Stephen Thomas Erlewine, All Music Guide

Marquee Moon is a revolutionary album, but it's a subtle, understated revolution. Without question, it is a guitar rock album — it's astonishing to hear the interplay between Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd — but it is a guitar rock album unlike any other. Where their predecessors in the New York punk scene, most notably the Velvet Underground, had fused blues structures with avant garde flourishes, Television completely strips away any sense of swing or groove, even when they are playing standard three chord changes. Marquee Moon is comprised entirely of tense garage rockers that spiral into heady intellectual territory, which is achieved through the group's long, interweaving instrumental sections, not through Tom Verlaine's words. That alone made Marquee Moon a trailblazing album — it's impossible to imagine post-punk soundscapes without it. Of course, it wouldn't have had such an impact if Verlaine hadn' t written an excellent set of songs that conveyed a fractured urban mythology unlike any of his contemporaries. From the nervy opener "See No Evil" to the majestic title track, there is simply not a bad song on the entire record. And what has kept Marquee Moon fresh over the years is how Television fleshes out Verlaine's poetry into sweeping sonic epics.

On the 2003 remaster of the original version: Rhino's 2003 expanded edition of Television's seminal debut, Marquee Moon, doesn't add much on the surface — in addition to the de rigueur liner notes and loving packaging, all standard fare on serious reissues here in the early days of the 21st century, there are a mere five bonus tracks. Some might complain, but dealing with scarcity is part of being a Television fan; few great bands have left such a slim body of work, with only two studio albums from the golden age, weighing in at a total of 16 songs. So, any addition of new recordings, even alternate takes, to the canon is welcome indeed, and the five bonus tracks are all necessary, none more so than the first official CD release of Television's first single, "Little Johnny Jewel." Here, the two parts — part one issued as the A-side, part two as the B — are presented as one track (it does fade out and in at midway point), and it's a fascinating roughhewn blueprint for Marquee Moon. It's a legendary single, and it's a blessing that it's finally readily available, but hardcore Television fans will likely be more taken with the alternate takes of "See No Evil," "Friction," and "Marquee Moon." While "See No Evil" is the only tune that's radically different in this incarnation — it's the same structure, only with another, very busy, guitar line surging throughout the verse — the band, particularly Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd, always played the songs differently, so "Friction" and "Marquee Moon" make for fascinating listening anyway; that's also the reason why the untitled instrumental, which doesn't really go anywhere, is still good listening — it's just a pleasure to hear this most musical of punk bands play. That, combined with good liner notes and remastering of a timeless album, make this an essential reissue.

Percy Keegan, Amazon.com

A classic bit of punk rock from 1977, that classic year of punk. Whereas most of this New York City group's peers turned up the distortion, revved up the tempo, and stripped their songs down to tight three-chord anthems, Television did something startlingly different. Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd allowed themselves the space to develop clean, powerful, unexpected guitar leads. To top it off, Verlaine's songs were thought-provoking, memorable, danceable, and unlike anything else going. "Prove It" was the hit in England, but independent radio stations wore the grooves down on the title cut, "See No Evil," and the stunningly brilliant "Friction."

On the 2003 remaster of the original version: Remastered digipak reissue of classic 1977 debut, includes 5 bonus tracks 'Little Johnny Jewel' (parts 1 & 2), 'See No Evil' (alternate version), 'Friction' (alternate version), 'Marquee Moon' (alternate version) & untitled instrumental. Elektra. 2003.

Martin Johnson, Barnes & Noble

It's hard to imagine Television emerging from the same CBGBs scene as the Ramones. Television's meticulous guitar-oriented sound and precise songs seem like the antithesis of the punk aesthetic, but the hallowed, hardscrabble dive is where Tom Verlaine assembled and nurtured this four-man crew in the mid '70s. Marquee Moon is unlike every guitar-hero recording that preceded it, and few since have captured its discipline and charm. Introverts alike, Verlaine and fellow axman Richard Lloyd dispense long, clean lines that seem more appropriate to a SoHo art gallery than a Bowery dive and, unlike so many guitar gods, play extremely well within the context of the song. Adding to the mystique are Verlaine's lyrics, oblique and urbane, which draw on the tradition of another New York downtown band, the Velvet Underground. Despite their lasting influence, the band recorded only one more album, Adventure, before breaking up, only to reunite for a brief tour in 1992. More than 20 years later, the glory of Marquee Moon remains undiminished, and is a must for guitar aficionados and New York rock fans alike.

On the 2003 remaster of the original version: Rhino's 2003 expanded edition of Television's classic debut, Marquee Moon, features an additional 30 minutes of music, notably the full-length version of the band's first single, "Little Johnny Jewel," which makes its first appearance on CD here. Also included are alternate versions of "See No Evil," "Friction," and "Marquee Moon," along with an untitled instrumental.

Recorded at A & R Studios, New York, New York.

New York's 70s punk was markedly different to that of Britain. Rather than reject the past, American groups deconstructed its forms and rebuilt them with recourse to the music's strengths. Television's leader, Tom Verlaine, professed admiration for Moby Grape and the folk rock of early Fairport Convention. Elements of the latter appear on this album's title track, which offers a thrilling instrumental break, built upon a modal scale. Verlaine's shimmering guitar style provides the set's focus, but his angular compositions are always enthralling. A sense of brooding mystery envelops the proceedings, and Marquee Moon retains its standing as one of the era's pivotal releases.

On the 2003 remaster of the original version: Remastered digipak reissue of classic 1977 debut, includes 5 bonus tracks 'Little Johnny Jewel' (parts 1 & 2), 'See No Evil' (alternate version), 'Friction' (alternate version), 'Marquee Moon' (alternate version) & untitled instrumental. Elektra. 2003.

Jesse Fahnestock, Ink Blot Magazine

A warning: the sleeve to Marquee Moon lists not only songwriting and instrumental credits, it lists guitar solo credits. Blues riffing duels with stately arpeggios, Tom Verlaine and Richard Lloyd bend notes beyond recognition, and songs stretch well beyond the five-minute mark.

But Marquee Moon is not music for guitar shop clerks. Punk rockers, maybe. Poets, probably. People who appreciate melody piled on melody, and songs crammed full of an album's worth of ideas - definitely. Verlaine and Television were originals in 1977, and Marquee Moon still sounds special today. You can hear them defining punk and new wave: "I get your point/You're so sharp" from "See No Evil" pretty much invented the new wave lyric, and the occasional afterbeat guitars and and high hat shuffles show them experimenting with reggae before The Clash brought it to the punk masses. Meanwhile, the guitars spiral into a different atmosphere altogether.

Verlaine and Lloyd push at the edges of "Friction," "Marquee Moon" and "Guiding Light," stuffing them full of melodic invention but never cutting the tethers that keep them grounded in simple, classic rock 'n' roll. Excited but focused, this may be the best guitar playing ever put to a rock record, and it makes a special set of songs into a magical, must-have album.

Hunter Felt, Pop Matters

2003 Remaster of Original Version:

There is no need to argue the importance of Television's debut album, Marquee Moon. Anyone with a remote interest in punk rock, the modern day garage revival or just straight-ahead no frills rock and roll needs Marquee Moon in their album collection. The jaded yet somehow impassioned cynicism of Tom Verlaine's vocals and Romantic poetry inspired lyrics have become the model for a whole army of modern day New York bands. A quick look at M2's Subterranean will show that the rock quasi-underground of today would not exist without Television. The sparkling clean and precise guitars of Verlaine and Richard Lloyd manage to imbue a simplicity and directness to their multi-part songs and epic solos, allowing the band to preserve their punk spirit while pursuing a thoroughly un-punk muse. The underrated rhythm section of Fred Smith and Billy Ficca played with a precise syncopation that influenced the arrival of countless post-punk and new wave acts. Television, it seems, were pretty much exactly 25 years ahead of their time. Rhino's decision to reissue this landmark album in 2003 is a smart financial decision, but does there need to be a new edition of Marquee Moon?

The main selling point of this particular remaster is not the uninspired liner notes or the underwhelming bonus tracks, but rather the updated sound. More than any other album associated with the '70s punk scene, Marquee Moon demands immaculate sound quality. The most notable feature about Television's sound was how clean and sharp the music sounded. Rather than burying their songs in effects and distortion, Lloyd and Verlaine strove for a return to the "ringing-a-bell" sound of Chuck Berry. Where most post-Hendrix guitarists went for the big effect, Verlaine and Lloyd, on rockers like "Friction" and "See No Evil", produce sounds that are precise and razor-sharp, like tiny pins. Because of this dedication to simplification, the two guitarists never step on each other's toes, complimenting each other rather than overlapping into bombast. While the original CD remaster of Marquee Moon was not an embarrassment, the Rhino remaster has given the best possible sound to this great album.

Take for instance how the remaster cleans up the title song. Television's finest moment, the song "Marquee Moon" is a triumph, a ten-minute epic of Romantic brooding that feels as concise as a three-minute pop song, yet is as powerfully evocative as a symphony. A ten-minute song, with poetry for lyrics, an extended instrumental section, and plenty of soloing hardly seems the fare for a "punk" album. What makes the song "punk" is how Television manage not to waste a single second with self-indulgence. From its gripping cinematic opening to the climactic orgasm of heavenly guitar squeaks that would awe even Kevin Shields, every single element of the song builds upon the previous part. Television were never a jam band, and even the solos just propel the song to its irresistible climax. "Marquee Moon" works like precise clockwork, with each instrumental section pushing the next part along. With the new polished sound, the drama of "Marquee Moon" becomes starker, and the moment where the heavenly music stops and the song steps back from the sonic excess of the climax and settles back to the simple opening groove becomes even more bewitching.

If you already own the album, and are content with the old mastering job enough not to feel pressured into shelling out 17 bucks or so for the new edition, the bonus tracks will do little to entice you. The single version of "Little Johnny Jewel Pts. 1 & 2" is issued on CD for the first time. Hardcore Television fans highlight this strange tune as Television's finest hour, but its toy-box of squeals and bangs is not equal to the rousing emotional epics of the album proper. The alternate versions of "See No Evil", "Friction", and "Marquee Moon" are very similar to the original versions, with only a slightly rougher sound and different solos to distinguish them from the album versions (although a step above the "alternate mix" phenomenon that is plaguing modern day reissues). In a bit of a cop out, the concluding surf-inspired "Untitled Instrumental" is actually an out-take from the Adventure sessions. The hardcore fan, hungry for any unreleased Television material, of course will need all of this, but it is the cleaned-up sound that makes this reissue a godsend for those who have put off buying the original master. And those who have already bought the original, and refuse to buy the album again, don't beat yourself up. In ten years or so, during the next New York rock revival, the new "new and improved" Marquee Moon will inevitably pop up on DVD-Audio. Until then, this is the definitive version of a definitive album.

Ken Tucker, Rolling Stone, issue 236, 1977

These bands achieved their initial notoriety while playing in the same place (an esophagus of a bar called CBGB, in lower Manhattan) and have been lumped together with other habitués of this joint as purveyors of "punk rock." In their self-consciousness and liberal open-mindedness, these bands are as punky as Fonzie: that is, not at all.

Blondie is a quintet which juggles genres of fast rock, from a thick, Spector-ish vision of street crime called "X Offender" to a thick, Who-like vision of womanhood called "Rip Her to Shreds." Blondie is for the most part a playful exploration of Sixties pop interlarded with trendy nihilism. Everything is sung by Deborah Harry, possessor of a bombshell zombie's voice that can sound dreamily seductive and woodenly Mansonite within the same song. It's an interesting combination and forces all the songs on Blondie to work on at least two levels: as peppy but rough pop, and as distanced, artless avant-rock. The group's original material has no trouble yielding to this malleability of meaning since the songs are so broad in theme—the plots of "Kung Fu Girls," "Rip Her to Shreds" and "The Attack of the Giant Ants" are exactly what their titles suggest: the aural equivalents of tabloid newspapers. Absolutely anything, from joke to political manifesto to hoax, can be ascribed to them. Two things save Blondie's music from a lack of focus and sincerity. One is producer Richard Gottehrer's adroit echoing of decade-old pop songs, replete with hooks and innocent melodrama. The other is Deborah Harry's utter aplomb and involvement throughout: even when she's portraying a character consummately obnoxious and spaced-out, there is a wink of awareness that is comforting and amusing yet never condescending.

The Ramones' second album contains 14 songs, all around two minutes long. So did their first. They have lost none of their intensity, and if to "leave home" implies a certain broadening of experience, its main evidence on the new record is an occasional use of harmony and the boys' discovery of carbona ("Carbona Not Glue"), a substitute for airplane glue in getting high.

The Ramones are as direct and witty as before. They've also lost just a pinch of their studied rawness: whether this is a sign of maturity or sellout is a matter for debate. The Ramones make rousing music and damn good jokes, but they're in a bind: the hard rock of this group is so pure it may be perceived as a freak novelty by an awful lot of people.

Marquee Moon, Television's debut album, is the most interesting and audacious of this triad, and the most unsettling. Leader Tom Verlaine wrote all the songs, coproduced with Andy Johns, plays lead guitar in a harrowingly mesmerizing stream-of-nightmare style and sings all his verses like an intelligent chicken being strangled: clearly, he dominates this quartet. Television is his vehicle for the portrayal of an arid, despairing sensibility, musically rendered by loud, stark repetitive guitar riffs that build in every one of Marquee Moon's eight songs to nearly out-of-control climaxes. The songs often concern concepts or inanimate objects—"Friction," "Elevation," "Venus" (de Milo, that is)—and when pressed Verlaine even opts for the mechanical over the natural: in the title song, he doesn't think that a movie marquee glows like the moon; he feels that the moon resonates with the same evocative force as a movie marquee.

When one can make out the lyrics, they often prove to be only non sequiturs, or phrases that fit metrically but express little, or puffy aphorisms or chants. (The chorus of "Prove It" repeats, to a delightful sprung-reggae beat: "Prove it/Just the facts/The confidential" a few times.)

All this could serve to distance or repel us, and taken with Verlaine's guitar solos, which flirt with an improvisational formlessness, could easily bore. But he structures his compositions around these spooky, spare riffs, and they stick to the back of your skull. On Marquee Moon, Verlaine becomes all that much better for a new commercial impulse that gives his music its catchy, if slashing, hook.

Television treks across the same cluttered, hostile terrain as bands like the Velvet Underground and the New York Dolls, but the times may be on the side of Verlaine: we have been prepared for Television's harsh subway sound by a grudging, after-the-fact-of-their-careers acceptance of those older bands.

At their best, these three bands do indeed have things in common: a lack of pretension plus an abundance of vigor and adventurousness that have obviously been stoked by popular manifestations of print, film and TV: comic books, detective stories, science fiction, westerns and their attendant stock figures—hoods, dicks, cowboys, aliens: heroes, super and anti. Rock has always traded on a certain amount of this spirit—the naming of a band is just as stirring to its members as the sewing of his first cape is to a fresh superhero—but these three bands use this popular art in a way very few rock & rollers have done—with consistency and accuracy. (The Kiss boys read comics and even dress like them, but their secret identities are those of four businessmen dedicated to taking as few risks as possible.) The Dolls did a bangup job on a song like "Bad Detective" but they never approached the sinister precision Tom Verlaine achieves to wrap up the scenario of "Torn Curtain"; "Prove It" is a paean to a never elucidated "case" Detective Tom has "been workin' on so long." Blondie owes its moniker no less to its peroxide-soaked lead singer than to the marriage partner of Dagwood Bumstead. But in the wisecracking snipes of Deborah Harry, the band knows damn well it has found an image closer to that of a feminist Marvel Comic for the ears. The brutality and willful cruelty of the Ramones' music can find its direct antecedent in the films of Samuel Fuller; Joey Ramone writhing out "Commando" is the real soundtrack for Fuller's yahoo, prowar nose-thumber, Steel Helmet.

The lyrics of these bands are rather beside the point—they are drowned out by the instruments and secondary to the gradations of angst projected by all three lead singers' technically poor voices. But the best of the few lyrics one can decipher have a pulpy richness—certainly not conventional rock sentiments or even examples of "good writing." Verlaine yowls: "I remember/How the darkness doubled/I recall/Lightning struck itself." Is this profound imagery, or just a particularly ripe balloon of dialogue from a Silver Surfer comic book? I would tend toward the latter opinion, even as I am convinced that the song, "Marquee Moon," is a small masterpiece, and the album a medium-sized one.

© Frank Steven Groen