I met Camile once, and all I can say is that if nothing else, she is quite convinced in the most fundamental way that she is right.
Of that list, the only one with any real claim is Hildegard. Sappho, got any of her records or songs? No. So that is mere conjecture. She may well have been awesome, or perhaps she was just the New Kids on the Block of her island. Clara Schumann is OK as a composer, but not in the league of her husband, and her forte was the concert, not the composing. And indeed she was one of the top acts of her day, a child prodigy and perhaps the most famous performer of her age, and someone who radically changed the piano - she was a performer, not a composer - and there has never been a doubt about women being able to perform.
And so you list those off, do I need to do the "I only did the Mozart because people know him, but could have said: (oh hell, just look at the wiki list and count the women)".
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_classical_music_composersMadonna, who I love, is unique, who else is in that class? Who else (among women) does what she does. Writes, produces, does the merch, the dance routine, the routing, and cashes the checks too --- she is large and in charge (anyone who doubts that should have seen her 3, count 'em 3 helicopter arrival at Coachilla a few years ago, the stuff of rock legend). Cher and Babs don't write or produce, and have 'people' who do all that other stuff for them. Brittney was on the track till she fell into the ditch.
Joan Baez, has written a few OK songs, but Dylan she ain't - which is why she still does Dylan songs, and he does not do any of hers. She is a great singer, perhaps one of the best ever, but no one doubted that women could sing. Bonnie Raitt is about as good a guitar slinger as has ever been, but after her, who else? She pretty much stands alone as a girl who can play with the best from Jerry Garcia to Carlos, to Stevie Ray Vaughan. I saw her last week sit in on a Steve Miller show and just spank him on
Mercury Blues. But I'm at a loss as to what other women could have followed her. Joan Jett rocks steady for sure, but its not all that technical. I can't think of another woman who can play at the same level as Bonnie, but I can think of a dog pile of guys who can. (Though Susan Tedeschi is moving into range.)
Joni Mitchell is the exception, as they say, the proves the rule. Her carer in both writing as well as performance is the stuff of legend. I'm not all that hot on the early stuff like
Blue which is way too folk for me, but the ten years after
Court and Spark where she wrote and recorded
Dog Eat Dog, Wild Things Run Fast, Shadows And Light, Mingus, Don Juan's Reckless Daughter, Hejira and The Hissing Of Summer Lawns is almost one of the most perfect runs in pop music. And that stuff is complex, both in music as well as the lyrics.
No regrets Coyote
We just come from such different sets of circumstance
I'm up all night in the studios
And you're up early on your ranch
You'll be brushing out a brood mare's tail
While the sun is ascending
And I'll just be getting home with my reel to reel...
There's no comprehending
Just how close to the bone and the skin and the eyes
And the lips you can get
And still feel so alone
And still feel related
Like stations in some relay
You're not a hit and run driver, no, no
Racing away
You just picked up a hitcher
A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway
We saw a farmhouse burning down
In the middle of nowhere
In the middle of the night
And we rolled right past that tragedy
Till we turned into some road house lights
Where a local band was playing
Locals were up kicking and shaking on the floor
And the next thing I know
That Coyote's at my door
He pins me in a corner and he won't take "No!"
He drags me out on the dance floor
And we're dancing close and slow
Now he's got a woman at home
He's got another woman down the hall
He seems to want me anyway
Why'd you have to get so drunk
And lead me on that way
You just picked up a hitcher
A prisoner of the white lines of the freeway
I looked a Coyote right in the face
On the road to Baljennie near my old home town
He went running thru the whisker wheat
Chasing some prize down
And a hawk was playing with him
Coyote was jumping straight up and making passes
He had those same eyes - just like yours
Under your dark glasses
Privately probing the public rooms
And peeking thru keyholes in numbered doors
Where the players lick their wounds
And take their temporary lovers
And their pills and powders to get them thru this passion play
No regrets, Coyote
I just get off up aways
You just picked up a hitcher
A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway
Coyote's in the coffee shop
He's staring a hole in his scrambled eggs
He picks up my scent on his fingers
While he's watching the waitresses' legs
He's too far from the Bay of Fundy
& From Appaloosas and Eagles and tides
And the air conditioned cubicles
And the carbon ribbon rides
Are spelling it out so clear
Either he's going to have to stand and fight
Or take off out of here
I tried to run away myself
To run away and wrestle with my ego
And with this flame
You put here in this Eskimo
In this hitcher
In this prisoner
Of the fine white lines
Of the white lines on the free, free wayThat stuff on the Dylan level. Even Dylan admits it- and he don't admit much.
"I once believed that I possessed creative talent, but I have given up this idea; a woman must not desire to compose — there has never yet been one able to do it. Should I expect to be the one?"
—Clara Schumann at 20.
