I like the comfort in knowing that women are the only future in rock and roll.
– Kurt Cobain
I was recently browsing through my copy of Journals when I came across this line – it comes up in various iterations more than once. Sitting here in 2008 – in a post-Lilith Fair era – Cobain’s sentiment seems smartish but mostly un-shocking. The aughts have seen a number of female artists capture the spotlight and/or critical attention fairly regularly, right? Leslie Feist sold a kajillion copies of her blandly pleasant little slab of quirky rock. Amy Winehouse commands Cobain-level public hand-wringing. And Sleater-Kinney’s passing into perpetual hiatus found mainstream-ish rock critics FINALLY dropping the faint praise that they were “pretty good for a girl band.”
In short, it’s pretty easy on this side of 1994 to agree with Cobain and pretend that everyone always did, that women are as equally respected as men in the land of rock and roll. A comfortable boy could easily refer to his Neko Case and Liz Phair records and conclude that rock and roll sexism is a problem that’s been mostly eradicated save for Nickleback listeners and rap rock cretins. Of course Juggalos and Maxim subscribers and bros of various stripes are still stuck in the Clinton era. But today’s kinder-gentler “smart rock” fan is blameless, right?
I thought I was. I thought I had mostly wide-minded taste in punk-flavored rock music – that was until my wife got into Kathleen Hanna’s post-Bikini Kill band Le Tigre. She played Feminist Sweepstakes for me, and I recoiled. It was noisy, harsh, and hectoring to my sensitive little ears. It was up in my proverbial grill. I normally like ugly, pushy music. I normally feel like it’s on my side. But Le Tigre? I felt like I was being bossed around – and I hadn’t even done anything wrong. I mean, here was a band that was on *my* case. As a twenty-something liberal white guy who owned a ton of the right kind of records, rock and roll wasn’t supposed to be giving *me* a hard time. The nerve!
This experience has since given me a greater appreciation for Cobain’s slogan about women in rock. Confrontation and upending of the usual social order are a critical part of rock and roll – especially punk rock. And when “enlightened” white dudes reared on rock and roll become the established social order, the future of rock and roll as a force for change means upsetting self-satisfied dudes – no matter how well meaning those dudes might be. I’m guessing that Kurt’s attitudes were shaped in no small measure while he was dating Bikini Kill’s Toby Vail during the period when she and Hanna were inventing riot grrl.
Subsequent exposure to Le Tigre has won me over. Their live shows are genuinely fun and have the crackling energy of something new happening in real time. I can’t claim any great insight into what Le Tigre is up to. I like it on a gut level, but I still need some of the jokes explained to me. In short, this band is outside of my comfort zone.
I’ve actually been slyly moving this disc to the bottom of the Record Desk pile because I’m not sure that I have anything to say about Feminist Sweepstakes that will make me seem totally awesome and achingly smart. I think one of the persistent reasons why male rock fans and critics wind up writing and saying stupid things about women in rock and roll bands is because most rock fandom and criticism is all about nostalgia. And when women practice rock and roll outside of their traditional roles of ingénue, sex kitten, or member of a svengali-directed pop group, the rock and roll boys club doesn’t know how to process their contributions.
I’m guessing the reason why women-directed rock gets pushed off to the side is because male rock dudes aren’t used dealing with experiences or perspectives outside of their little club where every moments of poignant “outsider” discomfort is hand-selected and usually self-inflicted – endured so that the sufferer achieves meaning and has something to smoke in the old angst pipe when he tells tragic tales of former nerdhood in an attempt to win friends and become an expert-level white person.
So essentially, I stopped worrying and learned to love Kathleen Hanna. I admit my comfort zone remains boy-directed rock music that makes knowing reference to bands I’ve already learned to love. Still, I’m with Kurt. I think that if rock and roll is going to exist in the future, women should be at the helm. I look forward to my own obsolescence.
At the very least, I’m not sure if I can take any more nostalgic longing for someone else’s nostalgia. Teenage angst has paid off well, indeed. I hope Frances Bean uses her tee-shirt royalties to buy a Fender Mustang and an eight-track.
Venture with me to the land of anachronism and empty cultural signifiers — IF YOU DARE!
