After reading this, I felt like I had just traveled back in time to a neighborhood all too different from my own. A place where syringes covered the ground in Tompkins Square Park, cute girls in patent leather boots would sneer at the mod guy across the street for whistling, shaggy couples would share a joint while kissing, CBGB’s was more sinister than “hip”, and not a single Starbucks could be found. The sadness which filled me when I looked out my window onto Avenue A after reading this book was unequivocal. I sat for a while thinking about what it must have been like to see Blondie play a show at Max’s Kansas City, or CBGB’s during the mid 80’s. Did the people whose articles appear in this book have any clue that they were watching a phenomenon in the making? Maybe. But probably not. While reading the essays, I found a nostalgic undercurrent to each one; as if they also felt that during that time something magical was occurring both culturally and musically, and yet they themselves could not fully comprehend why it had to be so fleeting. This iconography is not only incredible because of its volume, but also due to its diversity. Essays were taken not only from world class photographers and journalists, but from the fans themselves. Allan Metz made sure to include poems and personal Blondie stories taken from internet Blondie websites. All of this, along with more than 100 pages chock full o’ Blondie pictures, makes for an experience all its own.

The pictures! Oh- My- God. I can’t even begin to describe the necessity of these pictures to the rest of the book. Allan Metz places them chronologically, as they appropriately accompany each chapter. It’s like reading a sexier, more politically aware skin-mag. At times, you almost feel intrusive for having access to some of the more personal Blondie pictures. For example, a photo which captures an intimate moment between Debbie Harry and band member/lover Chris Stein reveal Debbie’s cool eyes looking deeply at you from the pages as if to say, “ Hey, can’t you see we’re in the middle of something here? What do you think you’re doing?” Another photo, showing an sweaty and elated Debbie with carrot sticks shoved up her nostrils, a towel tied around her head, and a bottle of Perrier water in her hand reveal a very unauthorized, childish side to her otherwise sexed up Blondie image.

Of course, there were sections in the book which surely were above others. While I did enjoy reading specific interviews between photographers who had the luxury of photographing Debbie and thereby became very close to her, and of course, couldn’t help but smile while reading the interview done for High Times when Debbie had just crossed over into film, my favorite story by far was the one written by Gary Valentine. Gary Valentine was the bassist for Blondie from 1975-1977. He wrote a charmingly untainted account of what it was like to live with Debbie and Chris before there even was a Blondie, the band.

“There was hardly enough room in the place for the two of them. Every vertical level surface was covered in photographs. A bulletin board on one wall had flyers for the Stilettos, an Elvis record cover, a photo of Debbie in her Chevy Camaro, a picture of Billy Doll…” “…the inevitable skull and crossbones…” “Crucifixes, magical talismans, voodoo dolls, images of Warhol, the Velvet Underground and junk art Chris picked up from the trash: bric –a-brac of the streets found its walk-in display case in that small flat.” “My other vivid memory is of shivering myself awake most of the first night I spent there, crashing on a small couch and amplifiers, speaker cases and guitars, because I was too shy to ask for a blanket after Chris and Debbie had gone to bed.”