I’m of the generation who were fascinated by Debbie Harry. Or was she Blondie? When she first appeared, we didn’t really know. I was about fifteen when they exploded into British consciousness, probably on Top of the Pops. But we only saw Debbie, out front, strutting her stuff. And what stuff!
She had that intoxicating mixture of innocence and sheer devilry that turned many a fifteen-year-old boy’s head. What most of us didn’t realise at the time was that she was more than twice our age, and knew exactly what she was doing. That stage confidence wasn’t faked; it was real.
In this autobiography – or is it a memoir?- Debbie Harry lets us into her past. And what a story she tells. There is some unevenness, but there usually is in such a book. The nearer you get to the present, the more reticent the subject is to tell all. And that’s understandable.
Her tales of growing up, her family, and her education are at times quite emotional. But the beating heart of the book is the years she spent in the underground arts and music scene in New York. The sixties and seventies were not a good time for the city. It was broke and broken.
But those very conditions allowed those outside the mainstream to flourish. Swathes of disused industrial buildings provided free or cheap housing to those who gravitated to the city. The arts flourished: art, music, performance, poetry. And Debbie was a part of it.
She didn’t know what she wanted to be, and music came along almost by accident. She took many years to perfect ‘Blondie’, for that’s what she now realises she did. Not quite an act, but not the real Debbie either.
Her descriptions of that life are vivid, visceral, involving, and she doesn’t hold much back. The drugs, the sex, the occasional violence. Those friends who met early deaths from alcohol, overdoses, or the new scourge of HIV/Aids. All are there. The names come tumbling out: Warhol, Bowie, Divine, Iggy Pop. Icons of their time. She paints a detailed picture of the New York scene you’d be hard-pressed to better.
She made mistakes, and is prepared to admit to them. Like most bands, Blondie got shafted a few times, and had to start all over again. The members changed, but always at its heart were Debbie and Chris Stein. They were also romantic partners for fourteen years, and this relationship runs through the book like a spine.
He helped her to identify who she was and what she wanted to be. They were friends, lovers, bandmates, writing partners, supporters. Almost the perfect couple. Why it fell apart, Debbie doesn’t say, and although they are still close friends and still work together, there is a certain sadness about her later thoughts on their relationship. As if she has never quite got over the split.
The more recent years filled many gaps for me. Debbie has done far more acting than I was aware of, and the music has never stopped, both with a re-formed Blondie, with other collaborators, and as a solo artist. She is now in her late seventies and still looks fantastic. Still with that sparkle in her eye which drew in the fifteen-year-old me.
The book kept me interested from beginning to end, although the final chapter is somewhat odd. Does she tell us everything? No, of course not. But there’s more than enough to satisfy. It’s thoughtfully – and eclectically – illustrated, with lots of images from her life, as well as many works sent to her by fans.
If Debbie Harry has ever touched your heart or mind, read this book to find out why. If you only know her second-hand, then read this book to find out what all the fuss was about.
This is a review of the Harper Collins 2022 paperback edition.
