History Witch

History Witch celebrates voices that are all too often left out of musical narratives and simultaneously provides historical context for why discussions of gender and sexuality in music continue to matter. Each month the column spotlights historically significant albums or tracks by women, queer, trans, or non-binary musicians.

Lesley Gore’s recording of “You Don’t Own Me” peaked at the number two spot on the Billboard Hot 100 on February 1st, 1964. It remained there for three consecutive weeks while The Beatles’ “I Want to Hold Your Hand” maintained a strong hold on number one. Dusty Springfield, Klaus Nomi, and Joan Jett are among the artists who have covered the song. There was also a French version by Canadian singer Michèle Richard. More recently, a rendition by Australian singer Grace and American rapper G-Eazy brought the song to the top of the charts demonstrating that fifty-six years later, the song continues to inspire young women to use their voices to loudly and firmly denounce the patriarchy.

Gore recorded “You Don’t Own Me” at the age of 17. It might be tempting to dismiss her performance as that of a young woman under the thumb of powerful men. Indeed, the song was written by Philadelphia songwriters John Madara and David White and produced by Quincy Jones. But Gore’s youthfulness is at least part of what lends the song such a powerful sense of agency. Released in December of 1963 with “Run, Bobby Run” as the B-side, “You Don’t Own Me” was Gore’s second most successful recording and her last top-ten single. Her recalcitrant performance rejects the notion of women as property and, in so doing, aligns the struggle for women’s rights with the 1960s Civil Rights movement— as imagined by the song’s authors.

she starts to sing, her expression shifts to uncompromising resolve. She makes direct eye contact with the camera and her eyes mock the viewer as if daring us to test her certainty.

The song opens in the minor mode, its title and opening line among the most hauntingly defiant in the history of popular music. Gore’s voice, thick with reverb, repeats the poignant line an additional three times over the course of the two and a half minute track. I hear this echo—characteristic of 1960s girl groups—as a kind of shouting into the void. Will their messages be heard and legitimated? A rattling tick provides the backbeat while a piano in the low register chugs out the compound meter like an exhausted old train. And exhausted— or at least tiresome—the necessity of this message may be, Gore directs a series of negative imperatives towards an unnamed oppressor before triumphantly shifting to the parallel major. The doo-wop chord progression buttresses Gore’s assertions of autonomy and self-determination. Through a rising series of chromatic modulations, Gore intensifies the conviction. Although not supported vocally in the same manner as other girl groups of the time, faint “oohs” and “aahs” can be heard as tentative endorsements. The song fades out in repetitions of positive declarations; it feels appropriate to allow these sentiments to linger, insisting that the work of freedom is far from finished.

Dr. Emily Gale is a feminist pop music scholar who lives in Berlin.