Let Us Now Praise Tammy Rock

Those of you who know me might be a bit surprised by what I’m about to do, which is to make the case for a musical genre. Not only that, it’s one that I made up!

I should say from the start that, to me, genre identifiers are antithetical to good art. They might work as an aesthetic shorthand for non-musicians – — and do wonderfully well as a marketing tool — but by their nature they stifle diversity of expression, which is the lifeblood of creativity. No doubt y’all are aware of my frustrations with Squirrel Nut Zippers being labeled a “swing band.” It was an unhappy situation made worse by the fact that most contemporary “swing” music was formulaic and dull. Not for nothing, I’ve always loved the fact that Duke Ellington’s highest praise of great art was that it was “beyond classification.”

Having gotten all that out of the way, however, please indulge my concept of “Tammy Rock” and all the great music that falls under that umbrella. In general, I’m referring to popular music created by women which achieved its greatest expression in the 1980s. Although there are a number of stylistic identifiers of Tammy Rock, what really binds it together is an unapologetic idea of equality: its protagonists are strongly feminine, but refuse to submit to traditional cultural concepts of gender-typing as disempowering.

Although I don’t consider it part of the genre, special mention must be made of Leslie Gore’s 1963 hit “You Don’t Own Me.” This is a wonderful song of total emancipation, sung to a teeny-bopper makeout arrangement. It’s worth featuring Gore’s David Lynchian performance on none other than the T.A.M.I. Show from 1964. The entire show is a fantastic catalog of popular music from that time, with the title being an acronym for “Teen Age Music International.”

I use the word “Tammy” with tongue in cheek. A tammy, at least to me, was the tough, tomboyish girl who frequented the high school smoking section; somebody who wouldn’t take any shit but wasn’t a bully. Tammys of a certain age would have a roach clip with a feather on the end. They could be cheerleaders, but had an identifiable swagger. Tammy Rock was the highly successful expression of female artists who wanted to show they might be different from men, but in no way lesser than. It’s greatest exponents were Patty Smyth, Pat Benatar, Lita Ford, Joan Jett, and Suzi Quatro.

In fact, the Quatro sisters might well be considered the architects of Tammy Rock. Inspired by seeing the Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show, Patti Quatro formed The Pleasure Seekers with her sister Suzi, drummer Nancy Ball, guitarist Mary Lou Ball, and keyboardist Diane Baker in Detroit, Michigan in May, 1964. Their first recording was made in 1965 when Suzi was 15 and Patti was 17. The flip side of that single, “What a Way to Die,” might be ground zero of Tammy Rock.

“Baby, come on over,” Patti sings in a way that is as alluring as it is threatening.

Come on over by my side

Well, I may not live past twenty-one

But what a way to die

Both sides of The Pleasure Seekers first single was written by Dave Leone, who also owned a teen nightclub called The Hideout, where the band first got started. (Leone went on to manage fellow Detroit artists Ted Nugent and Bob Seger.) Leone’s lyric — which admits human sexuality but is mostly a list of cheap beers — must have sounded a little jarring when sung by a young female in the mid-1960s, but such is the nature of empowerment.

You have the kind of body

That makes me come alive

But I’d rather have my hands around

A bottle of Colt 45

“There were teen clubs like the Hideout everywhere in Michigan,” Quatro told The Austin Chronicle. “Everybody wanted to have a girl band to bring in the boys to the clubs. We were on the road all the time. The girl bands were such an unusual thing that we got more bookings than Ted [Nugent] and all those Detroit guys. We got out real quick and toured all over.”

Patti Quatro’s vocals on “What A Way To Die” already have some of the elements of Tammy Rock. She’s pushing her voice into distortion, fully committed to the lyric. There’s confidence here, bordering on arrogance. The singer here, as in most Tammy Rock songs, is excited about the process but relatively unconcerned about the outcome. Suzi’s screams during the chorus break only enhance the abandon.

Here’s an interview with Suzi Quatro talking about those early days in Detroit. Her interviewer is very careful to emphasize the novelty of her all-girl band, and Quatro is having none of it.

“My dad had four girls and one boy,” Quatro says. “We never thought that we couldn’t do what we wanted to do. I don’t think he wanted four dependent daughters, so he brought us up very ballsy, in a way.”

Ballsy indeed. When faced yet again with the “Wow, you play good for a girl” line, Suzi’s response would invariably be, “Oh yeah? Well, suck my dick.”

Apart from the obvious Motown influence on the community, the music made in Detroit by white acts was almost hyper aggressive. Quatro notes her peers were Frijid Pink, The MC5, and Iggy Pop. In this environment, it would have been strange for The Pleasure Seekers to hold back energetically, and they most certainly did not.

As the 60’s progressed, The Pleasure Seekers morphed into Cradle, whose heavy sound was reflective of contemporary acts like Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, and Black Sabbath. (I don’t know if Ann Wilson from Heart ever heard the Cradle song “Heat,” but it’s certainly predictive of some features of her vocal style.) Cradle featured even more Quatro sisters: Arlene managed the band, and Nancy joined as a vocalist.

Eventually, Suzi signed with Mickie Most’s Rak Records label, moved to England, and became a star. “According to the Elektra [Records] president, I could become the new Janis Joplin,” she once said. “Mickie Most offered to take me to England and make me the first Suzi Quatro — I didn’t want to be the new anybody.” Quatro released her self-titled debut in 1973 and appeared on stage (and the cover of Rolling Stone) clad in black leather; a Tammy icon. Check out this 1973 performance of her hit “Can the Can.”

A young Joan Jett was paying attention. Her all-female group, The Runaways, would hit few years later with singles like “Cherry Bomb.” “I was 15 the first time I saw her, and it completely blew my mind,” Jett said in 1978. “Suzi Quatro was the first girl to get up there and do it. She’s the one who made me think, ‘Wow, if she can do it, so can I.’”

After The Runaways disbanded, Jett moved to England. She produced (GI), the only album by LA punk band Germs, and collaborated with the Sex Pistols’ Paul Cook and Steve Jones. One of the results was an early version of Arrows’ “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll.”

In 1979, Jett recorded her own self-titled debut, which was released in the UK but rejected by 23 record labels in the US. Undaunted, Jett and producer Kenny Laguna self-released the album and sold it at shows and out of the trunk of Laguna’s Cadillac. When the record was re-released by Boardwalk Records in 1981 as Bad Reputation, it blew up. The album’s title track is a Tammy Rock manifesto.

“I don’t give a damn ‘bout my bad reputation,” Jett sings over a propulsive Ramones-style arrangement.

Living in the past it’s a new generation

A girl can do what she wants to do and that’s what I’m gonna do

With her mullet and black leather, Jett’s look certainly recalls Suzi Quatro. Her voice, however, is much more Tammy. You can hear it in the distorted, guttural end of the word “reputation.” There are many punk influences on Bad Reputation, to be sure, but Jett’s vocalizations aren’t among them. She’s beginning to define a vocal style, born from garage bands like The Pleasure Seekers in the 1960s, that would come to dominate the 80s. It’s toughness is not exclusive of vulnerability.

Bad Reputation also includes a faithful cover of “You Don’t Own Me,” an homage to Jett’s attitudinal forebears. “Just let me be myself. That’s all I ask of you.”

Jett’s former Runaways bandmate Lita Ford had not been idle either. Taking a more hair metal approach to her music, Ford found some early success with singles like “Gotta Let Go.” The video for this song is, well, indelible. Ford plays a 50s housewife who is subject to a home invasion by leather-clad hoodlums. She breaks free as her rock and roll persona and beats them up with her guitar.

Early Ford material like “Gotta Let Go” is okay, if somewhat forgettable, but she affixed her star firmly in the Tammy firmament with 1988’s “Kiss Me Deadly,” perhaps the most Tammy of all Tammy Rock.

When out to a party last Saturday night

I didn’t get laid, I got in a fight

Uh-huh

It ain’t no big thing

With its compelling combination of synthesizers and metal guitar hooks, “Kiss Me Deadly” is relentlessly catchy. Ford’s vocal delivery of the song is pure Tammy. The lyrics, like most great Tammy songs, have a kind of high school doggerel quality: easy rhyming couplets; an oversimplification of romantic relationships; and a transparent, assertive honesty. “Kiss Me Deadly” completely rules. Unfortunately, the official video is as demeaning as the song is empowering, with Ford having to dry hump her electric guitar.

There’s a fairly consistent through-line with the artists we’ve talked about, from the Quatro sisters’ various bands through The Runaways and their biggest solo spinoffs. For one thing, this is rock and roll smacked out of its patriarchal grip, which could only make it more immediate, more resonant, more dangerous. Who cares if some long-haired dude in his twenties is singing “knew she must’ve been about seventeen”? That’s just creepy. When Joan Jett turns the gender tables on the lyric, it doesn’t sound like a power-based relationship. It makes sense that this music would have its origins in proto-punk 60s garage rock, and grow up incorporating elements of glam, punk, and heavy metal. Now, let’s listen to the more pop-oriented, but no less Tammy, expressions of the form.

Pat Benatar was born Patricia Mae Andrzejewski in 1953. She took theater and voice lessons in school, and later trained as an operatic coloratura. Pat initially planned to attend Julliard, but pursued a career in health education instead. She married Army draftee and high school sweetheart Dennis Benatar and moved to Virginia in 1973.

After being inspired by seeing Liza Minelli in concert, Benatar started singing professionally. Her first single, 1974’s “Day Gig,” owes more to Helen Reddy than Suzi Quatro. The Benatars moved to New York in 1975, and Pat soon had steady work singing at a comedy club and recording television jingles. She signed with Chrysalis Records in 1978.

Benatar’s debut album In the Heat of the Night was released in August, 1979 and ultimately went platinum, based on the strength of its breakout single “Heartbreaker.” Most of the time, we hear a clean, trained singer on this track. By the end of the first chorus, though, Pat has found her inner Tammy.

Benatar’s second album, 1980s Crimes of Passion, was even more successful. It contained what would become Benatar’s signature song, “Hit Me With Your Best Shot.” This song is classic Tammy: a tough (but not cynical) female protagonist looking for equal, not special, treatment; a coy and distorted vocal; and strict lyrical rhyming couplets. “You’re a real tough cookie with a long history,” Benatar sings, “of breaking little hearts like the one in me.”

That’s okay let’s see how you do it

Put up your dukes, let’s get down to it

Hit me with your best shot

“Hit Me With Your Best Shot” is the genesis of the “Love Is a Battlefield” trope of Tammy Rock, the latter song being one Benatar’s biggest hits from 1983. The female protagonist is willing to go toe to toe with her prospective partner and will accept taking a few knocks in the process. Gone is the submissive gender typing of previous decades.

But while “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” might arguably be Tammy Rock, “Love Is a Battlefield” really isn’t, beyond its thematic conceit. It’s best to describe Pat Benatar as Tammy-adjacent, with songs like “Love Is a Battlefield” reflecting the full incorporation of Tammy themes into mainstream pop expression.

These themes lead us directly to what I consider the absolute pinnacle of Tammy Rock expression, however, which is Scandal’s “The Warrior,” sung by Patty Smyth.

We all know that taste is subjective, and even cultural pronouncements that might hint at objectivity — like the commonly-held belief that Johann Sebastian Bach was one of the greatest composers of all time — only reflect an ongoing consensus of collected subjective opinions. (In his own time, Bach was mostly admired for his musical abilities, and his works were mostly ignored for decades after his death.) That is why I can say with confidence that “The Warrior” is the greatest Tammy Rock song of all time, especially when enjoyed with its pitch-perfect video, equal parts schlock and sincerity:

Smyth grew up in Brooklyn and joined Scandal in 1981. “Goodbye to You,” a single from their eponymous debut, became Columbia Records’ biggest selling EP. The Warrior was released in 1984, and peaked at Number 17 on the Billboard 200 chart. Despite the success, Scandal fell apart soon after, and Smyth was asked to replace David Lee Roth in Van Halen, a gig she declined because “I was a New Yorker, [and] didn’t want to live in LA…and those guys were drunk and fighting all the time.” It was a wise decision, because there was much success awaiting a solo Patty Smyth.

But let’s talk about “The Warrior.” The lyric is clearly inspired by “Hit Me With Your Best Shot.”

Well isn’t love primitive

A wild gift that you wanna give

Break out of captivity

And follow me, stereo jungle child:

Love is a kill

Your heart’s still wild

Lyrics that scan like high school poetry? Check. A clear-eyed, tough-yet-vulnerable protagonist? You know it. The specific phrasing, vowel-shaping, and vocal distortion now firmly established in the Tammy canon? My lord, yes. Listen to how Smyth howls “whoa” going into the second half of the second verse and witness Tammy ascendant.

“I am the warrior,” Smyth sings, gloriously, multi-tracked with unison harmonies, “and heart to heart you’ll win, if you survive.” This is no longer a playing field made uneven by dominance and passivity. It’s a battleground of equals, holding out as much promise of pleasure as pain, with defeat only inspiring further engagement.

Not enough can be said for “The Warrior”’s brilliant music video either. It’s as if The Road Warrior’s director staged an off-Broadway Cats revival starring David Bowie’s biggest fan. It’s cheesy and wonderful and makes me giddy every time I see it. Smyth owns it, too. No winking here; no tongue in cheek. She means every word she sings as she pursues that weird gay Thundercat dancer guy.

“When I saw the video, I was crestfallen.” Smyth once said, going on to joke that “it was about a director who fell in love with a guy in a gym and cast him in the lead.”

“I just wanted to do a straight onstage rock video to that [song], and they just shot me down,” Smyth went on. “They made me look like Batgirl.” I can sort of understand her point, but the video really supports the song in both its earnestness and silliness, and when Patty makes that finger pistol gesture during “bang bang” in the chorus, I practically get teary-eyed.

Shooting at the walls of heartache

Bang, bang

I am the warrior

“The Warrior” became the theme song for the Netflix series GLOW, a show about female professional wrestlers in the 1980s. “That show was literally about fighting, but also fighting for identity,” co-songwriter Holly Knight told Songfacts. “It is also about individuality, because all the girls had to take on an alter ego persona and dress a certain way, and they all picked people that to them were empowering.” (Knight, as it turns out, went on to co-write “Love Is a Battlefield.”)

And at the end of it, that’s all Tammy Rock is: empowering. It was music made by pioneers who had to be twice as good and fight twice as hard to get the same attention as their male counterparts. Instead of demanding dominance, they simply asked for equality. I deeply admire these artists, love their music, and write about their achievements with a combination of affection and reverence. Long live Tammy Rock.