Category Archives: female singers

Pretenders 1 album cover chrissie hynde

Chrissie Hynde: Never Be Like a Man in a Man’s World

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It’s hard to overstate just how much Chrissie Hynde has influenced me. I can’t imagine what my life would have been like had I not studied, scrutinized, analyzed, and ultimately loved The Pretenders from an early age—too early, actually, but I can’t take that back now.

Let me set the scene: Nowheresville, Wisconsin. Roughly 1980, but it felt very 1970s. I was a good kid, Type A with constant anxiety about doing the right thing, excelling in school, staying out of trouble. I was obsessed with ballet, most especially Mikhail Baryshnikov, plus reading, music, and getting straight As.

That would blow up spectacularly quite soon. (See Reviving Ophelia for clues.)

If you’ve been reading my blog you’ll know that I was raised on 70s music, from lite pop on AM radio to the sexual politics of Fleetwood Mac to the sophistication of Carly Simon, which I discovered in my older brothers’ and sisters’ record collections. On my own I listened to kid-friendly fare, such as John Denver, Olivia Newton-John, Andy Gibb, a little disco-era Barbra Streisand and Donna Summer thrown in too. The Grease soundtrack loomed large in my life.

Enter New Wave and punk. I thumbed through my sister’s collection of first albums from a lot of fantastic artists: Elvis Costello, The Police, Blondie, The Clash. And I am here to tell you that a lot of this transfixed me as I truly struggled to comprehend what the hell was going on. If I was too young to process “Dreams,” then “Roxanne” truly blew my mind.

And then my brother brought home the first Pretenders album. Seriously? It’s 2023 and I am still discovering new sounds and ideas buried within. So imagine little me, the good kid, trying to make sense of it.

Let’s start with the album cover. It’s a classic. Many have attempted it, but none have matched its spare challenge to the world. Chrissie. Chrissie! I thought that you had to look like Olivia Newton-John or Debby Boone to succeed—a bland, hormoneless Barbie of a pop star. Even Debbie Harry died her hair blonde (at least some of it) to both assimilate into and mock conventional ideas of beauty.

Pretenders 1 album cover chrissie hynde

Chrissie Hynde did not give a shit. She was punk—but also had a shag haircut, which was decidedly uncool unless you were Chrissie. She wore leather, she snarled, she bore a hole into your brain with her feline eyes. She wanted your attention, but she was not going to make the first move. You were going to have to fight her first.

And oh my god she was American. Midwestern. You cannot get less cool than Ohio. OK, Wisconsin, true, but Ohio is a close second.

So you can understand why I was transfixed. Representation matters. This was a woman who didn’t look like a pop star and didn’t give a crap about following a fad. She was simply being herself.

On to the music. I still listen to this album often—like, at least once a week—and I still find new things in it. It baffled me then and it baffles me still. It’s a sui generis album, totally. Like, what is it? It doesn’t fit into any genre, although it was marketed as New Wave or punk, simply because it was released in 1979 and there was no other label for it. It was New Wave because it was English and had melodies. It was punk, but not the kind of punk that The Clash or Sex Pistols were pumping out. The Pretenders actually crafted songs with hooks and melodies and layers. (So many layers!) But, yeah, “Precious” is punk, “Tattooed Love Boys” is punk, “The Phone Call” and “The Wait” are… I’m not sure what. “Lovers of Today” and “Mystery Achievement” are rock. “Kid” is… “Kid” is Chrissie’s response to “Stop Your Sobbing,” I guess.

And “Brass in Pocket” is in a category of its own with its finger-popping swagger, inscrutable lyrics, clear demands, and lingering wistfulness. Chrissie wanted to be seen, but she wasn’t relying on her looks. She was daring you to look a little deeper, past the haircut and snarl and cat eyes.

Well, all of this rattled around in my brain then, and rattles around in my brain even still. Chrissie Hynde showed me that it was okay not to be a girly girl, you could make controversial choices and still survive, you could be one of the guys but not one of the guys (“No, I’ll never be like a man in a man’s world”). It was a hard but useful lesson for me to learn when I was a pre-teen. I found the way forward and kept chasing it. I’m still chasing it. Thank you, Chrissie.

sinead o'connor how about i be me and you be you

Sinead O’Connor: Thank You for Breaking My Heart

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I’m stunned but I can’t say I’m terribly surprised to hear the news of Sinead O’Connor’s death. I was just a casual observer of her personal travails, but after the loss of her precious son it seemed clear that she would have a tough time grieving him. I don’t know the cause of her death; I can only hope that she knew how beloved and special she was before she passed, and I hope her passing was painless, like falling asleep in the arms of a lover. Or should I say in the arms of a loving mother, since she explored motherhood so searingly in her music—the tenderness of being a mother, even to someone else’s child, but also the ugly parts of motherhood too.

For those who were too young to be there when Sinead came into our consciousness, she was like no one else. Now, of course, her look is iconic and no one bats an eye at a young woman who refuses to play the gender game. Of course she played with her looks over the years, but way back when, Sinead was utterly original, the clashing and merging of the buzz cut and elfin ears, squared shoulders and pixie dream girl eyes and lashes, and breathy lilt punctured by a howl.

I was a fan back then, of course, and then faded away. I think her music dredged up too many rough emotions I didn’t want to deal with. Sinead would have dealt with it, would have spat out a curse if necessary. She was brave like that, even when it didn’t serve her well. When she ripped up the picture of the pope I was aghast; later, I understood, and admired her nerve.

I came back to Sinead during the pandemic. I was picky about my musical choices because my brain was overloaded. I ended up listening to brilliant singers who soothed and awakened me. I went back and rediscovered Kate Bush, Bjork, and Sinead O’Connor, and heard them, really heard them as an adult, and allowed them to challenge me, these misunderstood mavericks. These women reminded me why music matters, why art matters.

One of Sinead’s songs seared right through me: “Thank You for Hearing Me.” I cannot listen to it without shivering and dissolving into sobs. I don’t want to know what inspired it but my god she really puts everything on the line, with a great beat. I listened to it endlessly during the pandemic, one of those songs that you have to listen to a second or third time before you move on, a song that’s at the end of a playlist because nothing can follow it.

After thanking a partner for loving her, she ends her chant with “Thank you for breaking my heart, thank you for tearing me apart. Now I’m a strong, strong heart. Thank you for breaking my heart.” I can’t even type those words without shivering now.

I made my then-partner listen to it after our cat died last summer, when we were preparing to take the kitty’s lifeless body away for cremation. “Please, one more song,” I sobbed, knowing how idiotic my request was but not caring. “He knows it. We listened to it every day.” Thankfully, my guy indulged me, and I cried and cried into an already wet tissue as Sinead’s voice rose from a whisper to full strength, explaining all of the beauty and pain of loving someone and what it feels like when that same love is rejected—and then transforms you. It’s a gift if you have the right perspective.

Who else but Sinead could create that?

And now Sinead is breaking our hearts. Her life was a gift to us. I hope she knew that. I really do.

fleetwood mac rumors back cover photo

Christine McVie: Now That’s Interesting

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You know how you’re at a party, and some loudmouth is making a scene, grabbing everyone’s attention, and probably isn’t even that interesting? There’s the rest of the folks, now turned into the audience, putting up with them. And then there’s someone in the corner, observing, who’s got great stories to tell, if you’ll only pull up a chair and chat and listen.

That’s how I think of the dearly departed Christine McVie and Fleetwood Mac.

Don’t get me wrong—I love me some Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham. But Christine McVie surely had more interesting tales to tell than them, even if she would never truly become the center of attention.

Think about it. A classically trained pianist turned blues piano player and singer in the 1960s, when nice girls (including the Dickensian named Christine Perfect!) didn’t mix with such a rough and indelicate crowd. She’s in a band—Chicken Shack. She meets a guy in another band, a huge one—John McVie in Fleetwood Mac, then led by Peter Green, and at the top of their game. She marries John, ditches Chicken Shack, and gives a Peter Green-less Fleetwood Mac a fresh injection of creativity. She held her own—and then some. You have got to respect that.

Yes, Fleetwood Mac went on to become even more successful when the two Californians joined. And, yes, I tend to skip over Christine’s songs when I play their albums. And, yes again, I would pull my chair over to Christine’s corner at any party and be thoroughly charmed, amused, and entertained—and forget about the peacocks vying for the spotlight. I truly respect Christine’s rule breaking and dignity. Rest in peace, rest in peace.