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June, 1975.
A complete unknown steps up to the microphone in a tiny New York demo studio. She sings:
I wanna be a platinum blonde
just like all those sexy stars
Marilyn and
Jean....
Yeah, they really had fun
In a luminescent day glo
shade
I'll walk into a bar and I'll have it made....
Her name was
Deborah Harry,
Debbie vocalist with a long-short quartet by the name of Blondie.
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She sang the American Dream in one of its oldest and purest forms. She sang for the millions of shop-girls and cheerleaders, cocktail waitresses and kindergarten teachers, for the countless number of females who'd responded to this particular stereotype for over a half a century; for all those girls who'd gazed at a cinema screen, a poster or magazine and thought: "That could be me up there. If only..." And most of all she sang it for herself.
No chance. She was almost thirty. But she looked eighteen. Six years later, when the world knew her face and name, when she's reached probably more people than all of those other blondes put together, Deborah Harry would still look eighteen; at a pinch, twenty or twenty-one. And now thousands of girls dreamed of being Debbie Harry.
Read Deborah's Biography
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