...record reviews for Maximum Rocknroll. I remember, I was 15 years old and on a family holiday in Florida when I picked up my first copy of MRR. Yes, while other teenagers were indulging in the incorrect inhalation of B&H, the guzzling of Hooch and the breaking of hymens, I went to Disney World with my parents. If I recall correctly, it had some kind of skull with liberty spikes on it - the cover of the first MRR I bought that is. Not mine or anyone else's hymen. I read that thing cover to cover and over and over. Then, I cut it up and put my favourite ad's and photo’s from it up on my wall along side pictures I’d ripped out of Melody Maker, Q and NME of Blur and any other blokes I fancied/my favourite bands. I'm sure its dog-eared remnants are probably back in my parents garage somewhere, packed into a box with years worth of other acquired possessions that should really have just been thrown away.
If you had told me then that in 12 years time I’d end up writing for them, I’d have not believed it. Even now, even though my name and my useless words are actually in print, I can still barely believe it.
One of the first things I listened to to review was a 7" by a local band, fronted by a girl who I know very casually but with whom I share many friends. I was a bit nervous about this as I’d already seen the band in question live and I was somewhat put off by their, or more particularly her, performance. I wasn't sure how to be diplomatic about something I already knew I wasn't into, yet I didn't want to begin my sparkling writing career on a negative note.
The night I saw them was a week-ish before my birthday this year in the thoroughly luxurious setting of the penthouse suite at Kimo's. The show was supposed to consist of a manageable 3 band line up, of which 2 bands I was looking forward to seeing - Toys That Kill and Lenguas Largas. The former are always great and the latter features members of Shark Pants, Swing Ding Amigos, Tokyo Election and that lovable drunk asshole Chris Kohler.
Upon my arrival to the show, much to the joy of my short attention span, I discovered 3 additional acts had been added to the bill, around and between the bands I actually wanted to watch. Great. I knew then that by the time TTK headlined I probably wouldn't be physically or financially able to choke down another 12oz $4 PBR, any feelings of enthusiasm had would've long died and I'd be so bloody sick of the night it'd be all I could do to just be arsed to stand up to see them. The calibre of the extra entertainment certainly didn't help the situation either - a rapper, who was just some drunk mate of whoever put the gig on, a 20 minute "hard house" DJ set and then the band whose debut release I ended up having to review.
Being pleased they were at least a band, my friend Nikki and I went up front to watch them. What confronted us was a pretty tight, energetic and straight up hardcore sound from 3 dudes topped off with some solid female vocals. Not bad at all actually. However, as their (thankfully) short set (hey I’m already over it and still waiting for TTK, remember) wore on, the source of the vocals began to put me in a state of unease.
Initially I was pleased to see a girl singing her fucking lungs out with skill. She enhanced and genuinely contributed to the sound of this band instead of just accessorizing it, as I feel can commonly and unfortunately happen with women in music. While I appreciate what I just laid down there to be a depressing generalization – which, for the most part, I do believe to be bullshit because of smart and talented females, friends and otherwise, I’ve encountered who both write and play great music – what I’ve witnessed from years of working at a live music venue and attending gigs, “the token (and often poor) female bass player” (I’m guilty of that one, I’m afraid. I’m never gonna be no Mike Watt.) or the hot, yet questionably skilled, female lead singer crop up in bands all too often also.
Clad in an almost nipple revealing, yet barely bum encasing frilly Betsey Johnson looking number, their singer contorted her body into, well, basically positions you only ever get into if you’re doing it. There is never usually, well for me anyway, another reason for my ankles to come up to my face. She writhed (interestingly enough only around male audience members) with a contrived ferocity to the point of near orgasmic convulsion. Nikki and I exchanged an awkward glance before she left me, stating she couldn’t even watch them anymore the singer was so off putting.
Now, do not get me wrong. I am all for a short skirt, and fuck, even a bit of cleavage. I take the 5 days of summer we get a year here in San Francisco to sport bare legs and Forever 21’s finest arse skimmers myself. There is nothing I love more than the feeling of self-confidence I encounter when I get out of the hoodie and remember that I am, in fact, female. Though, I’m too a firm believer that there has to be some substance to the image. I mean this really, I think, goes without saying - you’ve got to be able to hold decent conversations, be funny, smart and engaging in your interactions with either sex, despite what you’re wearing and whatever “signals” that may or may not send out. You can’t just be the legs and tits at the show.
As a girl that’s never exactly been a conventional beauty, I feel it’s imperative for a positive self-perspective, if nothing else, that you’re able to bring something more to the table other than physical cuteness. And where my discomfort with this performance lay is that her physicality became all that was on offer.
The overt and somewhat laboured sexuality of her performance ended up cheapening their set, taking away from her skills as a vocalist, alienating female audience members and reinforcing a stereotype that I have beef with. Her aloof post show demeanor didn’t really help either, though to be fair, maybe she was also just sick of being at Kimo’s.
Anyway, fast-forward a couple of months to early June: I put their 7” on the turntable (which for the record, doesn’t even sound like the same band I watched at Kimo’s) and as I listened, I checked out the artwork. Hmm, some pretty clichéd and unoriginal imagery graced its cover, no big deal. I flipped it over and what do you fucking know, there is a picture of a fishnet and panty-wearing arse covering most of it!? Ok, at least it is not on the front, but seriously, if you’re going to attempt playing the sex card that blatantly, it really discounts and overshadows the content of everything else you’re trying to do.
I began to wonder why that bothered me so much. Usually, within the confides of my own mind, I would’ve just had a mini rant over it. Then forgot it as quickly as I’d realized it had annoyed me. But now I was in a position where I kind of had to give my opinion, and not just to a friend, but also in print. And as a result of that, to whoever reads it, which with a zine like MRR that could be an extremely far-reaching audience. If not just the band that are obviously proud enough to put this out and with whom many of my friends are friends. Crap! I had to ask myself the obvious question – am I jealous of this girl?
I was even born at lunchtime. I weighed near 9lbs and when unraveled I measured a monstrous 2 feet in length. My mom is 5’ 2” and about 120lbs, how I even came out of her without the aid of a Caesarian is a pretty stomach churning mystery. It is safe to say I’ve always been a big fat fuck. Through kid-hood that got me ruthlessly bullied and as I got older to that vile age where I started wanting to be pretty and noticed by the opposite sex, got me rejected for cuter and thinner options by almost every bloke I crushed on.
Perhaps this giant chip (I wont make the obvious joke about fatties and chips) I’ve been known to have on my shoulder did inform this opinion to some extent. I doubt Agent Provocateur even sell a pair of knickers I could get over my calves, let alone feel and look good enough in to have my picture taken and have 500 copies of it made.
I know I know, I’m being unduly harsh. I’m 27 years old now and way over the worst part of coming of age, thank fuck. I’ve come to a point where I do know I’m a decent person. There is way more to me or anyone else than their insecurities, and I know, despite my occasional lapses in confidence, the things I least favour about myself should never define me.
The true root of my offense at this band is that the punk world is place where I, like everyone else within it, have found a haven of like-minded people. We - I say we as I expect only my mates to bother reading this, if anyone at all, and we’re all punks - have differing reasons for being here, yet are all just trying to do something in our own way, which is in some method or another in contrast to the usual pressures and expectations of society at large.
Shit, if I want to watch under-clothed babes ramming their contrived confidence down my throat, and endure feelings of ugliness and inadequacy as a result, I can tune into the E! Network for half an hour. I don’t listen to records or go to a shows, let alone punk ones, to have those feelings stirred up within me.
Ultimately, this band left me querying, does this kind of female objectification – no matter how tattooed, fishnetted or “alternative” it is - really have a place here? And I think you’ll be able to imagine the conclusion that I reached.
No comments:
Post a Comment