A few weeks ago, Robin, Suzy, and I were reading a tattered back issue of Sixteen that Robin had brought from her parents' house. 'Bobby Sherman - eeeew," Suzy squealed. "No hair on his chest; how gross . . . oh, there's Jack Wild - remember H.R. Puf'n'stuff? God I loved him." It didn't matter that we were in our 20s instead of our teens, and knocking back a palatable cheap Chablis instead of cola. Once a teen idolizer, always . . . There was one advantage to having newly mature eyes, though we'd never noticed that the interview questions were identical, whether it was Davy Jones or the Osmonds who were the subjects. The inquires always went something like "Where would you go on a first date?" "What do you look for in a girlfriend?" "What is your idea of the 'perfect girl'?"
Innocent? Not entirely. I wonder how many girls ever thought they measured up to a description like 'pretty, not self-centered, fun' when it came from the lips of Barry Cowsill. Was there widespread damage to the collective female psyche during the golden and silver ages of teen 'zines (Elvis P. to Elvis C.)? Hard to say, except that during the '60s, there wasn’t much a poor girl could do if she didn't play in a rock-and-roll band (and she wasn't encouraged to), except chase after one. At least these days there's a crucial difference between the teenyboppers who read Star Hits and cry at every Duran Duran wedding and their moms, who cried when Paul McCartney started dating Jane Asher. Current supermarket music magazines are campier, as they'd have to be if they're going to take couples like Boy George and Marilyn seriously. Still, there are everincreasing numbers of working female pop stars for young fans to emulate. Chrissie Hynde, the Bangles, and Sade get the same awestruck coverage as the male haircut bands, a change that has made female acolytes more likely to pick up a guitar than a nail file.
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