It occured to me, while watching Johnette Napolitano at the Commodore last weekend, that it was utterly refreshing to finally see a real woman on stage for a change.

Of course there are plenty of chai house vixens and dance divas and gurrrl ‘rockers’ to choose from, but they’re all mostly just different kinds of pop tarts, some with more icing, some with more jam. What we see less and less of are the likes of Janice Joplin, Chrissie Hynde, Tracy Chapman or even P.J Harvey. I’m not saying they’re not out there, but they have as much chance, say, of conscription into Terry McBride's pantry of McMuffins as I do.

At one point during last weekend’s show, Napolitano and her band Concrete Blonde played Leonard Cohen’s ‘Everybody Knows.’ Cohen’s version is an art-house staple; it has a European flavour, sung by him in his dry pseudo-monotone. Napolitano makes it a full-out rocker. She delivers the verses with more menace and sarcasm than Cohen, and belts out the choruses with such exhilarating elan that Friday’s crowd let out a spontenous roar in mid-song. Her version simply has more balls.

It is the touch of the masculine in Napolitano that makes her all the more believably feminine. The audience, an equal mix of male and female, seemed starved of this kind of thing.

She is also a virtuoso vocalist; I can’t think of a better female singer in rock. Together with co-Blonde James Mankey---whose guitar playing nicely combines muscle and elegance---they put on a great display of chops.

This is another thing you don’t see much of. The ability to play; not show off or wank, mind you, but simple, considered, technical musical flair. Chops are viewed by the ‘in crowd’ in this town’s scene with the same suspicion as a university education in Pol Pot’s Cambodia.

No doubt this is due to the old ‘anyone can do it’ punk posture. But what exactly is it is that anyone can do? Play poorly? Yes, anyone can do that. But even writing and playing a great punk song is no mean feat. I mean, the Ramones and Sex Pistols were both as tight as a spring. The disparagement of craft is stupid, and it writes off most of the best music ever made.

Concrete Blonde were never quite punks. They emerged from the same Los Angeles music scene that threw up Wall of Voodoo and X, and like those bands are not so easy to pin down. They're more mainstream and riff-rocking than their contemporaries, but were not disparaged for it in their hometown. Indeed, their biggest hit, “Joey,” is a tribute to Wall of Voodoo guitarist Marc Morland.

I’ve always liked them, because to me they represent everything a band could be. Heavy (‘Bloodletting’) without being ponderous; riffing (‘God is a Bullet’) without being metal; punk (‘Still in Hollywood’) without being a tiresome fucking poser; melodic (‘Caroline’) without being too syrupy. All put together in a simple three-piece unit.

They possess style without affectation; they have an unposturing confidence. The simple pleasure they seemed to get from playing their music, and playing it well, left me inspired to believe that this is what matters most. And if that's the case, then in a sense, anyone can really do it.