When I was a little girl, I loved female voices in music. My parents would put on Frank Sinatra and I could care less (sorry, ol’ blue eyes, but your slick croon slides right off me), but as soon as Etta James or Hazel Dickens started, I would perk up and sing along, and generally pretend that anything with a handle was my microphone.

You’re going to use that against me one day, aren’t you?

No matter. As I got older, Gwen Stefani and Alanis Morissette and Fiona Apple became icons, inspiring stadium concerts in my bedroom as I imagined my hair in a much more interesting style, and my guitar howling along with my incisive and witty lyrics. The boy who wouldn’t talk to me in third period pre-algebra wouldn’t dare ignore me if he knew exactly how well I could command the attention of thousands of adoring people, and also my dog Abby.

The women in my speakers have always been variations of bad asses, whether they were Nico mysteriously whispering about dysfunctional love, Edith Piaf turning daylight into a smoky bar full of lovers and wistful dances, or more recently, Marnie Stern wailing in mesmerizing mania. But that’s the thing; they are all different. And while parallels can be drawn between vocal qualities, these women owned their voices with their whole selves. Their voices, their music, were their identity to me. Fingerprints, and I could tell where each one left a mark in their own way.

Since I’ve moved to the Northwest, I have been lucky enough to take in some phenomenal women in music doing their thing. Because truly, there aren’t enough women really doing their thing. Maybe it’s because I was raised by a bra-burning ‘60s feminist, but I have a hard time stomaching the token girl up on stage in a nice dress singing third part harmony and occasionally rhythm guitar. If I had talent shooting out of my eyeballs, there is no way I’d want to take time to look pretty on stage. Men on stage hardly even shower, there’s no reason to keep up the double standard. Now, it’s not that I don’t like dressing up. It’s just that I’d rather see a woman own the stage rather than decorate it.

That’s not to say women here in the Northwest don’t have a strong showing. Women like Sera Cahoone, Jesse Sykes, Kelli Schaefer, and Laura Veirs, have gotten me to project so loudly out of the shower that I’m sure my roommate has thought she may have to run in and rescue me from an intruder.

But there’s this vocal trend that’s happening…a friend lovingly dubbed it, ‘the yarl.’ The yarl is when a woman with a beautiful natural timbre catches her voice in her throat, and in a seeming attempt at making it sound like it’s coming charming and golden out of a gramophone, keeps it there. I liken it to when many frontmen in the ‘90s decided they wanted to sound just like Eddie Vedder, and then we ended up with Creed.

The yarl has become prevalent at shows, even with women whose voices have a power that comes from deep in their belly. They’ll be singing with their full range, and all of a sudden, on the way up to a pretty head voice moment, take their voice prisoner in their throat, and everything becomes round and muddled and almost like they may need to burp. I think it might be rude to hop up on stage and burp them in front of everyone, but if that’s what would release these songbirds’ voices, I may have to start.

It’s a phenomenon that has spread to women who didn’t begin that way. I listened to a musician’s EP when she was singing with this stunning depth that seemed buried in her chest somewhere, and I felt it and I believed it, and I was excited to see her get up and own a room. And then I saw her live…and…she had deflated. Deflated into the misty sameness of the yarl.

Just like that third period pre-algebra class, I feel suddenly surrounded by talented women who want to wear the same jeans. It’s another version of shopping at the same store, getting the same hair cut. Come on ladies, get weird. If Colin Meloy can make a career out of that fake accent (the guy is from Helena), you can explore your full range. It may be different. Different is good. Different might just start with not singing your a’s like they are pronounced “ohhhhhwwwww”.

I just want to hear who all these brilliant women really are in their deep, reverberating center. We need that. To get through life and most shows, I need that. Sometimes I look to the people on stage, the women on stage who don’t just sing to their unwilling roommates and restless animals, to show me fearless individuality and boundless talent and growth. And that means a leap, and a brave willingness to let your freak flag fly, and be different.

Did you hear that, guy who didn’t like my glasses in middle school? I’M DIFFERENT AND I’M PROUD! Dance with me at homecoming?