Does Hilary Duff Count?

You know what the world needs now? It isn't love. Or alternatives to oil. Or freakin' peace for that matter.

The world needs Courtney Love.

And by Courtney Love, I mean the early Courtney Love, she of the baby doll dresses, smeared lipstick and eardrum-splitting melodies, not the later, Versace-whore Courtney Love or even the current circus-freak/negligent mother/artistically spent Courtney Love (although America's Sweetheart was sadly overlooked), because while we may not need that specific woman per se back in the spotlight, we sure as shit could use some new boozing, brawling rock stars. And ladies, I'm looking in your direction.

I mean, where the hell did all the female rockers go?

Where's a chick that will scream into the mic, swig a bottle of beer, yell at the crowd, throw her cigarette at the crowd, maybe even pee on the crowd? Where's a bruised, bawdy banshee that beats the crap out of you while she fucks you senseless after the show and then steals your wallet, goes to your apartment and fucks your girlfriend? Where's a hotel-trashing, cop-slapping terror who crashes her car into a tree because she had three square meals of quaaludes?

Not that there's a lot of male rockers living up to the title of "rock star" right now, either (oh, Axl, if you only you hadn't become a pot-bellied, braided, litigious bore). And Love would chew up these whiny Fall Out With Cutie Chemical Death Cab Romance bands, spit them out and then snort them if she wasn't passed out somewhere in a gutter right now.

But I'm sorry, the ladies just aren't cutting it. Sheryl Crow has settled for adult contemporary "meaning" and "depth," Nikka Costa's record company misplaced her somewhere after she started appearing at gigs as a frizzy-haired couch, and Avril Lavigne has become so blond and bland she makes Ashlee Simpson look like Wendy O. Williams.

You know who's rocking out? Kelly Clarkson. That's who we have now. Are you happy, Shirley Manson? You disappear for a while, come back with an under-promoted, underwhelming Garbage record and leave us with Miss American Idol ruling the teen girl mosh pit.

(On a side note - have you noticed how all these ladies go from dark hair to blonde and blonder? Sheryl, Avril, Ashlee, Kelly. Shirley went blonde for a while. And Pink, of all people, is too.)

Remember the 80's, when Joan Jett and Pat Benatar made men pee in their pants? Or the 90's, when Lilith Fair, while not exactly rocking, overstuffed the media with so much estrogen-fueled guitar chords that even "artists" like Meredith Brooks and Natalie Imbruglia could pop a squat and out came a hit single?

You know how bad it is now? The Grammys had to scrap the male and female rock vocal categories and combine them into one. You know how many women were nominated this year for the Solo Rock Vocal award? Zero.

Thank God there's still Karen O. of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs who fellates microphones, splatters herself with ketchup and actually has the decency as a "rock star" to not comb her hair. Even now in her sixties, Tina Turner could make an entire stadium of people spontaneously orgasm just by brushing her teeth. And, at the Grammys two years ago, Melissa Etheridge raced onto the stage like a bald-headed demon given one last chance to shred apart her vocal chords for the sheer pleasure of it while belting out Janis Joplin's "Piece of My Heart." Unfortunately, she has since regressed back to the land of ennui, even appearing on Oprah which is one of the least rock things you can do.


Ah, Janis, if only we still had you now. Not only could you sing the blues, but you were a drunk, sweaty, quivering mess.

And that's just how I liked you.