The Go-Go’s were used to having their story written for them. It’s happened to any band that has weathered a press junket: the same handful of anecdotes, origin myths, and quotes trotted out in every interview, profile, and concert preview. Let’s get that out of the way quickly then. When the Los Angeles-based five-piece first began gigging at clubs on the Sunset Strip in the late ’70s, most of them were novices. “Every story mentioned how the Go-Go’s could barely play when they started, and look at them now,” bassist Kathy Valentine, an Austin native, would write years later. “It gave every writer a ready-made story hook, the fairytale fable.”
How many people have been to a show, shoes epoxied to the floor by layers of spilled drinks, and watched a young band fumble through a set? It’s a forgivable fault, part of figuring things out—especially in the punk scene the Go-Go’s came up in—and something that becomes a moot point with practice and time. This, perhaps, wouldn’t have been such a narrative sticking point if the press hadn’t had another prebaked novelty in their arsenal: The Go-Go’s were all women. So throughout their career, one that earned them a double-platinum record certification and a Grammy nod, the Go-Go’s in some way remained miracles. It was a version of the same trope plaguing professional women across industries and decades: Isn’t she lucky to be here?
