Boomer Women Rock--Literally!

One of my favorite moments in recent years was hearing powerhouse rock&blues singer Etta Britt announce from the stage of BB King’s Club in Manhattan: “I’m 55 years old and I just signed my first record deal!” 

Every woman in the place made a glorious racket. As Etta told me, “Sometimes I’ll look out during my first two songs and see some gals just sitting there, but as soon as I say that, every woman in there is my best friend!’” She’s been flooded with emails from women saying that they’re going to follow their dreams now: pick up their music again, start singing again, writing again. Must be a great feeling to be the spark that starts a fire. 

In one of the world’s most sexist industries, this middle-aged mother (now a grandmother) who doesn’t fit the scrawny, half-naked prototype of a star, is recording, touring, giving interviews, making TV appearances—and knocking the socks off anyone wearing socks. Etta, meanwhile, was wearing cowboy boots which she later swapped for knee-high, spike-heeled, silver sequined boots that even her advisors thought maybe she shouldn’t wear. Retro trashy, yeah, but inspirational! 

To be fair, Britt didn’t emerge full-blown from nowhere. She’s had decades of experience as one of the most spectacular backup singers you’ve ever heard, but now she’s stepping “Out of the Shadows,” as the title of her first solo CD declares. Her record company? Wrinkled Records, a little Nashville label headed by two successful Boomer-age music bizz women: They sign only artists over 40. 

I’m pretty sure most Baby Boomer women would appreciate that table-turning of ageist assumptions: not everyone is freaking out over facial lines. On the other hand, we aren’t yet flaunting tee shirts proclaiming, “I’m Old and I’m Proud.” But in answer to Jimi Hendrix’s eternal question, Yes, we are experienced. We’ve outlived him, but not his music. 

At a club or concert, now I drink single malt whisky, not the goofy concoctions I did in the ‘70s and ‘80s before a trip to Scotland put me wise. I’m not self-conscious about dancing in the aisles—my teenaged nephew and I rocked out at a Robert Randolph & the Family Band show. (I’ve got moves some 30-year-olds don’t.) Wranglers still fit me, and “Mom jeans” can go to hell. I’ve gotten over being “Ma’am”d. But I digress. 

Baby Boomer women are rocking out. Sure, plenty of singers and players who started out “back in the day”—boy, do I hate that expression—what day? How far back are we talking? Doowop groups? Glenn Miller? Cab Calloway?—are still performing, but I’m talking about Boomers who decided to start now. Their kids are out of the house—maybe they have kids of their own—so Boomer bands don’t have to give a flying whatever about waking up the baby when they rehearse, or enduring a barrage of eye-rolling when their "tweens" see them wailing on a Fender Strat. Even here in staid Westchester, midlife women are plugging in, amping up, and hitting the boards. 

Probably the most notorious of them (mostly in a good way) is Hastings-based Joy Rose, the tattooed and sometimes-pink-haired singer of Housewives on Prozac, and founder of rock festival Mamapalooza. A sample of lyrics from “Mrs. President,” one of their old tunes: “If the boys can do it, so can you.” Funnily enough, the video ends with Rose (in platinum Debby Harry-style hair) kissing a photo of Hillary Clinton. 

Several years ago she received the Susan B. Anthony Award from the National Organization for Women’s New York City chapter, in recognition of her grassroots activism and dedication to advancing equality and improving the lives of women and girls. (Decades ago when I chaired that chapter’s Media Reform Committee, I campaigned against the music industry’s penchant for depicting women in horrific ways in ads, on album covers, and on billboards. I’d have loved to give an image award to Bonnie Raitt, but that was pie in the sky.) 

In the song's video, though, the camera crawls up Joy’s bare legs, she and another woman change costumes into the porn cliché garters-and-stockings getup, soon the other woman is shakin’ it in her underwear, wearing balloons, which she starts popping, then covers her upper storey with a hat--you know where that’s going. Yet Joy’s tee shirt proclaims, “This is what feminism looks like.” I think not. 

But once again, I digress. Rose has opened the door for hordes of women who no longer suppress their inner rocker, created a multi-platform  “Mom-branded” entertainment entity, and stages a variety of events at the Museum of Motherhood on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. I have no idea what her kids think. 

The Blues Mothers put out a completely different kind of music. Or rather, several kinds, since its members hail from rock, jazz, blues, folk, even a marching band (the drummer, a token male). “You Can’t Cancel a Subscription to the Blues,” the title track from their new CD, features a down-and-dirty vocal by Jenny Murphy and hot harmonica playing by Hope Berkeley; the lyrics to “Women’s Intuition,” the first track, will hit home with a whole lotta Baby Boomer divorcées: husband with wandering eye wants younger, botoxed babe. (BTW, bass player Joan Indig throws a mean chocolate party!) 

That’s just a sample of rockin’ distaff BoomerCulture; I haven’t even touched Manhattan. I sure hope I hear from more 50ish rockers; it’ll help my next birthday roll off my back—and give me more reasons to dance. Plus maybe they’ll need a backup singer. I’m pretty sure I can still do that. Now, where to buy knee-high, spike-heeled, silver sequined boots? I don’t think Nordstrom carries them.