I am a rock star, or at least that's what a section of my closet tells me. I am an unashamed and unapologetic fan of 1960s soul and rock music with a preference for driving beats, layers of screaming guitars and charismatic lead singers who seethe, seduce and strut. I love black rock, Brit rock, funk rock, thrash rock, brass rock and rock lullabies.
My inner Barbie is an icon like Tina, Janis or Chaka. She's the lead guitarist or percussion princess. The one who renders microphones impotent with one extended wail. I adore Nona Hendryx and the Graces -- Jones and Slick. I am Chrissie Hynde, Sandra St. Victor, or Joyce Kennedy (Mothers' Finest) whenever I pull on a form fitting black t-shirt emblazoned with a silk-screened 1970s era Harley or hand painted with the word "LOVE."
Last week I wore the vintage Banana Republic brown patent leather vest buttoned tight over a pair of low-slung chocolate corduroy jeans. Heavy silver belt buckle, ginger-colored urban cowboy boots with rhinestones at the ankle. I felt delicious and in perfect harmony all day.
Tomorrow I'll wear the olive suede blouse with hook and eye closures, floppy sleeves and wrist ties with a slim black skirt and fishnets and pretend that I'm a background singer on Dark Side of the Moon. Next week I'll rock the Burgundy suede tuxedo blouse and skinny jeans and daydream about opening my first set as headliner at the Tower Theater with a banshee wail. This summer I'll travel to Europe with the black lace pencil skirt and channel my inner Nancy Wilson.
Red Frye boots, a black velvet coat, funky black t-shirts, Chuck Taylors decorated with a constellation of silver stars, loads of inherited costume jewelry. I keep pulling these things out of the trunk and closets.
Guitar Hero anyone?
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