Let me ask you something—when was the last time the blues shook you? Not gently tapped you on the shoulder and whispered about some heartbreak in the cotton fields, but grabbed you by the ribcage, dragged you through the swamp, and left you sobbing and screaming and strangely exhilarated under a neon moon? I’ll tell you when: the moment you gave up your preconceptions and let the women take over.
Because the truth is, the future (and let’s be honest, the present) of the blues is not some bearded dude sweating over a Stratocaster. It’s being howled, wailed, shredded, and bled out by women who don’t just play the blues—they are the blues.
And if you want the best darn proof of that, go listen to Miss Freddye’s “Slippin’ Away.” Seriously, go now. I’ll wait.
Okay, now that you’ve been properly soul-scorched, we can talk. Miss Freddye, Pittsburgh’s Queen of Blues, doesn’t sing that tune—she haunts it. “Slippin’ Away” is a slow-burn lament that oozes loss like a busted whiskey bottle on a barroom floor. Freddye’s voice is weathered velvet, strong as steel cables but frayed just enough to let the heartache bleed through. You can practically hear the ghosts of Koko Taylor and Big Mama Thornton giving her a standing ovation from the great juke joint in the sky.
This woman’s blues are rooted in gospel, grit, and a helluva lot of real-life mileage. She’s not here for frills or fame—she’s here to testify. And you’d better be ready to listen. Learn more, if you dare, at www.missfreddye.com.
But let’s head south—deep south. Like swamp-soaked delta shadows with a side of southern gothic sorcery. Enter The Curse of KK Hammond, who doesn’t just flirt with darkness—she dates it, dances with it, and invites it to burn the barn down. “Walk With Me Through the Fire” isn’t a song—it’s a spell. Hammond plays slide guitar like she’s summoning spirits, conjuring sounds that feel older than the land itself.
Her voice? A smoke-draped drawl, equal parts menace and moonlight. She’s got that rare, twisted alchemy of Robert Johnson’s crossroads mythos and PJ Harvey’s primal poetry. Find her at www.thecurseofkkhammond.com and bow down to the bayou queen (out of the UK) of apocalyptic blues.
And don’t think this is all backwoods and barstools. No, the blues is alive in the city, too—more specifically, in the slick, shimmering streets of Austin, Texas, where Jackie Venson slings blues licks like laser beams. This woman is a virtuosic menace with a Strat. Her track “Love Transcends” might sound like a plea for peace, but under the hood, it’s pure rebellion. Venson uses the blues to speak truth to power, and she does it with fingers that blur and a voice like fire in a velvet bottle.
She’s what happens when B.B. King and Prince share a soul, and it lands in the body of a Black woman unafraid to burn tradition to the ground.
Now let’s detour back to the UK, where Joanne Shaw Taylor is laying waste to stages and stereotypes. Don’t let the blonde curls and Brit accent fool you—she’s got the soul of a Mississippi juke joint preacher. Her song “Dyin’ to Know” doesn’t tiptoe around heartbreak—it walks in, kicks over the furniture, and demands answers. Joanne plays with all the subtlety of a freight train, and thank God for that. She doesn’t borrow from the greats—she builds on them.
And if you still think the blues is a man’s world, let Shemekia Copeland break that last illusion for you. She’s the daughter of Texas blues legend Johnny Copeland, but she doesn’t ride coattails—she tears them off. Her song “Ain’t Got Time for Hate” is a sledgehammer of righteous fury, wrapped in groove. Shemekia blends political fire with personal truth, and every note feels like it was forged in a furnace of social conscience and soul.
These five women—Miss Freddye, KK Hammond, Jackie Venson, Joanne Shaw Taylor, and Shemekia Copeland—aren’t just holding down the blues. They’re dragging it into the present, kicking and screaming, wrapped in chains of distortion and dripping with realness. They’re not stuck in the past—they own the past, and they’re re-writing the future with every stomped foot and snarled lyric.
So forget what you thought you knew about the blues. The next time you hear someone say “the blues is dead,” slap them gently (or not-so-gently) and hand them a playlist of these women. Because the blues isn’t just alive—it’s alive, it’s angry, and it’s absolutely female.
And if you’re not listening? Well… you’re the one who’s slippin’ away.
–Leslie Thomas
