years. T.S. Madison. Are you into Polly? No, no. I don't think so. No. I could have told you no on that.

Girl, why do you not into Polly? Just based on what she's wearing and the way her hair is styled. She is not into Polly. Correct. Traop Holly. Anna Ferris, Dave Franco, Madeline Klein, Hannah Gadsby, Adam Scott, Wanda Sykes, and more. Listen to Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Jake Brennan, and on my podcast, Hollywoodland, I revisit some of the biggest stories from Hollywood history,

separating the myths people want to believe from the reality underneath them. Like how the story of Marilyn Monroe isn't just the story of a Hollywood icon. Marilyn Monroe has become so iconic that her death can only be explained through conspiracy theories. And for some fans who can't let go, these stories have metastasized from conjecture to accepted fact. So on August 4, 1962, Marilyn Monroe died. Then the rumors started and she died again. And now we're going to go. to set the record straight and learn about the way Marilyn Monroe actually died, the third way.

Learn more about what happens when fame, media obsession, and conspiracy collide. Listen to Hollywoodland on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Teenage Debbie Harry couldn't wait to get the hell out of Jersey. The burbs were so pathetic, so predictable. Fall in love, get married, settle down. Two and a half kids, picket fence, the whole nine. It sounded like a death sentence. Debbie Harry wanted to live.

She took the bus to New York City and saw people really living. Beatniks, musicians, visionaries. She took the bus again. She watched the Velvet Underground get up tight under an explosion of color and light in St. Mark's Place. Again, Moondog, blind, bearded, a Viking helmet on top of his head, passing out his poetry on 6th and 53rd.

More people, her people, free thinkers, free doers, all of them doing something different, something divine, something dangerous even. She could do that. She could be dangerous, too. She just wanted to be something that she couldn't be in Jersey. In New York, she was a secretary, a waitress, a hostess at the Playboy Club on East 59th. But corsets and bunny years weren't her thing. Neither was the band she found herself singing in The Wind and the Willows,

Just like Pink Floyd, they took inspiration from classic children's literature. Unlike Pink Floyd, the Willows were not part of the new. Folk rock cheese wasn't Debbie's bag. So for now at least, the gig was over. The jobs dried up and the money ran out. Before long, she was back in the garden state. And she was back to taking the bus into the city. 1972, visiting friends on Avenue C.

Tonight, New York smelled like urine. hot trash. Debbie Harry wanted to get across town to see her favorite band, the New York Dolls. Also hot trash, but the good kind of hot trash. The dolls were the hottest and trashiest band in the growing underground scene. And though Debbie was crazy about them, her friends were not, which meant she had no one to bum a ride off of. Fuck it. It was only one mile down West House and sixth. She strapped on a pair of tall platform shoes and began to do that thing you weren't supposed to do in Fear City. She began to walk. She barely made it a block. The platforms were killing her feet. She stuck a hand up in the air in case any cabs drove by. But cabs didn't come

to Alphabet City, not in 1972 when it was all drunks, junkies, and musicians, a demographic that kept the rents low and thus was the last place a cabby could expect to find a paying customer, or so the thinking went. One car did slow down, however. A white VW Beetle, It traveled up Houston and then turned right on Avenue A. The platform heels were excruciating now. Debbie stopped to take them off. She looked down at the sidewalk, broken glass everywhere. New York City was a mess, but it was her mess.

Well, hers and 16 million others, including the guy inside the white beetle, which was coming around again. This time, it slowed down and stopped. The driver was alone. He called out and asked if she needed to be. her ride. She didn't know this guy. She did know better than to get in the car with a total stranger though, especially in a city where the murder raid had already broken records the first half of the year. Debbie told the guy thanks, but no thanks. The beetle pulled back out into traffic and took

the right on the First Avenue. Debbie kept walking, hobbling, really. What a slog. At this rate, she was going to miss the dolls and have nothing but shredded feet to show for it. Miserable as she was though, at least she wasn't in Jersey. She'd just broken up with her boyfriend, a house painter, a real man's man, and a real pain in the ass too. Jealous, paranoid, aggressive. He went through her phone bills and called her friends,

followed her around like a psycho, convinced she was lying and two-timing him. He especially hated it when she went into the city, not because he was concerned that she would wind up in some kind of trouble, because he couldn't deal with not having control over her. When Debbie ended it, The dude flipped, broke into her apartment, held her at gunpoint.

She called the cops and they couldn't do shit. Couldn't do or wouldn't do. Remember, this happened in Jersey. And they said New York City was the place to fear. Right now, Debbie didn't feel any fear. She was sweating. Her feet were killing her. And that beetle came around again.

The only car on the street. Again, the driver pulled over and called out. Need a ride? Debbie could see the guy clearly now. Good looking, clean-shaven, short hair with a bit of a wavy curl to it. Persistent, motherfucker. Debbie paused. She didn't hitchhike.

Never. Not even in her hippie days. When Debbie Harry went to Woodstock, she drove. But she was hot and her feet were throbbing. And the show was going to start any minute. And it would likely only be a few minutes by car to get there. So Debbie jumped in the beetle and shut the door behind her. The driver pulled out on the house to him.

She thanked him for picking her up. He just grunted and stared straight ahead at the open road. That's when Debbie noticed the smell coming off of him. Not body odor. It was beyond that. It smelled like something rotting. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Between the heat and now the smell, the air in the car was stifling.

The windows were barely cracked. The stench burned her eyes. She needed fresh air, needed to breathe. She reached for the crank to work. roll her window down, but there wasn't a crank. There also wasn't a door handle. Debbie panicked. She had to do something and do it fast. She had to get out of this car. With one eye on the driver, she propped herself up on the outer edge of the seat because she shoved her arms with a little crack at the top of the window. The driver turned his head from the road to look at Debbie. He was on to her.

He took a hard left on the Thompson Street trying to slam Debbie into the door and prevent her escape. She arched herself up higher, the pit of her elbow now wrapped around the top lip of the window. She stretched her arm out lower now, all the way down to the outer door handle, and she yanked it upward just as the driver swerved, and the car door flew open. Debbie and her platform shoes toppled out into the empty intersection. Her ass at the pavement, and the VW bug completed the turn, passenger door flapping open. She didn't know what she'd do with the driver through a U-turn and came back for her. All she knew is she had that feeling, the one that drove her to New York City in the first place. Debbie Harry wanted to live. She jumped to her feet, and she waited. She was ready

for anything. The Beatles' gurgling engine, the ungodly stench infesting the car's interior. But nothing happened. The car never came back. Debbie Harry walked the rest of the way to the New York Dolls gig, knowing full well that only a naive Jersey girl would think that this would be the last time find herself trapped and looking for a way out. New York City was dangerous. The whole world was. But Debbie Harry was dangerous too. We'll be right back after this word, word, word.

Betrayal Weekly is back with brand new stories. From threatening text messages disturbing a small Midwestern town. It was from an unknown number. Who else is getting these messages? Why did it start with us? To long cons and start. stolen identities. Who lies about being this sick?

This was the last time I ever believed the word she said. New voices, each with the courage to tell their own story. He said I had been kidnapped. Okay, just trying at normal. He was essentially on the run. Every family has secrets. The rug had been pulled from underneath me. Oh my God.

It was right in front of my face and I didn't even see it. Listen to Betrayal Weekly on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. It's Chelsea Handler from Dear Chelsea. This season, we've got some awesome guests ready to dole out advice. Guests like Tiffany Haddish. Kind of slide into people's DMs. I like Bumble. Also, girl, Farmers Only.com.

At state sales, funerals, auctions are usually good. There's a lot of good men there. Grocery stores near gyms. Darcy Cardin. I remember being like, I know this is good advice, but like, I really don't want to do that. So you didn't take her advice? I didn't take her advice.

Are you still friends with that woman? No. She actually was kind of toxic. Neil deGrasse Tyson. I spent my whole life looking up. I was a geek kid. I had a telescope at age 12. And so.

So you didn't have sex for a long time. Oh, Sherry O Terry. Were you a soap opera person? Young and restless. Okay. Well, first of all, you should know it's the young and the restless. I can't even believe you're mispronouncing the time. us abbreviated because we've been

so weird for so many years. T.S. Madison. Are you into Polly? No, no. I don't think so. No, I could have told you no on that. Girl, why are you not into Polly? Just based on what she's wearing

and the way her hair is styled. She is not in a Polly. Grot-Rap Polly. Anna Farris, Dave Franco, Madeline Kline, Hannah Gadsby, Adam Scott, Wanda Sykes, and more.

Listen to Dear Chelsea on the I-Hart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Jake Brennan, and on my podcast, Hollywoodland, I revisit some of the biggest stories from Hollywood history, separating the myths people want to believe from the reality underneath them, like how the story of Marilyn Monroe isn't just the story of a Hollywood icon. Marilyn Monroe has become so iconic that her death can only be explained through conspiracy theories. And for some fans who can't let go, these stories have metastasized from conjecture to accepted fact. So on August 4, 1962, Marilyn Monroe died.

Then the rumors started, and she died again. And now, we're going to set the record straight and learn about the way Marilyn Monroe actually died, the third way. Learn more about what happens when fame, media obsession, and conspiracy collide. Listen to Hollywoodland on the Iheart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. 31-year-old Debbie Harry was pissed. She was looking at a promotional poster for Blondie's first album. A whole slew of posters, actually, pasted up on walls throughout Times Square. The posters featured her, just her.

Not her boyfriend and rock and roll co-conspirator Chris Stein. Not bassist Gary Valentine, or drummer, Clem Burke. Not the new guy at Jimmy Destry. who just joined on Keys. It was all Debbie, platinum hair, red lips, black, see-through blouse. The record label promised her they'd cropped the photo, but here it was. It left very little to the imagination. She kind of couldn't believe what she was looking at.

Well, actually, she kind of could. Dudes were dudes, and dudes ran this business she was now in. The music business. Dudes who heard the name Blondie and immediately thought only of her, Debbie Harry. Maybe that photo in punk magazine, or was it cream, the one where she's wearing that vultures t-shirt, a studded belt and underwear, looking like a punk rock barborella. She was sexy as fuck, no doubt about it, and she knew it. Everyone in New York knew it, and soon the rest of the world would, too.

But what she was looking at now didn't feel sexy. It felt like a violation. Not simply because you could see everything in this photo, nipples and all. That wasn't exactly what was pissing Debbie off. What was pissing her off was that they cut out the gap. guys, her bandmates. It reinforced the serenious idea that Blondie was Debbie Harry, which couldn't have been further from the truth. Blondie was a group. So said the t-shirts and the pins, the ones that Blondie had printed up in the wake of the see-through poster bullshit. Black background, thick pink

text that read Blondie as a group, with an exclamation point there at the end. Those pins were similar to the one Phil Spector was now wearing. His said, in the flesh. A reference. A reference to Blondie's song of the same name from that recently released self-titled debut album, a song that owed a sizable debt to the girl groups of the 1960s, groups that Phil Spector himself had produced some time ago. These days, Phil's reputation had more to do with guns and wild mood swings than it did making records. February, 1977, Hollywood.

Los Angeles loved Blondie in a way that New York never could. It was like cheap trick stumbling. in the Budacan. Their two-week-long residences at the Whiskey-A-Gogo were C&B-C in affairs. Week one, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers opened. For them. Week two, their Power Pop buds, the Ramones, taught the Sunset Strip how to properly pogo. Debbie was just stoked to see people dancing. But Phil Spector did not dance. Instead, Phil Spector emerged from his mansion up in the hills and made his way into the whiskey's dressing room. Black shirt, black tie, long, black cape, his eyes somewhere behind a pair of aviators and his soul somewhere behind a crucifix

on a chain around his neck. Not that you'd find a soul if you went looking. Debbie was more than a little surprised to see that in the flesh pin stuck to his shirt, close to his heart. He was a huge fan, obsessed. He took one look at Joey, Johnny, and the rest of the Ramones and told him the scram. He was there for Blondie. He was there for Debbie. He stared at her thigh-high leather boots. The two goons aside, we're not so impressed. They had one job. No one gets out. No one comes in. Especially not those tall geeks from Queens. But it was getting late. The whiskey was closing down. So Phil invited the group back to his place. Debbie was tired. She didn't really feel like it. The others insisted. This is Phil Spector we're talking about. He's interested in us, in Blondie. The guy who

worked with the Beatles wants to produce us. So they went. Up a winding road into the show, shallow hills above sunset Boulevard, to the lavish mansion of one of the most successful record producers of all time, who met them at the front door with a bottle of Manashevets in one hand and a Colt 45 in the other. The time to back out of this little mutant greed had long passed. Debbie Harry and the others walked nervously inside. The door latched shut behind them. Phil Spector didn't give a shit that it was beyond late at this point. The wee-wee hours of the morning. Debbie Harry and Blondie were going to hang out with him until the sun came up. He had his two goons on it, just like at the whiskey.

No one gets out, no one comes in. They weren't guests. They were prisoners. Trapped. And Debbie Harry didn't like being trapped. Not in her boyfriend's apartment, not in the VW Beetle, and certainly not in the mansion of the world's most infamous hitmaker. It may have taken a minute for the boys in the group to realize it,

but that's what was happening right now. Shit had gone sideways. But shit always had a way of going sideways. Like when they were kicked out of their New York loft apartment and rehearsal space, just days into recording their first album. Or when another apartment of theirs burned down while they were on tour. Or when Fred Smith, their original bass player, blindsided them all when he announced he was leaving.

He crossed that line from pop to art, left Blondie for television. Fred's replacement, Gary Valentine, crossed his own line from teenager to adult. and found himself in a world of trouble, managed to knock up his girlfriend when both of them were underage. But as soon as Gary turned 18, the girl's mother, hell-bent to hold him accountable, reported him for statutory rape. He hid out in Debbie's apartment, Jersey cops hot on his tail.

Trouble had a way of finding, Gary. He and Clem, Blondie's drummer, were pinched by the NYPD for a little weed, two days in lockup, including one night in the tombs, New York's notorious detention center. Ditto for Michael Sticca, Blondie's Rody, who did his own time at Rikers, arrested for stabbing the dead boys Johnny Blitz and nearly making him a dead boy for real.

Sticca maintained his innocence. Didn't matter. Everything went sideways all the same, on a moment's notice, no less. The only difference with this Phil Spector situation was that Debbie saw it coming. Up in the whiskey's dressing room, acting like a control freak and dressed like a real freak. At the front doors of his home, the revolver in his hand as long as the cape around his shoulders. And now, inside this glorified meat locker overlooking Hollywood, Phil Spector put those hands on a piano and began to play the opening chords to Be My Baby,

a song originally sung by his now ex-wife, Ronnie Spector. But Phil was no singer. He asked Debbie to sit next to him on the bench and take the lead. Debbie was thinking of the 45, and I don't mean the Ronnette single. I'm talking about the actual revolver, a loaded revolver. Phil Spector wasn't asking. He was telling. So Debbie took a seat, and she sang a few bars.

Phil kept playing and kept egging her on for more. Debbie wanted to save her voice for tomorrow's show. She was so tired, but Phil wasn't done. Performing, hosting, fucking around, whatever this was. Phil was being Phil, which included looking at Debbie's thigh-high boots again. This time, though, he did more than look. He took the long barrel of the Colt 45 and slid it between the leather and her skin.

Another dude doing what dudes do, running this business, trying to run her. Phil looked her in the eyes, smiled, and said, It was another violation, another decision made against her will and without her permission. She didn't give a shit if Phil Spector was this great and powerful producer. So what if he could turn Blondie into the Beatles? Fuck this guy.

He'd just drag them back into the past. which is not where they were going. Blondie was all about the new. They weren't afraid of it, and they weren't afraid of Phil Specter. What they were afraid of was going backwards, becoming some throwback novelty. So they moved forward,

which began with Debbie Harry and the boys standing up and walking right out of Phil Spector's house. January, 1989. She couldn't stop looking at the face of the man on the front page of the newspaper. She was mesmerized. She knew that face from somewhere. But where? Just look at him.

Good looking, clean-shaven, short hair with a bit of a wavy curl to it. Persistent motherfucker. Suddenly, Debbie Harry was transported years into the past. Back to 1972 to Avenue C. and those god-awful platform heels tearing up her feet, that white VW beetle circling back over and over. The smell coming from inside that thing. Not B.O., but something rotting, something evil, something to be afraid of.

That face, it was etched into her memory. She couldn't forget it, the face of the man who gave her a ride in that beetle with no window crank, no door handle, no easy way out. And there he was now. On the front page of this newspaper, a man who took the lives of at least 30 women. Women who were lured, kidnapped, sexually abused, mutilated, brutally murdered.

Women just like Debbie Harry. A man who said few words to her but said to the police when he was arrested in 1978, I'm the most cold-blooded son of a bitch you'll ever meet. Debbie Harry was, not for the first time in her life, in shock. The man who had given her that ride all those years ago, a ride she barely escaped from with her life, that man was Ted Bundy. And today, on January 24th, 1989,

Ted Bundy was dead, courtesy of the state of Florida, who sent 2,000 volts of electricity surging through his body. It had been a long time coming. One year after he was first arrested back in 1979, Bundy was found guilty of killing two Florida state coeds. It was July. Donna Summer's Hot Stuff was the number one song in America,

a funky slice of Studio 54 soul from disco's Dancing Queen. Three months earlier, in April, another song held the number one spot, sung by another Dancing Queen, the Bowery's Dancing Queen, herself an unlikely disco avatar. Heart of Glass was Blondie's first number one hit. The song sounded unlike anything the group had released up to that time. Debbie's heavenly dreamlike vocal wrote a roll in copy rhythm drum machine sample, proudly bridging the gap between New York punk rock and punk's sworn enemy.

At the time in the late 70s, you didn't cross the party lines of punk and disco, just like you didn't cross that invisible line dividing art and pop and CBGB. You could only be one. And to the diehards at places like CBGB in Maxis, Kansas City, there was a clear choice. Punk was honest. Punk was authentic. Disco was commercial and soulless. Pure. Pure. evil. Disco was something to be afraid of. As early as as 1976, the knives were out. The very first issue of Punk Magazine, a small publication that documented the New York scene, featured a brief editorial that doubled as a kind of mission statement.

This editorial read in part, Death to Disco shit, long live rock, kill yourself, jump off a fucking cliff, drive nails into your head, become a robot and join the staff at Disneyland. O.D., anything. Just don't. Just don't. Don't listen to disco shit. Unlike the editorial board at Punk Magazine, Debbie Harry, Chris Stein, and the rest of the guys in Blondie

weren't afraid of disco shit just like they weren't afraid of the new. It was like Andy taught them. This new could take many forms. Punk, disco, a hybrid of the two even. Heart of Glass was that hybrid. It got people dancing. It put Blondie on the map.

It was a harbinger of more music to come. Like Call Me, and the tide is high, both number one singles in 1980, and Rapture, a 1981 number one that fused New Wave, disco, and hip-hop, and which also became the first hip-hop video to be played on MTV. All of this resulted in a huge backlash from the so-called real punks. Do you think Blondie cared? Not in the least. Chris Stein took it all in stride.

He saw Blondie's choices as an act of defiance that was fully in step with the punk rock ethos. It made us punk in the face of punk, he said, and he was right. Or perhaps, as Debbie Harry would see it, Blondie became fear in the face of fear. Danger in a world and a business built on danger. Survivors of a scene that would have rather seen them in disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis.

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I want to know, do you think Debbie Harry's account of what happened with Ted Bundy is, in fact, true? Give us a call. Let us know. 617-90666-6-6-38 voicemail and text at Disgraceland pod on the socials. Coming up next in Disgraceland, our new episode on Smashing Pumpkins. Betrayal Weekly is back with brand new stories from threatening text messages disturbing a small Midwestern town. It was from an unknown number.

Who else is getting these messages? Why did it start with us? To long cons and stolen identities. Who lies about being? this sick. This was the last time I ever believed a word she said. Listen to Betrayal Weekly on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. It's Chelsea Handler from Dear Chelsea. This season, we've got some awesome guests ready to dole out advice. Guests like Tiffany Haddish. Kind of slide into people's DMs. I like Bumble.

Also girl, Farmers Only.com. At state sales, funerals, auctions are usually good. There's a lot of good men there. Grocery stores near gyms. Darcy Cardin. Sherry O'Terry, Anna Ferris, Dave Franco, Madeline Klein, Adam Scott, T.S. Madison and more. Listen to Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio

app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Hello, it's me, Anna Sinfield, the host of the Girlfriends. I'm back with more one-off interviews with some truly kick-ass women on The Girlfriends. Spotlight.

I'm going to climb this. Is badness hereditary? Let's see how we can stop killing. I'm not too intimidated by her. What are you talking about? Listen to the Girlfriend Spotlight on the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast.