The Forty Sexiest Frontwomen in Rock History. They do not just want to have fun.
They do not just want to have fun. Diamonds are not their best friend. The women you're about to meet have derived their everlasting power from one place over the. Dating Giirls In Chennai on this page. Get the latest Rolling Stone new music news, song and album reviews, free music downloads, artist videos & pictures, playlists and more.
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Diamonds are not their best friend. The women you're about to meet have derived their everlasting power from one place over the past fifty years: the land of rock. They were born there in a time before men. They came to us with their guitars and their pianos and their voices. These forty betties, chicks, punks, chanteuses and mad women from the hills represent the purest realization of rock and roll sexuality. Every one of them may have followed The King, but he could never match their swagger. Behold: the Forty Sexiest Frontwomen in Rock History.
Russell Peters kicks off Junos with off-colour joke about young girls in audience: To link to this poem, put the URL below into your page: <a href="http:// of Myself by Walt Whitman</a> Plain for.
Mosshart rocks the alluring androgyny embraced by the worlds of high fashion and punk rock alike, with a stage presence evoking a heroin- chic model fighting off Hemingway- caliber detox shakes. The openly gay, proudly overweight Ditto carries herself with an intimidating clarity that goes far beyond mere confidence. How many of us, body types and sexualities notwithstanding, would have the wherewithal to pose nude on the cover of one popular magazine, let alone two? It might be belaboring the point to say that that's what sexiness is, but hell: that's what sexiness is.
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You may also feel a smidge of nostalgia, something Vega herself has little time for; she's consistently followed her muse, not fame. Beauty, brains and a bohemian fearlessness score Vega her place on this list. With regard to the sex appeal of the band's feminine half, Cindy Wilson and Kate Pierson are hard to rank. Kate may've been the more iconic one (the red bouffant, the preference for girls, the muppet), but Cindy could pull a little- girl- lost thing that — depending on your own level of perversity — either tugged your heartstrings or your loins. Even when she's moaning about dissociative identity disorder, she makes it sound like a creepy come- on: . Emerging first from Communist Russia and then from the same lower Manhattan underground that birthed the Moldy Peaches, Spektor saw firsthand both terrifying political oppression and cutesy affectation. While her aesthetic is undoubtedly informed more by the latter than the former, Spektor's childhood must've blessed her with both the musical virtuosity that sets her apart from her anti- folk peers and the self- aware dorkiness that is, um, the most charming thing ever.
You can't help but imagine your future with her. You both have pretty good jobs and an apartment nice enough to have a spare room where she can keep her piano. There is the occasional household mishap. Maybe the cat knocks a cup of tea off the counter. Looking like Anna Karina as a Vice magazine scene- queen, and sounding as snotty as Suede, Kate Jackson sings songs thick with references to her superior tastes. Even in your wildest fantasies, Ms.
Jackson is out of your league. A calamatous riding accident left Makino with little hope of singing again. But she finally recovered, the band wrote . Leaning against the garden wall, alone, was a willowy brunette.
She took a sparkly strand of her tank dress and tied it around our head like a bandana. She lit our cigarette and asked our name.
She had a low voice and a tough- and- skittish alley kitten vibe. She smiled a lot and encouraged us to follow our dreams. We fell in love. And only found out months later it was Chan Marshall. Peaches. How one makes the career leap from schoolmarm to Moses- bearded electrodiva is beyond us, but we're not going to look a gift horse in the crotch. Merrill Nisker's nom de p.
We also love her for imparting the soundest, most succinct break- up advice in pop history. Fuck the pain away indeed. Erika Wennerstrom's voice is a mountain, a blues- inflected cascade both world- weary and demure. It's amused, warm, and wet all at the same time. Her look is unassuming — the sandy hair and easy smile say Sarah Plain and Tall more than vixen — but when she sings barn- burners like .
The song itself is heart wrenching, a dirge about lover's (or survivor's) guilt that is, nevertheless, slinky and sexy as hell. But the problem with . We turn you to . Whatever, director of . Blessed with the hooks of Ric Ocasek and the fashion acumen of a young Roxanne Shant.
White is the rock'n'roll prom queen of a John Hughes movie that exists only in the happiest corners of our heads. No natural beauty, her anger and angst cathected to the libidos of a generation of intellectuals seeking social change by buying albums and reading. This Canadian songstress doesn't need a plunging neckline, soprano- operatics or Britney- style theatrics to bring us to our knees: just a guitar, a mic, and the intense, joyous look she has when performing are enough to rock our world. The Cardigans? Craig the Indie Kid would never let his cred be tarnished though, and so, guided by the light of his coolness, we listened to First Band on the Moon. It was awesome. While Nina Persson's Swedish accent made the word . Persson slid from playful into seductive- cool on Gran Turismo and has stayed that way ever since. With Miho Hatori, we could have our cake and eat it too — with her sing- song insouciance and deliciously baffling lyrics, Cibo Matto wooed many a mid- '9.
Makes sense: the surest way to a man's heart is through his stomach, and Hatori is one of pop music's tastiest purveyors of ear candy. Team). Ninjas are still sexy, despite the internet's best efforts over the past decade. Team's Ninja, however, trumps the average ninja many times over. She has no time for your hipster disinterest. Ninja demands you give chase. Key tracks are . Not so Kim Gordon. If she looks good, she's probably wearing her own clothes.
Ageless, androgynous and electrifying, she keeps the CBGB's ethos alive, even as the club and much of what it stood for have disappeared into the past. There's the tortured pianist/vocalist of her early albums, a rapturous voice belting out narratives as disturbing as they were dreamy. There's the methodical craftswoman of recent years.
Her songs are structurally impressive but they've lost all of their delirious passion. Somewhere in between is the Tori Amos who recorded From the Choirgirl Hotel — the rock goddess, the band leader, the chanteuse drill sergeant who wailed out songs like . All three are hot, but the choirgirl was immortal. Either way, she's got the locks, she's got the gams, and God knows she's got the pipes. Of course, now that every boy in Williamsburg has a perpetual Jenny- boner, it's harder to stake a (fantasy) claim for her love. Sex Dating In Calumet Minnesota.
Get out of the way, Elvis Costello Glasses! You too, Vintage T- Shirt! Considering they'd been together for a significant portion of their lives (and were on the verge of breaking up), S- K — and Brownstein in particular — performed with staggering energy and exuberance.
Whether it was her onstage grin or simply the quality (and quantity) of her guitar solos, any bonehead in the audience could tell that Brownstein really liked being in a rock band. Which is, surprisingly, a rare and endearing quality. Whether helming Portishead's sporadic masterpieces or her own solo albums, Ms. Gibbons' siren song makes soul- crushing existential despair positively swoon- worthy. When Beth is on the mic, that monkey on your back is giving you shiatsu. But she deserves both. With a stage presence for the ages, Joplin made it clear to her fans that the sexy needn't always be the beautiful.
Sure, the Eurhythmics songstress' femdrogynous hotness may lend itself to comparisons, but when she opens her mouth, there's no mistaking. Where did a nice girl from Aberdeen get a set of pipes like that? It evokes spangled jump suits and the gaudy cowboy- hat- plus- American- Idol- hair CMT awards. The place, the physical land that word should conjure, is a different matter all together. Country should make you think of long nights on the porch, playing guitar, and listening to Neko Case's voice, the aural analogue of a literal roll in the hay. Forget her comparatively sexless work with the New Pornographers.
It's the auburn- haired siren of Fox Confessor Brings the Flood and Middle Cyclone that you need to watch out for. She also personifies the sexiness of the . Someday, kid, you could be that roadie. From her days as a spastic, drunken, Iggy- like screamer convulsing across the stages of punk- rock dives and showering audiences with beer, to her pop- star phase, navigating much larger stages like a ballerina bunny with all the grace of a bulldozer, Ms. O has embodied sensual schizophrenia.
The mother of reinvention. The fountain of blood in the shape of a girl. The funny little lady in the swan dress. The girlfriend of Cremaster.
The bride of Space Ghost. The unlikeliest Wu- Tang Clan reserve member.
The Republic of Iceland's unofficial ambassador. And — lest we not forget — The Sugarcubes' belle dame sans normalit. Whatever otherworldly persona Ms.
Gwen Stefani's willingness to legally bind herself to Gavin Rosdale doesn't diminish the sexiness at her core. There's actually a traceable rise to her allure.
During No Doubt's formative days, she literally was just a girl, interchangeable with any adorable punk chick hanging out at some Anaheim skate park. Tragic Kingdom saw her morph into a pop- rock poster girl and that kick started her ascension; watch those videos for . But it wasn't until lead Rock Steady single . No Doubt's pop- to- dub transformation finally gave the honey in her voice just the right amount of bitterness. Though she played muse for Bob Dylan, Jim Morrison, Iggy Pop and the Rolling Stones, her collaborations with the Velvet Undergound cemented her place in history.
She'd managed to kick her heroin habit just before she died in a motorcycle crash. Those baby- doll eyes and that velvet voice will always make you breathe a little heavier. Do not argue with us. We know who does and does not look good in jeans and Chrissie Hynde is the reigning deity of looking good in jeans.
It is convenient that she also rocks hard.