WOMEN IN REVOLT! Real Men Shiver While Eve Trashes The '80s

WOMEN IN REVOLT! Real Men Shiver While Eve Trashes The '80s

OnE of our first overviews of the burgeoning women In rock "movement," this piece examines the Role Of The Woman through the '60s, 70s, and ‘80s—as this entire Special is purporting to do—and features bonus stream of consciousness writing, tool Tim* puts things In proper perspective: in May '80. Sue Soad 4 The Next were possible contenders...and now, um...

Susan Whitall

Dave DiMartino

Mark J. Norton

We’re only three months into 1980, but the fad of the year is already here—women!

What? They’ve been around for years? Sure, ex-hippie dope, but not coming through your FM headphones.

1980, and it’s Pat Benatar snappin’ her spandex at one end of the dial, and Chrissie Hynde fingering her leather chappies at the other.

Out of the arid stretch of the ’70s, the decade of big boys wonging power chords off each other’s heads, we finally get to... big GIRLS wonging power chords off each other’s heads?

Yes and no. In discussing this amongst ourselves, we tried to pin down why now — what set the stage for such a renaissance, who cares, etc., and decided to foist our thoughts, as always, on you, the hapless reader.

Forthwith, therefore, we’ll be sketching our seletive quasi-historical views of women in rock music...a by-no-means comprehensive study, but one meant to suss out just how certain key (and if you know us the emphasis is on key) women have made popular music for the past 20 years...If you’ve never heard of Essra Mohawk or Lizzy Mercier Descloux, maybe we think you should.

And since there’s a lot of talk these days about the antecedents of the current crop of women rockers—Pearl E. Gates follows Grace Slick, Rachel Sweet was born of Brenda Lee (and Elvis Presley), Chrissie Hynde is Sandie Shaw’s bratty little sister— the ’60s, the first really big generation of women in rock, should be considered.

☆ ☆ ☆ THE ’60s

While the early ’60s were the golden age of “girl groups,” so often the music was written,played and produced for them by men that the effect was to create half of a decade 6f dreamy male fantasy.

The Ronettes! Three lucious-but-faintlysleazy teens blending the exotic with the familiar.. .three girls from your high school, maybe, packed into skin-tight skirts, high heels, and just enough eyeliner to confirm that they rolled around in the back seats of cars. Tough gals? Image-wise...the music, though, was as lush and creamy a cocoon of sound assuring you that they’d be your baby, that a boy could ever concoct in his lonely room...

Or if you wanted a totally submissive darling, take Kathy Young! With a sticky pubescent whisper of a voice, Kathy and her wimpy, weepy sisters of (mock) teenage agonies, Annette, Joanie Summers, Robin Ward, Marcie Blaine, Shelley Fabares, the Murmaids, etc., cried throughout the first half of the decade. No matter if the sob sister in question was a 30-ish bleached blonde—the illusion created in your mind was of a throbbing but pliable Lolita.

The crucial factor was that as many great female singers/groups the early ’60s produced, ultimately most of them were actresses playing out the female role assigned to them, and thus it’s hard to judge them on any serious artistic level. It’s fun, plain and simple.

Later in the ’60s women branched out, but their roles were still clearly marked out. “Serious” women let their armpit hair grow, strummed acoustic guitars, baked rhubarb pies, wrote their own music but sang it in feminine, folkie monotones. Even Janis Joplin, who presumably paved the way for a woman to be as gross and unattractive yet emotionally compelling as a man, never really strayed from the parameters of her tough mama image. As always, there were the pretty femme voices “interpreting” words written for them, and either connecting on some emotional level (Dusty Springfield, Sandie Shaw) or performing like robots (Linda Ronstadt).

☆ ☆ ☆

JOANIE SUMMERS: “Why don’t they produce girls’ voices like that [“Johnny Get Angry”] anymore?” queries Bob Matheu. “That innocent sound...”

Because, Bob, grown women don’t sound like that. It’s a scientifically proven fact that—just like men, when girls become women their voices lower in pitch. Ah, estrogen. But what other voice could ever sing “Give me the biggest lecture I ever had!”??? What destroyed Joanie’s oeuvre was seeing what an outright midget she was in all thise James Darren hotrod movies—she always lost the hottest guys to Pamela Tiffin. Hey! Now there’s an itsy bitsy voice for ya, Bob. S.W.

SHELLEY FABARES: A certified wimp sister with “Johnny Angel,” but with that hint of a big sister threat about her...Just like Paul Peterson, you couldn’t be sure when Shelley’s come off her snotty high horse when Mom wasn’t looking and— wop!—smack you on the side of your head, all the while humming beatifically. Bitch. S.W.

SANDIE SHAW: The embodiment of 1964 mod cool, Sandie’s voice was a delicate but insistent instrument of sexual will. In “Girl Don’t Come,” (not a paean to female sexual dysfunction), her voice is pretty-girlish, but also dark and ambiguous, suggesting much more than the standard love lyric meant to convey. For Sandie to declare, in the liner notes: “Actually now I couldn’t care less whether I’m ugly or not.. .Girls buy records and they don’t like fluffy little blondes,” in ’64 was nothing short of revolutionary. Despite all that, she was beautiful in a lanky off-beat (for the time) way, that added to the charm of her Newcastle mystique. So what’s so revolutionary about a pretty ex-model singing?

As listening to Chrissie Hynde today will strike you, listening to Sandie, you hear more nuance in her voice (limited as it may be technically) than is usual in “female interpreters of songs.” The intensely erotic shiver of her voice, her lower, “tough” timbre, the range of emotion expressed, from romantic and impassioned, to cool and cruel. A real woman! Compare and contrast that with the painted dollies she was in competition with...or with Miss Hynde, who also understands that you have to be cruel to be kind... S.W. DIONNE WARWICKE: Tall, cool and black, Dionne still records and still has occasional hits. Most memorable days, though were during the mid-’60s, when her association with Burt Bacharach and Hal David launched a string of biggies: “Anyone Who Had A Heart,” “Walk On By,” “Do You Know The Way To San Jose,” “Reach Out For Me” and blah blah blah. Bacharach & Co. were hot back then—they wrote melodic, sophisticated material that lent itself to basic rock riffing, as in “Little Red Book,” hot-pumped by both Love and Manfred Mann. Dionne was having none of this, but the strings and orchestration of her stuff haven’t dated badly; the songs still sound fresh. D.D. LESLEY GORE: Little Lesley’s already a legend, thanks to the continued relevance of sociological epics like “It’s My Party” and “Judy’s Turn To Cry.” Her role was that of the faithful-but-neglected sweetheart, squirming while boyfriend Bobby heeded his uncertain sexual urges. Males usually sympathized with Bobby, though, as straight-laced Lez obviously did not put out while latent-nympho Judy obviously did. Her one major character reversal, the pre-lib heroine of “You Don’t Own Me,” sounds jarringly out of place and no fun compared to the wimpy Lesley, who probably enjoyed bondage in her spare time. Most memorable appearance: one of Catwoman’s cronies on Batman, singing “California Nights” while Robin/Dick muttered “Holy Pussycats, Batman!” D.D. GRACE SLICK: Grace lost it all when the Jefferson Airplane did—right after Volunteers. But before then, during the Great Society and through the Airplane’s big jizz, After Bathing At Baxter’s, Grace redefined the role of the woman rocker and probably did more to establish credentialed respectability for biz-women than anyone else. Totally liberated before it was fashionable, she skidded with the plodding Manhole LP and hasn’t really recovered, despite schlock success with the bastardized Airplane. Has a history of exposing her private parts. D.D.

JACKIE DE SHANNON: Ironic that Jackie’s biggest hit was Bacharach/David’s “What The World Needs Now,’’.especially since her qualifications as a writer topped those of almost any other ’60s performer. After umpteen jumps to umpteen different labels, her career never took off the way it should have. Now she pops up co-writing occasional Van Morrison tracks, usually sloppy ones. Underrated, classy and a clear victim of sloppy male corporate thinking. A shame. D.D.

CHER: A true cult fave, Cher and shortshifted hubby Sonny began impeccably with “I Got You Babe,” and tons of other teen-dreemers. A true ’60spopstar, she pumped out tearjerkers like “You Better Sit Down, Kids” and then moved into ready relevant territory: “Gypsies, Tramps And Thieves” and “Halfbreed.” Ever-oppressed, Cher still manages to be relevant in the ’80s, as does the size of her breasts. Big Question: does Chastity drink beer? D.D.

NANCY SINATRA: Essentially a wheezo, Frankie’s spawn deserves special mention for her interest in fine leathers. “These Boots Are Made For Walkin’” remains her eternal classic, though her duets with Daddy (“Something Stupid” indeed) and twanger Lee Hazelwood had hot potential —check Vanilla Fudge’s garbo-classic version of “Some Velvet Morning” for details. Nancy not only did it, she probably took movies of it! D.D.

LULU: The perils of teen lust! Cute-butnot-hot Lulu oozed with personality in To Sir With Love, sang the classic title track with a perfect combination of rasp and affection, managed a heat-blast with “Shout,” and then married Bee Gee Maurice and began her descent into dulldom. Lulu was a blast of normalcy and normalcy got dull after a while; check out her mid-’70s comeback splurge on Chelsea if only for the Bowie/Ronson producedand-arranged versions of “The Man Who Sold The World” and “Watch That Man.” At present, Lulu remains Little. D.D. MELANIE: The true predecessor of Marianne Faithfull’s current sand papered latynx (though Spooky Tooth’s Mike Harrison should be given his due), Melanie Safka was a hippie and proud of it. Appearance on Upbeat singing “Beautiful People.” Nods to S. Freud with “Brand New Key.” Albums, Many albums. Classic Edwin Hawkins’ collaboration, “Lay Down (Candles In The Rain),” topped only by Mott The Hoople’s cazy Wildlife cover version. Melanie had it all, even bonus Scientologists on her albums. Innocence besmirched, she will return. D.D.

JANIS IAN: Speaking of Spooky Tooth, that band’s spectacular rendition of “Society’s Child” brought out every nuance of angst Janis herself couldn’t provide, but who’s quibbling? This little bundle of anorexia nervosa produced such stellar dogfluff as The Secret Life Of J. Eddy Fink and quickly derailed, despite Leonard Bernstein’s hype-slobber months before on national TV. Re-emerging with more sentimental if-onlies (i.e. “At Seventeen”) in the mid-’70s, Janis has opted for Giorgio Moroder production and replaced naivete with sophistication, to her own detriment. Boo. D.D.

JULIE DRISCOLL: The voice, perfect city-sophistication b/w Brian Auger’s citymy Smith organ runs. Maybe a little too perfect—a personality never really seemed to emerge behind the cover of such seamless songs. Julie met pianist Keith Tippett, became Julie Tippetts, joined the British vocal avant-garde and hasn’t been widely heard since, save for a two-year-old reunion effort with former mentor Auger. Very nice—but her heart really wasn’t in it. Now she imitates birds and it’s called art.

D.D.

LAURA NYRO: As in whatever happened to? Crafted what could be the finest rock LP of the ’60s—New York Tendaberry—went jazzy, went suburban housewife, and resurfaced in the late ’70s sans energy and conviction. To a lot of people she represented what was New York, providing inspiration for Todd Rundgren and lucrative cover versions for Streisand and the Fifth Dimension. One more case of happiness dulling the musical edge. Come back when you’re neurotic again, Laura. D.D. ESSRA MOHAWK: Late ’60s Verve/ Bizarre Records releases an album by Sandy Hurvitz, sheathed in a sloppy cover featuring Ugly Frank Z. announcing “Sandy’s Album Is Here At Last!” Nobody cared, it sounded like a second-rate Laura Nyro. Married “Frazier Mohawk,” returned a few years later as Essra Mohawk, with Warner Brothers’ Primordial Lovers, one of the truly classic overlooked albums of the ’70s. Nobody cared. Come 1974, she’s back again, a Maxwell Parrish parody covering a new Asylum LP. Zero sales. In 1977, People Will Talk for Private Stock Records, the company famous for losing the only two successful artists they’d signed. Essra Mohawk has been criminally overlooked, and that’s the breaks, right? See if you can dig one up somewhere, OK? D.D.

JONI MITCHELL: The voice of troubled post-adolescent females. Joni: the inspiration of countless stringy-haired girls strumming their Ovations down at your neighborhood bar. Joni: counseling “You can never hold the hand of a rock ’n’ roll man for long/Compete with your friends for the love of a rock ’n’ roll man.”

Not to take anything away from her songwriting (this violently anti-Nazareth listener was flattened by their version of “This Flight Tonight”—great! Heavy metal Mitchell) , but Joni’s rock ’n’ roll girlfriend persona makes me want to reach for the CREEM puke trashcan.

Despite her independent stance as a songwriter, artist, woman of the world, etc., in writing of things male/female, Joni, when Blue, was a pain in the ass classic victimized female. Now what—really WHAT separates this from Sandy Posey sniveling “A woman’s place in this old world is under some man’s thumb.” I don’t know. The normal human reaction after a breakup of wanting to kick the ex-loved one’s butt (or even of wanting to kick their butt out in the first place) is just not a possibility in this sad little world where men grunt and leave and women weep. Possibly it’s a difference in generations... but thank God men have Chrissie Hynde around now to kick them where it hurts with her pointed boots. S.W.

THE ’70s

As many have suggested elsewhere, the ’70s sucked.

Who was at fault? Carole King, whose Tapestry illegimately bore countless James Taylorettes, their SINGER/SONGWRITER labels nudging us all toward mandatory pukedom? Maybe. The Bonnie Raitt/Linda Ronstadt/Emmylou Harris Factory of Unfinished Women? Very possibly. You and me? Not me, honest! Fact is, 10 years went by and everybody was home sleeping. Or wearing earth shoes. Or discussing whether Andrew Gold had the oomph of Kenny Edwards. Or Peter Asher.

While the 59th version of “Silver Thread And Golden Needles” was recorded by the 59th cheese-food Asylum singing, only a few bright lights shone through. And, in retrospect, those lights were pretty dim. Suzi Quatro: Flash but Trash. The Runaways: Mad but Bad. Away from the mainstream, some interesting people: Bridget St. John, Beverly Martyn, Slapp Happy, Brian Wilson’s Spring project, maybe a few others. Not the rule, just the exceptions. And of course Patti Smith: Patti who first and foremost was a poet and not a rock ’n’ roll star, Patti who was familiar enough with the Iggys, the Jim Morrisons, to play the part but to never authentically feel it. Maybe.

Somebody somewhere owns a record collection full of records by Libby Titus, Rickie Lee Jones, Karla Bonoff, Carlene & Valerie Carter and Bonnie Raitt. Even more scary, somebody somewhere can tell the difference between each one of them. The ’70s was the time when people took many drugs and considered just how cool Richard Nixon really was. And if Richard Nixon had made an album, Leland Sklar would have played bass on it.

☆ ☆ ☆

NICO: Nico’s appearance on the first Velvets LP might have been an omen of things to come, but the come was Lou Reed’s and not hers. Chelsea Girl mixed Jackson Browne’s neurotic early scrawlings with the Velvet’s early drawlings, the thumbs-up winner and showpiece her “It Was A Pleasure Then.” What followed was both Nico’s and John Cale’s artistic biggie, her Marble Index, which could be the scariest psychic splurge committed to vinyl ever. Desertshore followed, cooling things off with kiddie voices and Nazi talk, followed by a Velvets’ resurgence and a wider audience for The End. Personal problems and all that, but Marble Index alone assures this aging cutie her throne in the cheeze-whiz palace for razor blades, which would be a great name for her next album as far as I’m concerned. D.D.

FANNY/BERTHA/IRIS: What a gimmick! Actual women playing rock ’n’ roll! Too bad they stunk! And that’s that! D.D. ANNETTE PEACOCK: Free-flying Annette put together some music with jazzbo Paul Bley during the late ’60s, predating current fusoid antics considerably. The Big Rub came later, though, with I’m The One’s psychedelic screeching on RCA, topped with the best version of “Love Me Tender” around. What followed was a murky affiliation with MainMan, culminating in Mick Ronson’s guitar-jizz on his Slaughter On Tenth Avenue LP, including both the Presley tribute and Annette’s own “I’m The One.” She popped up again with two Tomato LPs, including her hottest, X-Dreams featuring the immortal verse: “My daddy never taught me how to suck [s/gni/icanf pause] seed.” Succeed, get it? Annette does! D.D.

SUZI QUATRO: In England an ex-Detroiter by the name of Suzi Quatro was tearing up the airwaves with Chinn/Chapman produced songs. Her stance was tough. Suzi strutted on stage like one of the boys in head-to-toe leather, her semi-acoustic bass slung low, a la Jimmy Page.

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Suzi’s influence was wide reaching. The Runaways copped Quatro’s macha stance and carried it to an absurd extreme. You can’t blame her, though. They’re from California. ’Nuffsaid.

What Suzi Quatro did, though, was prove that women could be instrumentalists in their own right. Suzi was the forerunner for the likes of Tina Weymouth and Chrissie Hynde. Credit where credit’s due. Yeah, Suzi was punking out before it was the thing to do, but where is she now? Doing the MOR snore...too bad! M.J.N. PATTI SMITH: In 1971, scraggly street poet Patti Smith was published in CREEM. Her story has been chronicled in this mag from day one; you should know it by now.

Patti’s place in history is secure. She delivered visions that were one step beyond while rocking out as hard as her peers, and this set a precedent. Listening to Patti is like reading William Burroughsone never quite understood what she was singing/talking about most of the time, but it was an acid trip without the ugly side effects.

I once ran into (literally) Ms. Smith in Greenwich Village in mid-1977. I had been perusing Gulcher Culture in a bookshop when I realized that I was late to meet a friend. I dashed out of the store, buzzin’ like a dozen on a nice fat medicine head, when I realized I didn’t have the presence of mind or the strength to stop myself from colliding with Patti (who was wearing her neck brace and Allen Lanier, her thenboyfriend).

Anyway, she was quite startled (I think), and she said, “Sorry,” as a child would. I was too out of it to respond in an intelligent manner, but for a moment I got a chance to look into her eyes, and that’s where her message is. M.J.N.

LINDA RONSTADT: I’ll be painfully honest—I was a fan of Linda’s early stuff. I mean, to hear a Nesmith tune with the perfect female country whine satisfied some inner urge.

But Ronstadt’s basic flaw as a contemporary singer is that she toodles on her voice—however stirring an instrument it might be—like a slick musical comedy star. You want country—that she does best. For R&B covers she croons—loudly. Motown ballads—pump up the big slushy voice. Intricate Costello scenarios are reduced to meaningless syllables yowled in a way that is supposed to be “punky.” The louder, the faster, the punkier.

Ultimately, there is no irony in her voice, no shading of doubt or fear or angst.

Emotions are broad and simple—perfect for the Broadway stage, insufferable in the intimacy of the record/listener relationship.

The fact that an old-fashioned interpreter of other people’s songs is popular still in 1980 is odd enough—a throwback to the Rosemary Clooney/Patti Page/Joni James era—but that the emotion at the heart of the records is so artificially (and unconvincingly) contrived, is truly odd. You look at the vinyl and think—what is this supposed to mean? You tell me. S.W. STEVIE NICKS/CHRISTINE McVIE: What’s blonde, has two heads, and sings

like a pair of turtle doves? Fleetwood Mac’s Stevie Nicks and Christine McVie, that’s who (cares?). Stevie and Christine are two birds, but not of a feather. Stevie is a California girl, prone to writing songs about witches, mysticism, and all the other shit one would conjure up sauteeing in a Jacuzzi. Christine, on the other hand, has been described as an “Earth Mother” type, and plays keyboards as well as any man. But, although the Big Mac’s sound has been consistently bland, you can’t blame Stevie—she’s tried to provide some comic relief. M.J.N.

SAVAGE ROSE/SHOCKING BLUE: Savage Rose were Dutch; they put out three U.S. albums; they had a great vocalist named Anisette; Anisette sounded like Janis Joplin on PCP; they never has a hit record. Shocking Blue were Dutch; they had a not-so-good female singer; some of Joe Jackson’s songs sound like Shocking Blue’s hit record; Shocking Blue’s hit record was called “I’m Your Venus”; everyone thought she was singing “I’m Your Penis”; no one ever heard from Shocking Blue again. D.D.

CARLY SIMON: Q: What’s hot on the outside, lukewarm on the inside and has a hole in the middle? A: Every Carly Simon album! Q: What’s lukewarm on the outside, hot on the inside and has a hole in the middle? A: James Taylor! D.D.

PHOEBE SNOW: Three vital facts about Phoebe: 1) Zoot Sims played on her first album; 2) She didn’t like the album cover because the artist had drawn too many moles on her face; 3) She was pregnant and didn’t even know it. D.D.

THE ROCHES: Nobody in this office believed me when I told them the first song on the Roches’ LP was Big Banana, but after forced listening, everyone agreed “We Are Maggie And There And SI 17.77.ZZY” ranks right up there with fave-rave “Diamonds And Rust” in the Demerol Derby. Despite East Coast trendiness, M.T.&S. Roche probably signify something, but whatever it is probably has lots of hair on it. D.D.

RUNAWAYS: When the Runaways hit the scene in ’75 the big deal was. ..they can actually they play their instruments! Kind of! And they look hot! Well kind of!

So what if the lead guitarist was a little hefty and hid her driver’s license so nobody’d see it. Cherie Currie really was 17 (guys swooned), even if she had the attitude of a pissed-off 45-year-old divorcee.

Just goes to show, as always, that men have the lowest standards for women, as a man packaged this peep show for the (male) masses. Unlike Suzi Quatro, the Runaways didn’t inspire little girls to pick up their guitars .unlike even Heart. They were strictly a boy’s band. When Cherie started screeching “I’m your ch-ch-cherry bomb" women left concert halls in disgusted packs. And it wasn’t even that women were jealous of the Runaways’ incredible “teen appeal’’—it’s just if you’re going to create a B-movie fantasy, do it right—make sure the girls are exceedingly lush, etc. Only Joan Jett was ever a viable fantasy for girls, as she was dedicated to the spirit of the music she was making, as opposed to her part in the Runaways TV movie.

So who of the Runaways is making any kind of “rock” music now? (No, no, Toto).

S.W.

HEART: In the tradition of regular ole heavy metal groups, men played it as it layed and lived it. Women were the objects of lust, love/hate, with droning guitars blissfully caressing eardrums of the boys/ girls around the world...thunder, lightening bolts and dry ice machines were as timely as the swallows of Capistrano. Men waxed peotic about their primordial instincts amidst the crashing of cymbals, the roar of Marshall amplifiers.. .ZZzzzzzz.:.

Meanwhile, back at the office...

Sue: Norton, you sloth! Wake up! Jesus, wake up, shithead! Hey! It’s Sue! Wake up and get back to work! We’re on deadline, and there you are sawing logs! You’re supposed to be writing about Heart, not dreaming about them!

Legendary Dave: Get in gear, doghead, the typesetters want to go home. I’m tired, Sue’s tired, and you’re a dog. So get it done.

Mark: C’mon, give me a break...

Sue-. I’ll give you a break! Get the piece done, you wiper of other people’s bottoms!

Mark: Alright, already! Uh, where was I...I don’t think there’s really much to say about them...

Legendary Dave: Well, dogbreath, do they have any redeeming social value?

Mark: No, not really, eater of festered hemorroids. They’re muzak for burnt muttheads. They’re like a mild female Led Zeppelin, you know what I mean...

Heart is just radio snooze. Their records are produced well—they used to use the first Heart album to demonstrate stereo components because it had such a wide range of tones—lots of interesting nuances —but, they’re just, uh, they’re just there. Innocuous...but they give their male audience something to look at. They’re good musicians. Probably teenage girls look up to them for inspiration...

Sue: Well goddamn it! Write it out! When you’re finished wih it, give it to me to type. Your typing is like Chinese water torture. M.J.N.

RICKIE LEE JONES: Like, hey man, it’s cool to have somebody listen to—a woman’s voice—without all the jive bullshit trilly stuff. And she talks about stuff only men talk about or do...like she’s done it.

But it’s like a problem of image—you get stuck in this heavily-covered-by-Ro///ngStone bag and you-live-in-Califomia and you-use-session-musicians-on-your-lp and whattya gonna do? Every formerly punk but now beatnik chick has a beret—preferably white—clamped on her dirty blonde hair. And the dangling cigarette—is it possible for a woman of intelligence to go about her business sans the almighty weed? I mean, how can you go about a “long-awaited” second album when even Rachel Sweet has her Rickie Lee rap down pat? S.W.

THE 80s

And here we glide into the alreadytedious, too-often written about, clemma ’80s—the decade where, perhaps, this sort of overview will become an anachronism. It already feels like such—people like Tina Weymouth or Chrissie Hynde or Pearl E. Gates or Lene Lovich can’t be relegated to the female slagheap of girl singers or ballbreaking manipulative bitches (“Johnny I said we were through/Just to see what you would do”). Singing out people because they’re female will seem as silly as asking Joe Strummer if having male equipment has made his life as a musician more difficult. Well how about it, Joe? Next month: FEMALE A&R EXECUTIVES REVIVING CASTING COUCH. SOBS JOHNNY CYMBAL.

CHRISSIE HYNDE: If anybody is a symbol of the new woman in rock, it’s Miss Chrissie. This lithe Akronite plays guitar competently and quietly—no big deal, no femme gimmicks. She looks good—in spite of herself, as she dresses utterly sexlessly and without guile. Raw silk jacket, loosely cut, worn over what was probably the first clean t-shirt she found, pants, boots. A songwriter of unbridled range—she only makes you wonder why women haven’t always written such songs.

It’s ironic that she should personify all that’s refreshing about female musicians this year, because of all the women currently making music that we’ve dealt with, Chrissie begs explicitly and implicitly not to be singled out in such a way.

And she deserves not to be.

Her voice—here vibrant and supremely commanding, there soft, begging, quite lost—transcends “femininity” to become simply and devastatingly sexual.

Best of all, she isn’t a cartoon character of a female, humping herself with her bass a la Quatro, or prancing around as a ’50s glamour queen. She’s American and therefore has no qualms about being drunk and an asshole if it’s called for, telling her loved one to get fucked, etc.—which is perhaps why she’s so “outrageous” in England, where that kind of stuff is the male’s prerogative. Come home, Chrissie.

S.W.

BLONDIE: Any discussion of Women Of The ’80s has to include Debbie Harry, and not just because of her age. Big Deb has many things going for her, two of which were prominently displayed in Private Stock’s initial Blondie poster, which glares at me even as 1 write. Let’s give credit where credit is due: Patty Benatar, Pearl E. Gates and a whole lot of other women all single out Magazine Face as the standardbearer, the single person responsible for pushing estrogen levels on the charts and “opening the doors.” With the probable exception of the Private Stock Boob-boo, most of the exploitation Blondie has met took place with the band’s tacit approval— which shows smart thinking above all else. The innocence of the band’s first LP wears thin three years later, while the two latest Chapman floozoes show a band that’s markedly improved, perfecting a style where there was none before. Debbie’s come into her own as a lyricist, a personality (albeit a strange one), and a pursurer of the fine ideals of Pop Music, for which she and the Boys-That-Are-Part-Of-BlondieToo deserve maximum credit. Despite their limitations, they’ve contributed where other bands haven’t, they’ve shown that there’s a Perfect Medium between Image and Productivity. Depth may be lacking, but the best pop music sacrifices depth for immediacy, and the immediacy of their latest, Blondie/Moroder’s “Call Me,” is inarguable. But until Debbie takes to singing with a bag over her head, I’ll be looking at her Private Stock torso and giggling. Some people shouldn’t sign anything. D.D.

SUE SAAD & THE NEXT: Pat Benatar likes Susie, which makes great sense: they sound just like each other. But where Patty grabs the hairy-palmed Heavy Metalloids by their privates, Sue tries to grab the nouveau new-wavers’ hairy minds, with mixed results. You can’t wrap it in aluminum or cellophane, but anyway you spell it Richard Perry produces supermarket music and Sue’s is probably being played at the nearest Kroger right next to the Danish hams. Hope she’s Kosher. D.D. B-52 GIRLS: Cindy’s the teen girl who can do any dance on command, and/or just flop on the floor with no apparent damage to her young limbs, who can imitate any animal or human sound at will, as if reciting her homework...Kate, a keen organ player who sings, keeps her wig on straight, ponies girlishly and chops out appropriate witticisms on her instrument, all at the commendable and all-too-rare age of 32. S.W.

MOTELS: One of the best new bands to emerge from L.A. in years, the Motels are led by one Martha Davis, whose innuendo-laden voice is probably the band’s major attraction. The music—which she writes—is melodic in the best sense: it haunts, it soothes, but it never grows too familiar, one reason I keep going back to the LP. Davis has tremendous potential, and, given the chance to grow, sans hype and corporate wah-wah, will probably be a least a semi-major writer-performer on the ’80s. Hope it happens. D.D.

SLITS: This is the image of the ’80s woman? Shirtless, porky, and playing in the mud? Somebody else called the Slits the “new wave Roches,” so I won’t, especially since the Slits aren’t supposed to be the world’s greatest musicians. / can’t hear that, especially after listening to their album, which continues to sound A-OK, and their “Heard It Through The Grapevine” sounds even better. Americans may have a hard time relating to it all, but, after all, we did send England the Roches. And they’ll have to deal with that. D.D.