Yesterday I made a passing reference to Wendy O. It made me realize I’ve never mentioned her in ten years of blogging. But without her, I wouldn’t ever have conceived of the Queen of Punk City.
Her name was Alice Hate.
Alice is the sleeping beauty of the South Street punk mythology. A bow to Arthurian legend, as the best book I’ve ever read on the subject speculates. Guinevere, a Pictish warrior queen, dies long before the climax of Arthur’s reign but must be preserved. The wall of thorns surrounding her is a linguistic reference to where she was interred, a castle in Scotland whose name means thorn. It was the French, centuries later, who made up the scandal of her affair with Lancelot, whom they made French but was probably a Scot named Angus. Zut alors!
So I’m acknowledging my personal debt here. The bare breasted kickass queen of Punk City was absolutely inspired by a real life rock star named Wendy O. Williams.
But that’s only part of what I need to do today. I realize she is missing almost completely from the history of pop divas we have been taught and believe. Consider this a teaching moment.
Wendy O is dead, as she would have to be. As the poet Edna St. Vincent Millay, herself a secret sybarite, wrote, “The candle burns at both ends, it cannot last the night. But ah my foes and oh my friends, it gives a lovely light.”
She’s not here now to lobby as Deborah Harry does that she’s the template for female pop stars. So I am here to speak for her.
Without Wendy O, there would be no Madonna, no Joan Jett, no Courtney Love, no Lady Gaga, no Mylie Cyrus. And in all likelihood you’d never have seen Janet Jackson’s tit at the Super Bowl or up Beyonce’s dress all the way to there.
Patti Smith survived her youth. She began as a groupie and plugged her way to record deals. Wendy O was just a Roman candle who burst on the scene and did things no woman had ever done on stage. In that respect she’s as important as Jimi Hendrix was to the evolution of the electric guitar. In both cases, there’s simply before… And after.
Why some of us old guys just shake our heads at the antics of youngsters who think they can shock us. You can’t. You’re just so ignorant you don’t know that when Gaga wears meat, we remember Wendy wearing nearly nothing. When Mylie twerks, we remember Wendy jacking off a phantom strap-on. You’ve got nothing left to shock us with. Why we yawn.
She died in 1998. She was not a nice girl. You can read about her here.
I’m not positioning her as some saint. But it’s become a habit with you young’uns to forget where you came from and who you owe for your manufactured poses. Mostly you’re not even aware of the important areas where you know nothing and care less. But if you’re a growly take-no-prisoners singer or a half naked caterwauling bitch on stage, then you should light a candle at both ends in honor of Wendy O.