Platinum Blondie

At that time, Patti Smith was the other big female rock star in New York. Patti's bedraggled guttersnipe look was much more fashionable in those circles. There was pressure on Debbie to go dirty, but she stuck by her miniskirts and spike heels. With the passing of hard-core punk, it was Debbie's campy, Sixties nostalgia trip that came out on top, the strong visuals complemented by some of the best rock on the radio in a good long time. As Debbie warns in the band's new single: "One way or another, I'm gonna find ya/I'm gonna getcha, getcha, getcha, getcha."

Blondie has just finished up a day in a Manhattan rehearsal studio preparing to record its as-yet-untitled fourth album. The atmosphere is chaotic; gofers and girlfriends wander around the room. Across the hall, there's a big roast beef and champagne bash for Carly Simon, who has just done a television commercial or something.

Nigel Harrison, Blondie's mop-haired English bass player, guides me to the champagne, then introduces me to keyboard player Jimmy Destri and lead singer Deborah Harry. I can tell the moment Debbie lays eyes on me that she hates my guts. Her icebreaker is: "Why didn't you do this three years ago?" I assume she means Rolling Stone; she's another presshater.

Back in the studio, drummer Clem Burke and guitarists Chris Stein and Frank Infante are jamming. Stein segues into "Rock Lobster," a tune by the B-52's, the New Wave group from Georgia. Mike Chapman, their producer, volunteers to round everyone up. I ask him if it's a good time for an interview; he replies with a winning smile. "Leave it to me. They do whatever I say." Before we get down to business, Chapman takes over the guitar and does a loose medley of songs. He's pleased with himself, but the guitar ultimately gets the best of him. He rips off one last power chord, announces that the interview will begin, and then bows out.

Stein, who with his owlish specs (he rarely wears them in public) and prematurely graying hair looks like a young Allen Ginsberg, starts off with a message for everyone who has criticized the group for selling out: "Fuck you!" Debbie bursts into the room, wrings her hands and gives me pale, withering looks. "Why am I here at all?" she seems to be asking. Having cast her pall over the room, she rushes out again. Stein trots after her to see what's up.

The rest of us talk about the rock press. They all hate the rock press. We talk about the difficulty New Wave artists have had in getting airplay. Destri offers the opinion that the art-oriented media are just a backdrop to sell products.

Chapman walks back into the room and says, "I think the music business is full of shit." His smile has become a leer. He looks like he's been hitting the bubbly. He says he's never going to do another interview again. "My favorite color is zilch," he adds. "My favorite people are nobody. My favorite thing to do is to go out and do nothing. I don't like anybody. I don't like anything. I don't like doing interviews. I hate everything except I love rock & roll, and the people who work for me are the greatest people in the world."

Someone pipes up with, "What about sex?"

Chapman responds gravely, "I never have sex. Sex is one thing a rock & roller does not have room for in his life. They took my cock off at the age of four." I ask him if he swapped it for a Chuck Berry album. He replies with the utmost dignity, "It would not have fetched that high a price."

Debbie slouches back in, looking more tempest-tossed than ever. Her face is chalky with anxiety. Chapman tells her, "It's your turn. I've just said all the controversial things I can think of. Say something controversial, Debbie."

She sits down on the edge of the stage and emits a morose, "Yeah."

"Good," Chapman beams. "That was it. 'Yeah.'"