I came into this world with my creative spirit intact, no doubt about it. By the time I was four, I could play music by ear. I would listen to my mother practice piano, and when she walked out of the room, I’d sit down and play whatever she’d just played. I loved music so much I practiced before school, after school—any chance I could get—and where other parents forced their kids to practice, mine had to ask me to take a break.
When I was eight, I discovered rock music—the louder the better. From that point on, all I wanted was to be in a rock band.
Years later, when I was sixteen, with the dream still burning bright, I left home to chase it. When I told my mother I wasn’t going to pursue a career in the classical world, she was devastated. She thought that I was throwing away ten years of hard work and that my talent would go to waste, that I would abandon music altogether, but I had other plans. I loved classical music, and I wasn’t going to stop playing; I just wanted to do so much more.
Right away, I noticed that while many talented female singers were out there, hardly any were female musicians, certainly not in any of the rock bands I grew up listening to—Led Zeppelin, The Doors, The Stones, and The Beatles, and as I got older, Queen and Aerosmith. Even today, it’s rare to see a female guitarist, drummer, or bass player, and usually when you do, you hear “She’s really good … for a girl.” How about just “she’s really good”?
If men have anything over women, maybe it’s their brute strength and ability to lift heavy things. But in music, to play any instrument skillfully, whether it’s electric guitar, keyboards, or any other instrument (with the exception of drums … maybe), it takes no physical superiority at all. In fact, it’s quite the opposite; to play well requires dexterity and fine motor skills and, of course, talent. The idea that only guys can rock and play brilliantly is ridiculous. So why do men have the monopoly on rock music?
Despite the lack of other female artists, I was not dissuaded from my dream. At age sixteen, I strutted into the man cave that is the music industry and never looked back. I helped to form my first band, Spider, in the late 1970s. I was the keyboardist, and one other woman was in the band—the singer. We were a hard rock band, and we kicked ass. After a year of playing and showcasing, we recorded a bunch of original songs and got signed to a record label. Without knowing who wrote what, the record label always picked the songs I wrote as the singles, and after two records, I left the band to pursue a full-time career writing songs for other artists and bands.
My career started moving incredibly fast, and I owe a ton of gratitude to Mike Chapman, my mentor, who took me under his wing. The first big hits I had as a songwriter were “Better Be Good to Me,” an international smash for Tina Turner on her record Private Dancer, and “Love Is a Battlefield” for Pat Benatar, both of which I wrote with Mike. After that, I started to write hits on my own or with other collaborators, such as “The Warrior” for Patty Smyth and “Never” with Heart. These artists happened to be women, and I think they responded to my ethos of female empowerment. I was fierce and passionate, and they connected with that.
EVEN TODAY, IT'S RARE TO SEE A FEMALE GUITARIST, DRUMMER, OR BASS PLAYER, AND USUALLY WHEN YOU DO, YOU HEAR "SHE'S REALLY GOOD … FOR A GIRL." HOW ABOUT JUST "SHE'S REALLY GOOD"?
The real game changer came when I started writing for or with male rock bands and artists, like Aerosmith, Bon Jovi, and Rod Stewart. I was really the first woman to do that, and it was a lot of fun. I got along great with most of them. Then there were the times when I felt animosity and jealousy from the guys. The question “Why is an outside songwriter being brought in to write when we’re all writers?” was asked on a number of occasions. And my silent thought would be, Because, dummy, the label felt you weren’t writing the hits … so deal with it. To add insult to injury, the fact that the outside songwriter was a woman really emasculated them.
As my career took off, I started to produce a lot of my demo recordings, and that’s when I really felt a pushback from the record companies and managers. Now that I’d established myself as a hit songwriter, everyone would take my calls. However, the minute I told them I wanted to produce the track, they’d shut down. (In music, a producer is in charge of getting the best performance out of the singers and musicians and arranging the music; in essence, the captain steering the ship.) Here it was again … only men could produce because it involved leadership skills and knowing how to deal with bands and musicians. How could a woman possibly do that?
By “accident,” I was able to produce some of the recordings. For instance, I wrote two songs for Thelma and Louise. Director Ridley Scott loved the songs, as well as the way my recordings sounded. When he received new versions of my songs produced by a well-known producer, he said that if he couldn’t use the original recording, he would remove them from the sound track. The beauty is, I doubt he cared who produced the tracks, he just liked my production, and that was very affirming for me. So it’s not about whether you’re a boy or a girl, or who you are, but whether you do the best job in the end. It’s not always like that, but it should be.
Throughout my career, I’d face similar obstacles. There was always some male band member or executive who didn’t take me seriously, whether I was brought in to write a song, play keyboards on a track (I had played keyboards on Kiss’s Unmasked), or produce the recording. But then I’d get down to business, and I could see a shift in their attitude and feel a level of respect that wasn’t there before. They realized that I knew what I was talking about and that I was accomplished and successful for a reason. This happened most of the time, but not always.
Once, many years ago, an interviewer asked me why all my songs seemed to be about fighting, songs like “Love Is a Battlefield,” “The Warrior,” “Invincible,” and “Stick to Your Guns.” It was never a conscious choice; I just wrote what was real to me. The truth is, my songs were often about fighting for something, not fighting with someone. We all discover things worth fighting for … and as women, we have to fight that much harder.
I believe in women helping women. I believe in the next generation of young girls and pushing them to achieve their desires, whatever and wherever that may be. I love men, and the truly secure ones aren’t intimidated by a strong, intelligent woman; in fact, they’re turned on. As for the rest, they can go wait in the car—I got this.
So it’s been a wild ride and a wonderful career, but I’ve had to be tough and tender at the same time. In 2013, I was inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame. At that time, there were over four hundred inductees, and only sixteen of them were women. I think being inducted was the moment I finally stopped looking for validation from others. I already knew what I had accomplished, and while I’m proud of the recognition, I didn’t need a crystal statuette to tell me that my songs brought joy and happiness to people all over the world. The bottom line is, the only one you need validation from is yourself. Once you discover that, there’s nothing you can’t do.