Harry’s story is an illuminating one, considering how much New York has changed and how stars are made and marketed today ... The chapters about the New York scene and Harry’s early adventures making music are the most compelling parts of the book. We’re in her environment—smelling the garbage piled up on the street, trolling the sidewalks for discarded clothing, stepping over drunks on the Bowery ... Harry is introspective, as she writes about death, time and the serendipitous, sometimes hazardous life she was living ... Unfortunately, fame can make for a rather dull narrative. Once Harry digs into Blondie’s heyday, the book suffers in ways other rock memoirs often do—rehashing the next album, the next tour and so on ... More engaging is Harry’s effort to categorize her music, which she calls a 'crossover between glitter-glam and punk' ... Her commentary on the sexual politics of the music scene of her time are insightful ... Readers, both familiar and unfamiliar with Harry’s career, will enjoy this memoir because on nearly every page she proves she’s more than just a pretty blonde in a pair of tight pants.

... the memoir is based on a series of lengthy interviews, which makes for a conversational style, though anyone looking for an excavation of the soul might be disappointed. Harry has rock ’n’ roll stories to burn but the memoir as a confessional isn’t her style. For the most part, the Blondie character remains ... somewhat detached ... Whether reflecting on her fruitless search for her birth parents, or the New Jersey ex-boyfriend who stalked her and threatened her with a gun, or the close shave with a man who offered her a lift, and whom she believes to have been the serial killer Ted Bundy, Harry allows no room for shock, sadness or vulnerability. This is, of course, the author’s prerogative and doesn’t mean that the book is without depth or charm. She can be caustic and funny, and is drily unfazed by the antics of her mostly male peers ... Inevitably, Harry’s tales of her solo ventures and Blondie’s eventual reunion lack the atmosphere and excitement of the early years, and it’s with more than a little awkwardness that she shoehorns in details of her current day-to-day life to spice things up ... But when not resorting to padding, Face It makes for an engaging and occasionally surprising read. It’s a shame that Harry passes up the chance to dig deeper into her experiences of objectification and the nature of fame, but more disappointing is that we learn so little about her interior life, and how she really thinks and feels. Perhaps that’s to be expected from a notoriously private star with such an acute understanding of image. Rather than expose her inner workings to the world, Harry has determined to stay mysterious to the last.

Harry’s memoir is not, in fact, a bummer. It’s true that she’s been stalked, raped, addicted to heroin, and hassled by Patti Smith, but Harry relates each incident, bad and good, with a 'that’s life' literary deadpan ... It’s hard to put your finger on the Harry that emerges from Face It. While other aging-rocker memoirs have earned press for the gossip they’ve revealed, so far the biggest brouhaha about Harry’s book has been about a clumsy attempt at summing her up ... Harry is here to fill in some of the blanks—briskly, humorously, and mixed in with abstract riffs on appendages and animals ... She’s also uninterested in getting very deep on certain personal mysteries, like the question of why she and Stein broke up in 1987 after more than a decade together. Her point of view as a songwriter gets only brief, sporadic treatment ... Holding back is an understandable maneuver for someone who’s been stared at so much, and it’s not quite right to call Face It evasive. She always comes off as tough and matter-of-fact and New York–y, very much the voice that complained about love as a 'pain in the ass' in Heart of Glass, or that facetiously took down some 'groupie supreme' in Rip Her to Shreds. Knowing that there are still those who expect her to be simply 'a blonde in tight pants,' she tells her life story how she wants to tell it. And when she gets tired of sharing, Harry is kind enough not to extend a middle finger.

Harry’s memoir is her first, correcting an egregious absence. That one of the most famous women in pop should not have recounted her story until now is hard to believe – that is, until you start reading and learn of Harry’s deep reticence at having to rake over the past. She spends a chapter discussing the marvel that is the opposable thumb, as though straining for the word count on a homework assignment ... On the page, [Harry] is far goofier than you’d expect. There is a surprising matter-of-factness with which Harry discusses her face: she knows full well people masturbated to posters of her. She acknowledges the weird superpowers beauty gave her and has unapologetic surgery to preserve it. But there is also ambivalence towards her looks ... One particularly terrific shot of Harry by her then partner, Blondie guitarist Chris Stein, finds her holding a burning frying pan in the squalor of their New York apartment, wearing a chiffon gown. It’s the squalor to which you are inevitably drawn ... Face It’s title reveals a grudging reckoning.

If this memoir had an index, it would boast a who’s who of the New York arts scene, starting in the late 1970s with Andy Warhol, William S. Burroughs, John Waters, Jean-Michel Basquiat, the Ramones, Joan Jett, and the Talking Heads, among others. Those hoping for a Hollywood Babylon tale of unbridled sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll might be disappointed by Harry’s mostly serious, introspective tone, however. There are a few wild and crazy stories, but Harry is more participant and observer than lurid storyteller in these pages ... The book appears to have sprung out of a series of interviews with rock journalist Sylvie Simmons, and the limits of oral discourse show from time to time. As a reader, at several points, I wished I could stop Harry in mid-conversation with a question or clarification. And the book would benefit from a few well-chosen footnotes, too. But if a memoir’s goal is to give you a true sense of the subject, Face It is a success. Harry’s contradictory and fascinating personality come through clearly ... Luckily for Harry, she grew up in a world that, while obviously flawed when it comes to equal treatment for women, at least offered a few avenues to opportunity and respect. Debbie Harry was tough enough, talented enough, and smart enough to drive them with relish. And now she’s written a pretty good memoir, too.

The book’s liveliest chapters recount Harry’s pre-fame life ... matter-of-factness, an easy equanimity not typically associated with pop stars, pervades much of Face It, even when describing something as traumatic as a home-invasion rape and robbery at the apartment of her boyfriend and musical partner Chris Stein ... Perhaps she takes things more in stride than ardent fans might hope due to the fact that she was 33, more than old enough to be a has-been, when the band finally broke through ... [Harry] always good company, forthright if not analytic. She even has good things to say about heroin!

After reading her conversational memoir, readers may still not really know what makes her tick...but it is a start ... She writes candidly about her drug use, the 'madness' of Blondie’s salad days, and the 'Blondie' character she played with the then-controversial idea of a very feminine woman fronting a macho rock band.

Blondie lead singer Harry's...memoir is a rambling mess with questionable reliability, proclamations of clairvoyance, obvious memory lapses, and a heavy thread of sexual abuse that leaves readers feeling as if they have intimately experienced trauma. For every moment of positive sexuality, there are horror stories about the men surrounding her ... Her treatment of the subject is equally horrifying. When she doesn't gloss over the events with a sort of nihilistic detachment, she makes excuses for her assailants, blames her irresistible sexuality, and, in one passage, attributes her abusive ex-boyfriend's possessive and paranoid behavior to his previous girlfriends. Harry is at her best when talking about the New York of her youth and the fashion and music she loved and worked on throughout her life. That's where readers will connect with her ... Harry indicated that she didn't want to write a memoir, and it shows. Not recommended.

In this whirlwind tour of her life, Harry, one of the most photographed faces in music, deploys an irreverent style well suited to her story. Her tales of life before, during, after, and beyond her time with Blondie are intermixed with interludes that capture the eclectic and electric passion she has for the creative process. In a narrative that feels simultaneously heartfelt and spontaneous, Harry recounts close encounters with violence and harassment with the same immediacy as the moments that catapulted Blondie to worldwide fame ... there’s refreshingly little self-congratulation in these pages. Instead, readers will find reflection on life with a budding band and an uncensored view of what it took to succeed. Whether she’s recounting her experiences making clothes, waitressing, meeting artists, or playing early gigs at CBGB, Harry’s intimate portrait often reads like a love letter to a bygone version of New York City. The narrative reflects the energy of the punk and new wave scene as the author weaves personal stories with entertaining descriptions of partying and playing with the likes of the Ramones, Andy Warhol, Iggy Pop, and David Bowie. There is no shortage of notable cameos in Harry’s chronicle of her journey to stardom, and she maintains effervescent senses of humor and grace throughout.

...lots of sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll in this rough-and-tumble memoir ... It’s a story of creative ferment ... Her portrait of Blondie’s success in the late ’70s feels less effervescent, full of wearisome touring and business wrangles. Harry offers a frank look at her life on the edge ... The narrative rambles, but Blondie fans will love its piquant atmospherics and the energy and honesty of Harry’s take on her singular saga.