A Guy Wrote Like a Virgin and Madonna Stole It Forever
Billy Steinberg was driving a red pickup through his father’s vineyards in Coachella when the lyrics hit him. He’d just gotten out of a messy relationship. Met someone new. This person made him feel renewed, like he’d never loved before. Like he was a virgin again. He wrote about that. An autobiographical ballad about healing emotional wounds. A vulnerable guy composing about his feelings.
When he brought the song to Tom Kelly, his writing partner, they decided it should be a power ballad like Beatles or Scorpions. But there was a problem. They didn’t know how to fit the line “like a virgin”. Steinberg didn’t want to use that “bold” word. It felt too much. He just wanted to say that starting a new relationship healed all his wounds and made him feel like he’d never done it before. That was it. Nothing more. They finished it anyway. And there it sat, circulating through record label desks for months. Nobody wanted to record a song with that title. Too provocative. Too risky.
In 1984, the emerging pop star needed material for her second album. The first one had been slow to take off but was finally exploding with Holiday, Borderline and Lucky Star. Warner Bros hired Nile Rodgers, the most expensive producer around, fresh off Bowie’s Let’s Dance. The label didn’t have budget so they made a weird deal. If the record sold over three million copies, Rodgers got huge royalties. Everyone thought he was crazy betting that high.
Michael Ostin from Warner’s artist department heard a couple melodies from the rejected ballad and thought of her immediately. Next day he set up a meeting. Steinberg, Kelly and Ostin sat down with the singer. They played the demo. The reaction was instant. “I went crazy”, she’d remember years later. She didn’t see a male heartbreak ballad. She saw irony, provocation, a wordplay impossible to ignore. “How can you be LIKE a virgin?”, she thought. It was street, cool, perfect. Ostin knew right then they had a hit. The singer knew it too. But for completely different reasons than Steinberg had imagined.
Recording sessions started March 1984 at Power Station Studios in New York. Six weeks to complete the record. Digital recording, futuristic tech but cheaper than traditional tape. The artist showed up after swimming at a local pool. Never missed a session. Never let them record anything without her hearing it first. Some musicians found it intrusive. Rodgers found it powerful. “I never worked with a person I respected more”, the producer said. “First day I was first to arrive at the studio, but it didn’t happen again. She wouldn’t let me be first anymore”.
The singer picked every song personally. The ones she’d written with Stephen Bray. One of her own called Shoo-Bee-Doo. And three possible hits written by others. The rejected ballad that would now title the album, Material Girl written specifically for her, and Dress You Up sent in by two New Jersey housewives. Nine songs. No filler. “I want them all to be hits”, she said. Sound engineer Jason Corsaro remembers some found her intrusive, but he thought she was powerful. She was determined to make the record succeed. If someone did something she didn’t like, she made it clear immediately. During mixing sessions, she never left. Always there. Always listening. Always deciding.
The album was set for June 1984 release. Didn’t happen. The first record, which had sold poorly at first, suddenly exploded. The label postponed the release several times. The artist was furious. “I was irritated because another song of mine was doing so well and I had to wait to release something I was excited about”. Finally dropped November 12th. The cover caused scandal. Lying down like a bride in sexy lingerie with a belt that said “Boy Toy”. Some stores printed the back image instead for being too provocative.
The single hit number one before Christmas. The album too. Then came Material Girl, Angel, Dress You Up, Into the Groove. Eleven successful singles in 18 months. But adult critics destroyed her. They accused her of using sex to sell low-quality music. The only one who defended her publicly was Rodgers. “Iggy Pop can be sexual onstage and it’s fine, but she’s a woman, that’s why they say it’s low quality. She’s an excellent singer and musician. Would be good if people went beyond the image”. The artist responded clearly. “I think people want to see me as a dumb blonde. You’re not allowed to flirt without being airheaded. I do it because I like it. I do it because it excites me”.
Rodgers won his bet. The album didn’t sell three million. Sold 21 million. Seven times what the label had wagered. For the singer it was the breaking point. Stopped being emerging disco artist and became global star. She was breaking stereotypes. Had control. Used sex as a tool to express strength and independence. Wasn’t an object of desire. Was a desiring subject. That was revolutionary in the 80s. Caroline Sullivan from The Guardian wrote that a woman in control of her sex life and career was such a new idea she became the biggest phenomenon impacting pop culture that decade.
Worth it 40 years later? Completely. Like a Virgin remains the perfect manual on how to take something that isn’t yours and make it yours. Steinberg wrote about healing emotional wounds. The pop queen sang it as a declaration of sexual independence. Neither planned the other reading. But there it is. The difference isn’t in the lyrics. It’s in who sings it and what they decide to do with it.
It’s a record you can’t miss if you ever wondered how a song can mean completely different things depending on who performs it. A guy wrote vulnerable autobiography. A woman created cultural revolution. She stole that male heartbreak ballad. Turned it into a feminist anthem without changing a word. And transformed pop music forever. The best songs aren’t the ones you write for yourself. They’re the ones someone else steals and turns into something else.
