I went to a Blondie concert last Wednesday night at The Fillmore and had a fabulous evening. At sixty-four, Debbie Harry sounded and looked fantastic. In truth, in an age where women are under impossible pressure to remain young and be "beautiful," I feel conflicted about just how awe-struck I felt in Debbie Harry's presence--I can't count the number of times I said to myself "she's gorgeous, she's frigging sixty-four and she's still gorgeous."
I can only imagine the physical and financial toll it took for Debbie Harry to look that hot, and the increased, unrealistic pressure that her sultry sexiness puts the rest of us women under can't be condoned, but it was hard to feel anything but admiration for her. She is a super star.
Ultimately, it was Debbie Harry's energy, the purity of her distinctive voice, and the songs that are as fresh, original and relevant now as they were thirty years ago that won over a screaming, jumping, gyrating audience. And no amount of money or cosmetic surgery can buy that. Throughout, it was clear that Debbie Harry and the rest of Blondie's band members were artists fiercely dedicated to their craft, willing to go to any lengths to be the best at what they do. What's not to love?
Fueled by Blondie's stellar performance, Ketel One with soda, and the company of dear friends, I had one of the best nights I've had in far too long. Laughing harder, I was struck by the diverse roles I'd played that day:
AM: Mom: parent-teacher meeting
PM: Good, Irish Catholic: mass to receive ashes to mark the beginning of Lent
PM+: Rocking Chick: you go, Debbie!
I felt equally comfortable in all three roles, such is my lot. Equally comfortable, but it was at the concert that I felt most alive.