ABSTRACT
In 1980 the counterculture rock critic Lester Bangs wrote, rather uncharitably, about Debbie Harry:
If most guys in America could somehow get their fave-rave poster girl in bed and have total licence to do whatever they wanted with this legendary body for one afternoon, at least 75 per cent [ . . . ] would elect to beat her up. She may be up there all high and mighty on TV, but everybody knows that underneath all that fashion plating she’s just a piece of meat like all the rest of them.1
