We all remember our first love; that first band or performer who captured our adolescent heart, our one desire to be as much like our idol as humanly possible (or as much like our idol as our parents would let us.)  For me, the band was Blondie, and my idol – my goddess – my role model – my ‘wanna-be-her’ was, of course, Debbie Harry.

My parents didn’t want me to be Debbie Harry.  I think they’d have been happy with me being the blonde one out of ABBA or something, but the mini-skirted, punked-up Debbie was quite probably the antithesis of what they envisaged for little Amanda.  Tough shit.  On a pocket-money budget, I was determined to turn myself into this exotic New Yorker;  I hemmed all my skirts to mini length, ripped my tee-shirts and – with the help of bright red Boots lip-liner and a shop-lifted lip gloss – I painted my lips to look like hers.  Obviously, my lips didn’t look like hers; I looked like John Wayne Gacey, The Killer Clown.   Pity I didn’t realise this.  Fortunately, my mother did, Saturday morning dramas of the ‘take-that-shit-off-your-face’ variety a mainstay of my teenage years.

Needless to say, my parents would not allow me to have platinum blonde hair at thirteen.  Tough shit x 2.  How could I be Debbie Harry without peroxide locks?! My mother was wise to the devious inner workings of my mind, and put the fear of God into me vis-a-vis home dye-jobs. “Don’t you dare try dying your hair at home on the sly, madam! It’ll all fall out!”.  She need not have worried; I was no rebel (I was terrified of her), and suddenly appearing at breakfast with platinum hair would have been somewhat obvious.  Instead, I devised a plan so devious, so fool-proof, so seamless, that I was convinced that  – in the space of a few weeks – I’d be sporting the perfect Debbie ‘do’ without them even noticing!

I purchased a product called ‘Sun-In’.  The idea behind ‘Sun-In’ was that you sprayed this stuff on your hair, gave it a going over with a hot blow-drier, and your hair would be ‘subtly lighter by at least one shade’.  I figured that if I put this potion on my hair every, single night, I would eventually turn Debbie blonde – but ‘subtly’, one shade at a time.

My hair turned bright orange first time ‘round and I got in the biggest trouble of my life.

Oh well.  One day, one day….

Yet it wasn’t just La Harry who sent me into frenzied, adolescent obsession; it was Blondie.  I truly loved Blondie.  There was something about their music which grabbed my imagination in a way no other band of the late ‘70s could;  the world was divided into two sorts of people, and there’s a gulf of difference between Mr Blue Skies by E.L.O and Rip Her To Shreds.  I knew which camp I fell into, the twangy-guitars, thrashing drums and chugging bass of Blondie marking my pop tastes forever.  And as for Debbie’s vocals…God, how I wanted to not be able to sing!  Unfortunately, I could – meaning that my sing-along renditions of X Offender, Kung-Fu Girls and 11:59 lacked the authentic Harry touch.  Furthermore, I had an English accent. Damn. I’d have to move to New York, live in The Village, and hang out at C.B.G.Bs – that was obviously the only way I could achieve true Debbification.

I’m not sure what happened next.  Oh yes.  The ‘80s. I went ‘New Romantic’, discovered Adam and the Ants (‘Dirk’ period) and Bow Wow Wow, and dropped Blondie (and my darling Debbie) like so many hot potatoes.  It was probably for the best.  They’d just released The Hunter, arguably one of pop’s worst albums; I was embarrassed to be associated with them.

A couple of years ago, with the advent of Napster, I decided to download some Blondie for ‘old times sake’.  I imagined it would be as wonderful as I’d remembered, that it would somehow excite me in the way it had excited a thirteen years old kid in Brighton with bright orange hair.  I downloaded Heart of Glass, The Tide is High, Sunday Girl – Blondie’s ‘hits’, songs which had bewitched me as a teen and would surely carry some sort of value, if only nostalgic.

I was heartily disappointed.  They sounded rubbish.  Pleasant enough pop, but weightless.  Lifeless. ‘Kid’s stuff’.  Bow Wow Wow on the other hand…..

I put both Blondie and Debbie Harry out of my mind for another two years, until last week when – loitering in Fopp, Bath’s best music store – I stumbled upon Blondie.  For a fiver each, they were selling the band’s first two albums: Blondie (known to fans as ‘Blondie-Blondie’), and Plastic Letters (the one with the cover-shot of Debbie sitting on the fender of a police car in a hot pink PVC mini-dress and chewing her hair.)  Something overcame me. I think it was Debbie sitting on the fender of a police car in a hot pink PVC mini-dress and chewing her hair.  I decided to throw away a tenner and buy both albums.  I was in one of those ‘need-to-buy-some-music’ moods, and although it was a certain amount of reluctance that I handed over my Switch card, at least I’d have some stuff to add to my collection….

I was so unexcited at the prospect of listening to Blondie that I forgot I’d even bought these C.Ds until I was rummaging in my bag the following morning looking for a lighter.  I thought I may as well give it a go – and started with Blondie-Blondie.

It was fantastic!

(And so was Plastic Letters.)

Suddenly, I remembered something key; it was early Blondie which had so enamoured me, the punky, garage-y roughness of their early recordings so different to their disco-diva’d Heart of Glass period.

Blondie-Blondie is a wonderful mix of New York Dolls and Shangri-Las, all of it peppered with punk and seasoned with swirls from Jimmy Destri’s organ. Album high-points include In The Flesh,  a tongue-in-cheek tribute to ‘60s girl groups, and Rifle Range, a sinister number which finds Chris Stein doing his best to sound like Duane Eddy whilst girlfriend Debbie tells us that she ‘lost her heart at the rifle range – bang! bang! – at the rifle range- bang! bang!’.

All good stuff.

Plastic Letters reminds us that Clem Burke was arguable one of pop’s most musical drummers;  he is possibly the only drummer who uses irony along with drum-sticks, his thrashing performance on Denis enough in itself to set him on a par with Ringo.  The album is full of fun and playfulness, Harry’s lyrics genuinely engaging (‘Although I’m young, I’ve got a job to do, got a microfilm in the lining of my shoe…’). Youth Nabbed by a Sniper marries eerie lyrics with a thrashing, garage sound – all of it welded together by Harry’s truly musical melody lines.

The album’s best number is one we never, ever hear; I Didn’t Have The Nerve to Say No is a genuinely sophisticated piece of pop, again reminding us that Blondie – Debbie included – were real musicians;  these guys knew what they were doing, and did it very, very well. 

Blondie-Blondie and Plastic Letters are perfect little time capsules of the ‘New York Sound’ of the Mid-Late Seventies, every bit as bold as the offerings of contemporaries Patti Smith and New York Dolls, but with the added ingredient of pure, pure pop.  Harry, Stein, Burke and Destri really understood pop, and – in a time of pure punk – had the bravery to use it with the ironic nostalgia which marks their early sound.

Holding it all together was Debbie Harry.  I have now concluded that she is probably one of music’s most under-rated vocalists. Why? Because she was a wonderful vocalist. Sure, she couldn’t sing – but an inability to sing is almost a prerequisite in pop – and Harry’s quirky voice and clever phrasing are truly a pleasure to hear.

Having listened to nothing but Blondie-Blondie and Plastic Letters for the past two days, I must conclude that they now rate amongst my Top Fifty Albums of All Time.  Not only are they a joy unto themselves, but they kind of make up for me never being into Patti Smith or The New York Dolls.

So what happened to the tubby teen who wanted to look like Debbie Harry? Well, I grew up – was allowed to have peroxide hair – and eventually stopped wanting to look like other people.  Strangely, however, a couple of weeks ago, Pierre (KIU Webster) updated the photos in our Gallery, and put in one of me which I found horrifying.

“Don’t use that!” I shrieked. “I look like…Debbie Harry or something!”

Was I mad?!  Twenty-five years on, I have somehow – and quite accidentally – arrived at a Debbie Harry look!  How my pre-pubescent self would have thrilled to such knowledge (whereas the grown-up Amanda felt shame at resembling a washed-up rock tart.)  What goes around comes around, and beware of wishing too hard for something…You might just end up getting it!

(In saying that, now that I’m into Blondie-Blondie and Plastic Letters, it doesn’t seem so bad!)

(Look at the hair! Look at the hair!)