Unearth The Voyage
Some voices from the ’70s and ’80s did more than dominate charts. They rewired style, swagger, and imagination, turning concert halls into dreamscapes and posters into personal altars. This lineup revisits the magnetic stars whose charisma, sound, and visuals sparked countless crushes and lifelong fandom.
Keep reading for the legends who made desire and distortion feel like the same thrilling chord.
Stevie Nicks
Stevie Nicks stepped onto late 1970s stages like a spell made human, draped in chiffon and mystery. The smoky rasp, the tambourine ribbons, the spinning silhouette turned songs like Rhiannon into living folklore. Posters captured the gaze, but the gaze was already music, a hush before the chorus rose.
Edge of Seventeen hit with talon sharp resolve, where grief, desire, and power braided into white winged imagery. Fleetwood Mac’s drama bled into the art, and the art felt dangerously intimate. A voice like velvet sandpaper promised enchantment without apology.
Solos and duets framed a persona that balanced vulnerability with storm weathered strength. Not a waif, not a wraith, but a lighthouse cut from lace and thunderheads. The crush was not about possession, only pilgrimage toward a candlelit stage where myth kept time.
Pat Benatar
Pat Benatar arrived like a siren with steel, all precision and punch. Hit Me with Your Best Shot ricocheted from arena walls with a grin and a dare. The voice was a fist in a velvet glove, tight phrasing riding guitar crunch.
MTV loved the angles, the leather silhouettes, the fearless stance. Love Is a Battlefield staged rebellion as choreography, where a chorus could march and kiss at once. She sang like someone who had measured heartbreak and kept the crown anyway.
Rock credibility met pop clarity and burned straight through the dial. The crush felt kinetic, sparked by eye contact that never blinked. Anthems turned afternoons into training montages, and doubt into a target begging to be shattered.
Joan Jett
Joan Jett made devotion easy by refusing to ask for it. I Love Rock n Roll stomped like a boot on a sticky club floor, daring hearts to keep up. The guitar hung low, the stare cut clean, and the chorus tasted like gasoline.
Her approach stayed unvarnished, a straight line from riff to pulse. Bad Reputation shouted down gatekeepers with a grin that would not budge. The look said no permission needed, only volume and a room willing to combust.
Crushes thrived on that refusal to flinch. Admiration sharpened into adrenaline as chords locked wrists with rhythm. In the echo, independence sounded like the only love song that never lied.
Debbie Harry
Debbie Harry held cool like a neon secret, half smile and razor melody. Blondie mixed disco shimmer with punk bones, and Heart of Glass turned dance floors into chrome stained altars. The voice hovered icy and inviting, a paradox that kept late nights awake.
Call Me revved like a taxi through Manhattan, high beams on glamour, grit under the tires. Photographs caught that platinum aura but never the sly flicker of danger. Style was not costume so much as weaponry, fitted to the beat.
Crushes bloomed where edge met elegance. The city seemed to wear her face for a while, posters breathing on subway tiles. Every chorus felt like an elevator rising, doors sliding open to another reckless view.
Lita Ford
Lita Ford turned guitar heroics into a spotlight ritual, every bend a declaration. From Runaways roots to solo fire, she carved space where solos bit and smoldered. Close My Eyes Forever carried gloss and gravity, a duet like a midnight confession.
Leather, chrome, and lipstick framed a grin ready to melt amplifiers. Riffs strutted in platform heels, kicks precise as metronomes. The image promised impact and delivered scorch marks shaped like power chords.
Admiration drifted toward awe as technique flashed beneath glam. Stage presence read fearless, the kind that invites thunder to keep time. In the afterglow, the crush sounded like feedback that refused to fade.
Susanna Hoffs
Susanna Hoffs carried melodies like bright postcards, corners curled by sunlight. The Bangles stitched jangle guitars to pop sparkle, and Walk Like an Egyptian winked across every screen. Vocals felt close enough to catch, warm and bell clear.
Eternal Flame burned slower, a candle held beneath the ribcage. Stage shots framed that sideways glance, playful, steady, utterly sure. The music kept rooms soft focused without losing tempo.
Crushes settled in the quiet between choruses, gentle but unwavering. Approachability met polish, a balance rare as perfect radio weather. Long after the fade out, the harmony stayed, like perfume on a concert tee.
Chrissie Hynde
Chrissie Hynde looked at the crowd the way a compass looks at north, steady and unswayed. The Pretenders carried taut songwriting where syllables struck flint. Brass in Pocket purred with nerve, every phrase a wink that knew its aim.
Her guitar wore simplicity like armor, telecaster twang cutting clean air. Lyrics stacked intelligence on attitude, never loud without reason. The silhouette felt inevitable, like a skyline etched against dawn.
Desire folded itself into admiration for control. Charisma arrived unannounced, leaving after it rearranged the furniture. In that aftertaste, the crush felt like caffeine, smooth, alert, impossible to refuse.
Annie Lennox
Annie Lennox sang like a cathedral built inside a flashlight beam, intimate and immense. Sweet Dreams floated on synths that prowled, elegant and icy. The androgynous look cut through noise, making clarity feel dangerous and kind at once.
Videos framed thresholds, doorways of neon where personas shifted like weather. Each note carried ballast, grief and grace in a single exhale. Fashion read as argument and invitation, proof that presence can be shape and sound.
Crushes gathered around the authority of vulnerability. The performance seemed to know secrets without asking for them. After the chorus, silence felt curated, a gallery where breath became art.
Siouxsie Sioux
Siouxsie Sioux wore theater like a second heartbeat, drums stalking beneath velvet night. With the Banshees, post punk turned ceremonial, a procession of mirrors and knives. Spellbound and Cities in Dust rang like bells in abandoned cathedrals.
Makeup carved new geographies across the face, lines sharp as verse. The voice carried frost and fire, vowels stretching into incantation. Nothing about the presence apologized, not the stare, not the sacred oddity.
Admiration arrived as awe, then devotion. The crush felt like learning a new alphabet and dreaming in it by morning. In the echo chamber, darkness bloomed, and glamour answered to no one.
Tina Turner
Tina Turner turned survival into choreography, legs flashing like drumsticks of lightning. Proud Mary rolled with volcanic joy, hips syncing with a stadium heartbeat. That grainy roar of a voice carved truth into every chorus.
What’s Love Got to Do with It stacked synths under wisdom, slick and invincible. Sequins flickered like sparks from an engine built to run forever. The smile said earned, not borrowed, a crown welded to grit.
Crushes rose with the voltage, born from discipline wrapped in flame. Presence filled arenas and left them lighter. After the encore, footsteps still matched her stride, as if momentum itself had a name.
