Written by Catie Keck
Melissa Etheridge has been a defining voice in queer music for decades, but there’s something especially indelible about the way she has made herself and her identity so visible in the process. “Come to My Window” has long lived in the canon of queer love songs, one so deeply embedded in our collective history that hearing it can still feel like a kind of recognition. For so many of us, Etheridge isn’t simply a queer icon; she’s someone whose music helped make being openly, unapologetically yourself feel possible.
Her latest album, Rise, finds her reckoning with grief while continuing to reach toward hope, love, and connection. And in the middle of a particularly busy touring season, Etheridge made space for Lesbian Culture Club to talk about the record, her career, and the community that has been with her from the beginning. That generosity feels fitting for an artist whose work has always been so emotionally expansive, and someone deeply attuned to the complexity of identity, desire, loss, and what it means to find your way back to yourself.
In our conversation, Etheridge reflects on the childhood experiences that inspired “Tomboy,” the authenticity that has kept her sane, and the unexpected evolution of “Come to My Window” into a queer anthem. She talks about getting her start playing women’s bars in Los Angeles, the importance of creating dedicated spaces for queer people, and what she would tell her younger self about coming out and owning who she is. Across it all, what comes through most clearly is the same quality that has made Etheridge such a lasting icon: an extraordinary willingness to be honest about who she is, and to make room for the rest of us to do the same.
So many of your songs deal with identity and self-expression, but “Tomboy” feels like such a celebration and reclamation of identity, particularly within our community, where gender expression can be so diverse.
That is exactly where “Tomboy” came from. Until I was about 10 years old, I didn’t think I was a girl or a boy. I was just having a blast and out there and playing softball. And I remember when I first started realizing—when my body started changing—oh, I'm a girl. And I remember being called a tomboy. And I remember thinking, now, is that good or bad? And what are they saying? What’s behind it? Because there was this identity thing.
When I really sat down to write this album, I went back into my past and thought about identity. And I said, you know what, tomboy is a great character. It’s a great name. It’s a great part of some women’s childhood. And they don’t even have to be gay. There’s plenty of sporty women that have chosen the straight lifestyle. [Laughs] The whole line, “ain’t nothing weak when little girls are strong.” You’re on that lovely spectrum of personalities. Getting out of trying to always pigeonhole people is a good thing.
Your music creates a really safe environment for people to own their authentic selves, and you’ve spoken a lot about how important authenticity and being the most honest version of yourself are.
It has kept me sane. As my career unfolded and I realized that I was coming to a point where I would have to state, “Look, this is my sexuality. I’m a lesbian. I’m with women.” And then to own the passion in that, and the strength, and still do it and try to write in a very universal way. I’ll say nowadays, I can use gender and I don’t feel like anybody’s going to get weird about it. But growing into that and leaning into the human side of it—the feelings, the passions, the desires—that’s where I wanted to set people free and let them know they’re not alone in that, and that a woman can feel these deep, strong desires and passions about another woman.
“Come to My Window” is such a queer anthem. Did you ever imagine it would become such a defining queer love song? And I know you’ve said it wasn’t necessarily about one specific person, but can you speak to who or what inspired it?
I almost didn’t put it on the album. I wrote it from actually a place of a little bit of heartbreak. My girlfriend at the time, we were having a hard time. I was always traveling. And that’s where I said I would dial the numbers just to listen to your breath.
I do remember writing the bridge, “I don't care what they think. I don't care what they say. What do they know about this love. Anyway?” And I remember thinking, ‘Wow, that's probably the center of that song for me.’ That’s the point where I wrote it from. That was me writing that as I was coming out, as I was getting ready to just go, look, this is who I am. I don't care what they think or say. I’m going to do what I need to do because what do they know about this love anyway? And every time I sing that, it’s just an explosion of pride and it's an explosion of desire. I hit that every night.
You started your career playing at lesbian bars in LA Can you tell me a little about that experience?
Yes, ma’am. When I got to LA, I realized that there wasn't really a place for a woman and an acoustic guitar.
It was the early ’80s, so there were a lot of hair bands and heavy metal and stuff. When I was dating a woman, she took me to this bar that had just opened in Long Beach. They had a piano in the corner, and I asked if they had live music. They said, “No, that was here from the steakhouse that the place used to be.” And I said, “Well, hey, I have a system. I can bring this in. Would you like some live music?” And they were like, “Yeah.”
The community down in Long Beach and Southern California really helped me. I played for over five years in women’s bars down there and at women’s music festivals. And the community really helped me become who I am today.
Those spaces are so important. Your concerts have really become a shared space for our community, especially as there are fewer and fewer dedicated spaces for lesbians and queer people. What do you think is so important about having those spaces?
Well, you know, I knew that it would someday come to kind of a crossroads in our community. Back then, the places that we met were bars, and they were filled with alcohol and a lot of drinking. A lot of us stopped drinking, and so we were forced to create different spaces. And I think that’s where we are now.
It used to be back in the ’80s you couldn’t even order a water in a bar. But now we have tea houses, coffee houses, places where it’s not embarrassing to order a mocktail.
And yeah, my concerts. Man, I love seeing the community come out to my concerts and mingle with the straight community. It’s a beautiful blend of wonderful people that are just there to listen to music.
That is so beautiful. And finally, for those of us who look to you and your peers as queer icons, what would you tell your younger self about coming into your identity and owning your sexuality?
Oh, I would say, be not afraid of being who you are. Really lean into your uniqueness. You do not have to be like anyone else. We were not created to be all alike. That's the whole game here—the differences. It makes the world go around. It makes us appreciate who we are and what we do like. So I would say to my younger self, I would say, don't be afraid of that.
You're going to come out. It's going to be the best thing you've ever, ever done. And I would tell anyone that owning who they are, even though they might be in hostile environments, believe me, you're going to find your way. You're going to take your steps. You're going to make it. And you're going to be so grateful that you are who you are, because otherwise you're going to get sick, and that's not a good thing.
Follow Melissa on Instagram @melissa_etheridge
New album Rise available now melissaetheridge.com
