Imagine a smoky London pub late at night.

Mick Jagger, the legendary frontman of The Rolling Stones, leans back in his chair, a slow sip of drink in hand, as music hums softly in the background.

Asked countless times about his favorite singers, tonight he pauses, smirks, and shares five names — all women — who shook him to his core.

These aren’t just influences; they are forces of nature, artists who challenged, inspired, and redefined what it means to be a rock vocalist.

For a man who has strutted stages for six decades, these five women represent the raw power, emotion, and authenticity that fuel true rock and roll.

 

The first name on Jagger’s list is Janis Joplin — a voice that terrified and thrilled him simultaneously.

Janis didn’t just sing; she detonated.

She entered a song like a storm, barefoot and wild, with whiskey in one hand and heartbreak in the other.

Jagger recalls seeing her live at Madison Square Garden in 1969, where her performance of “Piece of My Heart” left even Keith Richards, the legendary guitarist known for his stoicism, standing still in awe.

 

Janis was chaos wrapped in denim, a thunderous force of raw emotion.

She wasn’t about polish or pretense; she was unapologetically real.

For Jagger, who built his career on danger, seduction, and performance, Janis wasn’t competition — she was confrontation.

She embodied freedom in its purest form: no image, no script, just burning, uncontrollable emotion.

After witnessing her, Jagger called her “untouchable,” not for flawlessness but because she was too real to be faked.

Next comes Stevie Nicks, whose voice made elegance feel like a riot.

In the late 1970s, when Fleetwood Mac dominated the charts, Stevie ruled Jagger’s imagination.

They toured together, danced in hotel bars, and amidst rumors and shadows, Jagger was captivated not by her beauty or mystery but by her voice.

 

Stevie’s singing wasn’t about volume; it was about magic.

She didn’t belt out songs; she conjured them.

In a world full of screaming frontmen, her power came in quiet waves, creeping under your skin.

Jagger once said she could make even a goodbye sound like a prophecy.

Watching her perform “Gold Dust Woman” live was like witnessing a man under hypnosis.

To Jagger, who thrived on chaos, Stevie was a storm in slow motion — calm, commanding, and utterly magnetic.

 

If Stevie was a slow-burning storm, Tina Turner was a cyclone wrapped in sequins and muscle.

Tina didn’t move on stage; she erupted.

Jagger, a lifelong student of performance, admits Tina redefined what it meant to own the stage.

Every stomp was a thunderclap, every scream a battlecry.

She didn’t perform; she conquered.

 

When they shared the stage for “State of Shock” in 1985, Jagger felt himself disappear beside her.

Tina’s presence was overwhelming, a masterclass in power, sweat, and soul.

She didn’t need lights or tricks; her very being lit up the room.

Tina demanded surrender, and the crowd had no choice but to obey.

Her voice was muscle, her rhythm rage, and her energy relentless — controlled chaos at its finest.

 

Chrissie Hynde of The Pretenders brought a different kind of power — punk edge mixed with polished cool.

Jagger admired her duality deeply: she could spit venom and still sound sultry, sound dangerous yet seductive.

Meeting her in the early 1980s, when rock was either burning down or being reborn, Jagger expected fire but found steel — unbending, unapologetic, and magnetic.

 

Chrissie wasn’t trying to please anyone. She dared you to flinch.

Her presence was cold, precise, and commanding.

When she sang “Brass in Pocket,” it wasn’t a request; it was a warning wrapped in lipstick.

For Jagger, Chrissie embodied control without shouting, confidence without pleading.

She stripped the stage down to her level and made it hers, a force field in leather and eyeliner who ruled with quiet dominance.

 

The last name on Jagger’s list comes with a smile and perhaps a hint of ache: Patti Smith.

She wasn’t just a singer; she was poetry on fire, a prophetess with a microphone, a preacher with electric venom.

Jagger first saw her perform at CBGB in the late ’70s — barefoot, hair matted, sweat shining like war paint.

 

Patti didn’t care about being pretty; she cared about being true.

Her voice cracked, broke, soared — every word a dare.

She was unpredictable, raw, and just unstable enough to be transcendent.

What struck Jagger most wasn’t her pitch but her defiance.

Patti didn’t entertain; she confronted.

Her music felt sacred and profane, art and aggression rolled into one.

 

For Jagger, who built a career pushing limits, Patti was more than a kindred spirit — she was a warning shot.

Watching her, he felt less like a rock star and more like a student at the altar of something bigger.

 

Mick Jagger has shared stages with legends, danced under lights for six decades, and faced roaring stadiums.

Yet, when asked who truly shook him to his core, it wasn’t the loudest guitar or fastest drummer.

It was these women — artists who didn’t ask permission to enter rock’s world but carved their names into its walls with raw voices and fierce presence.

They didn’t lean on anyone’s legacy; they built their own from scratch, brick by lyric, scream by silence.

They roared like thunder, whispered like warnings, haunted, seduced, shattered, and soared.

They sang with teeth bared, hearts exposed, and backs turned to anyone who told them to stay quiet.

 

For Jagger, these women embody the truth that real power in music isn’t about volume but authenticity.

Their voices echo in his performances, every stage he steps on, every line he writes.

In a world full of kings, these are the queens who never needed crowns — their greatness lies in how deeply they cut, how fiercely they lived, and how boldly they sang.

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