Back in the Eighties, I didn’t merely buy every album Debbie Harry and Blondie put out; I wanted to be Debbie Harry. She was the epitome of New York cool. With her blonde hair, dark roots, and Candies slides, she was a rock chick with style.

She didn’t care whether you liked her or not. Her expression seemed to say, “Here I am, take me or leave me.” And then there was the music… “Rip Her to Shreds,” “Hanging on the Telephone,” “Sunday Girl,” “Rapture,” “Heart of Glass.” The songs were an intriguing blend of girly pop and new wave insouciance – Ronnie Spector meets The Waitresses. 

If I couldn’t be Debbie, I decided, I wanted to be Tina Weymouth, the bassist for Talking Heads. I wanted to play at CBGB’s (“Country, Blue Grass, and Blues”). I wanted to jump up and down in videos, clutching my bass and wearing overalls and Converse. I wanted to be a graduate of the Rhode Island School of Design and hang out with David Byrne.

But Blondie and Talking Heads weren’t the only groups featuring women who provided the soundtrack to my Eighties life.  There were female artists like Madonna, Cyndi Lauper, Suzanne Vega, Stevie Nicks, Annie Lennox, Tina Turner, Susanna Hoffs, Bonnie Raitt, and Aimee Mann. And frankly, it was about damned time.

For years, rock and roll was mostly a man’s game. Elvis, the Beatles, the Stones, Led Zeppelin, The Police – they filled stadiums, not just with music, but with testosterone. Women existed, if they existed at all, as backup singers, or girlfriends, or groupies. They were peripheral.

It was great to finally see women fronting rock and pop bands, not just as pretty faces or voices or the lead singer’s girlfriend, but as serious songwriters and musicians. They slung their guitars like weapons, just like the guys. Joan Jett and Chrissie Hynde took no prisoners with their in-your-face riffs and sneering lyrics. They played rock, they were women, and they made no apologies. 

Nancy Wilson of Heart was the first female guitarist I saw onstage, slashing out “Barracuda” and “Magic Man” with her sister Ann, and I was mesmerized. Sisters were (literally) doing it for themselves – and doing it with panache.

Bonnie Raitt, with her red hair and distinctive skunk stripe, could knock a blues number out of the park. Slide guitar never sounded so good. She introduced us to the sly, funny, heartbreaking songs of blues women like Billie Holliday, Koko Taylor, and Etta James. And she could rock with the best of them.

And Gwen Stefani proved that women could not only sing, write great music, and fill rock arenas; they could establish a thriving fashion empire, too. (Not to mention, marry the hunky lead singer of Bush and have a family. Some girls have all the luck.)

These women have given us – are still giving us – great music. They’ve shown that you can wield a guitar, write your own songs, and create an empire, if you work hard and if you have the chops.

Even if you’re a girl.

 

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