Yes, Harry glides over some darker days (drugs, assaults and near-death experiences), but counters them with the simple joy of collaborating with the likes H. She doesn't seem to deny these "unsane" sides, which I don't see the need for, even for fun, and which leaves me a little bit confused. I wasn’t submissive or begging him to come back, I was kicking his ass, kicking him out, kicking my own ass too. We get a superficial account of her childhood and her adopted family and then move to NYC in the late 60s. While on tour with Iggy Pop and David Bowie, the latter flashes his penis at Harry in the dressing room “as if I were the official cock checker or something”.

Regardless of whether DH is talking about her house burning down, being stalked and raped Blondie splitting up or throwaway waitress jobs, there's no change of pace or tone and only the merest superficiality of detail.You get the child, the teen , the wandering woman of her 20s trying to find purpose and the woman in her 30s that became the greatest female rock star ever. A beautiful thought for Phil Spector while he was still alive and in jail or other considerations of a deep humanity.

As to the format and organization, Debbie gets off to a good start, talking about her childhood, her road to success, and the atmosphere in New York during the seventies, which was bursting with creativity and artistry, but was also a dark, dangerous, terrifying city that was going broke. The overall vibe this memoir gives off is that of an artist who has been prodded into writing a memoir by her marketing team, and clearly has no interest in laying her soul bare.It goes without saying, sadly, that this memoir will NOT teach you how to achieve Debbie Harry-levels of coolness, but we can't expect miracles. I wanted an emotional biography about one of the coolest bands of that era, with personal details about how they and Debbie Harry herself came to be.