Joan Jett

TONIGHT, the smoky Rock Lounge is filled with sassy fifteen-year-old teeny-boppers in leather jackets, jeans and black Converse sneakers, looking tough, chewing gum and hanging out stage-right. It's Tomboy's Lib, postpunk division, and who would have thought Joan Jett capable of promulgating such a refreshing new style of female self-identification? With a guitar slung low, practically at her knees, a sneering but unspoiled pout topped off with a sweat-soaked lion's mane shag, the erstwhile Runaway swaggers her way through a brace of affirmative R 'n' R as the Joan Jett clones in the audience mime her every move. Lots of invisible-guitar-players in the crowd, too...