She came on the scene when I was in high school (yes, I’m ancient) and I instantly wanted to be her. My first act of self possession—whacking off my long hair and chopping it into ragged, punkish layers was an attempt to capture some of her power. Embarrassingly, I even went out and got myself a little red knock-off Les Paul. Never learned to play. Wound up selling it for rent money about a year later, but she helped me shed my fear, and all my feeble attempts to emulate her did galvanize me.
She was a hard core rocker when other female artists were pretty much exclusively pop princesses—disco queens actually (cringe). She wore black leather, and tons of black eyeliner. She didn’t slink or writhe around or wear heels. She wore Chucks and seemed to walk like an ordinary human, and just rocked your effing face off.
She was punk before Pink, and indie before it was even a word—starting her own label and putting out I love rock ‘n roll on her own when the music establishment snubbed her.
She’s fifty—and still doing her thing. Here she is on the Warped tour a couple years ago. I still want to be her dammit.
Check her out in the player, and people—you have got to shake it at some point today. It’s Friday!
Today I’m going over to the trail to get a run in if it’s packed enough so I won’t stomp a bunch of holes in it, then welding and writing. Have a good weekend!
(What the hell, scroll down and have a double dose of Joan today-- Happy Friday!)
