"Do You Wanna Touch Me" (Joan Jett)

Okay, let's get this out of the way first.  "Do You Wanna Touch Me" was written and originally performed by British glam rocker Gary Glitter, né Paul Gadd.  I'm not going to use this forum to enumerate what he's done/has been accused of doing, but he's a despicable human being.
But this isn't about him.  
This is about a helluva performance by a rock icon/survivor.  
Joan Jett was touring the globe and cranking out hooky glam and punk rock with The Runaways at the age of 17.  She hit rock bottom by age 21, and then, when no US record company would sign her as a solo artist, she founded a her own record label with writer/producer Kenny Laguna to self-release her 1980 comeback album, Joan Jett (re-issued by Boardwalk Records as Bad Reputation in 1981).  
Badass.
In fact, it really ticks me off whenever I mention Joan Jett and someone replies, "Yeah, she rocks pretty hard...for a girl."
Dammit.  No.  No!  NO!  She ROCKS.  
Period.
I saw her in concert a few years ago in 2009, and she commanded the stage unlike any performer I'd ever seen.  She didn't have elaborate lighting or set design.  She didn't come out in some bizarre outfit to grab everyone's attention (she was wearing a black Runaways t-shirt with black leather pants).  She strode onstage, strapped on her guitar, told us in her tough New Yawk accent that she'd recently turned 50 and was happy to be alive and kicking, and then launched headlong into "Bad Reputation," sounding like she was 17 again.  
Every song had that same energy.  But the real pinnacle of the show was "Do You Wanna Touch Me" from the Bad Reputation album, which she stretched into a 10-minute glammed-out jam with audience call-and-response: 
Do ya wanna touch?  
YEAH! 
Do ya wanna touch?  
YEAH!!!
YEAAAH, OH YEAH...OH YEAH!!!
I ended up singing and dancing with a biker chick and a couple of college-age brosephs and brosephines, and everyone had a frigging ball.  Such a great show.
The studio version of "...Touch Me" is equally rousing, with its gate reverb-drenched, recorded-live feel.  Jett snarls her way through the come-hither lyrics while she and her backing band crank up some filthy-sounding guitars to a pulsing beat that's calibrated to fill an arena.
At the end of 3:45, the song is hers and hers alone.