Oh, the nights I have spent desperately back-combing, lipsticking and bra-lessly throwing my legginged limbs around indie discos alongside other similarly gawkish, blunt-fringed Debbie Harry wannabes. Her look, her style and her attitude were everything I admired while growing up.
And even though I eventually (reluctantly) realised I would never quite achieve such illuminating finesse, I can thankfully say she shaped my life in a multitude of other ways. Her fusion of different genres has totally moulded my music collection, and her iconic cool is visible on the covers of so many of my favourite albums – take PJ Harvey’s glampunk stance on the 4-Track Demos artwork, MIA’s Pop Art pout on the front of Kala, and Karen O’s defiant fist punch on Fever To Tell. Without Harry, my CD collection would be a grumpy selection of ashen angst, a box of brutish nothingness.
