Editor’s Note: On Friday, May 8, New York City-based indie garage soul band Abby Jeanne & The Shadowband will release a new 7-inch vinyl via Brooklyn label Food Of Love Records featuring their recently released single “Queen Bee” as well as its B-side “Baby Come Love Me.”
The songs – which will be featured on the band’s forthcoming debut album – are driven by Jeanne’s powerful vocals that, are equally urgent and soulful in the vein of artists such as Etta James and, according to a press release, featuring the “gritty cool” of The Velvet Underground.” Jeanne’s songwriting feels “like stepping inside a bewitched jukebox where heartbreak, mystery, and teenage dreams collide. Her swooning melodies and infectious pop choruses draw influence from ’60s girl groups like The Ronettes and The Shangri-Las, are tangled in fuzzy guitars, punk rock attitude, and subtle odes to garage, surf, and psychedelia.”
Before moving to NYC, Jeanne grew up and lived in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. She was raised by an “elementary school teacher/poker champion” mother and a “cross-dressing/drama king” father who met each other in a local theater production. She immersed herself in “music, rebellion, and spectacle from the start (something evidence in a 2018 interview Josh did with her) Shaped by her unconventional upbringing and years of being a solo artist, she eventually birthed the Shadowband to fulfill her sonic vision.”
The group debuted in London in March 2024 and has been picking up steam since. They’ve toured the UK with Say She She and shared bills with The Make Up, Bush Tetras, The Mummies, Shannon & the Clams, and The Nude Party.
“Nothing beats surfing the narrative of the cosmic radio and thriving off a lust for life. Dreams, schemes, and the human experience,” says Abby Jeanne via press release. “My spirit is made from the fire of rebellion, and the desire to spread it wild. Although my character may translate as one with rigid strength and angst, in truth, it is the golden armor of a powerful woman who fights fear with courage head-on. Love is the key, and music is my language. With this tool, I hope to heal and translate the traumas of our lives.”
The song, “Queen Bee,” is worth the price of the vinyl alone. We cannot say enough good things about this amazing song. The press release describes it as “a defiant anthem inspired by misogyny in the music industry, urging women to know their worth and call out anyone who stands in their way.” In an exclusive Artist Essay for SWT, Jeanne poignantly describes how a number of ugly personal experiences led her to write the song and triumph on the other side of its completion. We are grateful that she chose SWT for this vulnerable, powerful, and necessary essay. One that many readers will find unfortunately relatable.
There’s a specific kind of disbelief that follows women in music. It’s not always loud or obvious. Sometimes it shows up as a smile, a nod, a “that’s interesting”—and then a quiet decision to ignore you.
I didn’t start out jaded. I became jaded for the better.
“Queen Bee” was born somewhere along that shift.
Early on, before I even knew how to name what was happening, I was in a band with a guy who quietly decided he was my manager. He never asked. He never said it outright. I only found out later that he had been declining show offers on my behalf. Opportunities I didn’t even know existed. Whole rooms I never got to play. Audiences I never got to meet.
He had positioned himself as the filter between me and my own momentum. At the time, I didn’t have the language for it. I just felt stuck, confused about why things weren’t moving. It wasn’t until later that I realized: my career had been rerouted without my consent.
That was one of the first lessons.
Before “Queen Bee” was finished, I had already learned what it meant to fight for my own instincts. I worked with a group of male producers on another track, and when it came time to make the radio edit, I knew exactly what the song needed. But I wasn’t just ignored—I was shut down. Yelled at, actually, when I made the request.
“Let us handle this and stop making it all about yourself!” Which is a strange (and fucking rude) thing to say to someone about their own song. So I pushed back. “It’s my song, and you should feel obligated to listen to me!”
Eventually, they gave in. They made the edit I shouldn’t have had to fight for. And then the radio PR team loved it.
There was no apology. No acknowledgment. No moment of “you were right.” Just a quiet shift, as if the outcome had always belonged to them. And that’s another lesson: even when you’re right, you’re not always credited for it.
By the time I got to Atlanta to write “Queen Bee,” I was starting to see the pattern—but clearly hadn’t fully broken it yet. This producer begged me to come down and write with him. “I got an entire wrecking crew here for you!”
When I arrived, I found out he slapped together the so-called “wrecking crew” the night before, and the first day I wrote “Queen Bee.” I had written the song from a real place. I meant every word. But clearly he wasn’t paying attention to that. The lyrics—the core of the song—felt secondary to whatever he thought the process should be. At first, the band was coming at 5 pm to record, but now it was suddenly 3 pm.
“You gotta finish writing by 3,” he said. “I thought they were coming at 5,” I said. “Oh, I’m testing you to see how fast you can work.”
“Huh?”
What was supposed to be a collaboration turned into something else. Subtle at first—decisions made without me, a tone that suggested I was there to fit into his vision. And then less subtle. Quiet power games. Would I bend? Would I shrink? Would I make myself easier to control? Hell no.
Once that became clear, I was no longer useful to him.
By the end of the sessions, he stopped showing up altogether. Three full days were left in the studio, booked and paid for, and he disappeared. No explanation. Just silence.
But the demo of “Queen Bee”—my demo—was still sitting on his computer. So I took it back. Because it was mine. I had written it. I had lived it. The idea that I would need permission to access my own voice felt absurd. Taking that demo wasn’t stealing—it was reclaiming authorship. And then there’s the quieter kind of dismissal—the kind that lingers even when everything else proves it wrong.
A dear friend of mine—an iconic dance DJ—introduced me to a well-known rock & roll radio DJ who, at the time, was booking my friend’s club. It wasn’t random. It was an introduction with weight behind it because he wanted me to play the club. And still, when it came time to book my band, he refused. Not because of the music, not because of the audience, but because he thought I was, in his own words, “too much of a go-getter.” Too much.
Even with someone reputable vouching for me, it didn’t matter. What’s stranger is that now, everyone he works with loves me. The rooms have changed. The reception has changed. But he hasn’t. To this day, he won’t look me in the eye. He won’t acknowledge my work or even my presence. That’s the pattern. You get filtered out. You get shut down. You get ignored. You get labeled. And if you don’t accept it, you get dismissed.
“Queen Bee” became my response to all of it—not just the frustration, but the clarity that followed. The understanding that no one is going to hand you authority over your own work. You have to take it, sometimes in uncomfortable, unceremonious ways.
Producing the final version of the song myself was part of that. Not as a statement, but as a necessity. I knew what it needed because I had written it from the inside out.
Being a woman in rock & roll often means your conviction gets reframed as ego. Your clarity gets mistaken for resistance. Your ambition gets labeled as “too much.” But what they call “too much” is usually just ownership.
I didn’t become the “Queen Bee.” I just stopped letting other people decide if I was one.
You can follow and listen to Abby Jeanne by checking out the links in her author box below
Abby Jeanne
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