When you worship the rock gods of the patriarchy β the classic rock pantheon and their beer-soaked followers β you are not just listening to music. You are enrolling in a religion where women are either groupies, domestics, or convenient metaphors for heartbreak.
You know the type. The ones who write power ballads about the βone who got away,β conveniently forgetting she left because he had not done a single dish since 1978.
And sure, she might get her name etched into a seven-minute guitar solo β the holy scripture of men who think volume equals depth. Generations of guys will close their eyes and feel spiritual about it, while she is probably somewhere wondering why she still cannot get her record deal.
But do not worry β it is not sexism. It is art.
