in her voice i hear the revolution
by Sara McCartney
This is not a critical analysis. This is not academic, scholarly, or even well thought out. This is a textual scream over oceans of mediocre bro rock, production values, and singers who always hit the right notes. This is a textual celebration of music that makes us feel less alone.
Because I have this theory about the purpose of art. How do we justify art in a pragmatic universe? It is an opportunity to overcome the ultimate barriers of human experience; through the shared experience of art we can come close to really experiencing the same thing, with artist and audience alike. This is why communities form around the appreciation of art; it’s why the act of concert-going becomes transcendent when, you know, everyone’s just feelin it, man. And because art ought to blur the experiential lines between creator and consumer, the finest art should be a call to action. Join the community where we are creators and consumers both.
So I really like singers that make me think that, if I scream loud enough, I can sing too. I hear you Patti Smith, Lou Reed, Iggy Pop, Kathleen Hanna—punk rock that screeches and growls alike.
Punk is truth because it isn’t filtered through a focus group or autotune. It is about the real world of real people, because you don’t have to go beyond reality to have the means to make it. No expensive instruments, vocal training, Juilliard tuition required. Because of this, it is a voice for the underbelly, the anybody—working-class, queer af, POC, and on and on—and this is a truer thing than studio synthesis. (Does this mean trash is truth? I hope so). Punk as a locus for a community, new bands, fanzines, venues, events—like Rachael Rosen’s Femmquerade Balls in New York right now, because punk isn’t dead, you know—arises from this low barrier of entry, as the academics say. It is a game anyone can play. As Patti Smith is known to howl, this is the era where everybody creates. Implicit in every punk song is an invitation, to the garage, to the second-hand guitars, to join in the racket with the most joyous rage.
The punk I love, for which riot grrrl is a useful if insufficient label, is a riotous, unapologetic rage against the patriarchal oppression poisoning the rock’n’roll world. But it’s celebratory too. Punk is dance music for people who can’t bother keeping to the dance steps. Isn’t it blissful to dance around without inhibitions, to lose yourself in the feedback? And of course, the joy of stealing the microphone, seizing the chance to say something, imbues every note. It is a drive to create.
Take the first straight-up riot grrrl song I ever heard, probably the most widely proliferated, as Spotify playlists go. You’ve heard it, right? “Rebel Girl” by Bikini Kill? You’ve heard of it? I hesitate to write about it, because it almost seems too obvious, but it’s one hell of a good song. For another thing, I think it’s the first love song I ever heard about queer women. Punk being music for outsiders makes it the sweetest tonic against heteronormative pop. But beyond the niche it fills, it’s straightforward and unapologetic. The rest of the world is reduced to a gray, judgmental “them,” who are no match for Hanna and her Rebel Girl, who’s already become queen of the neighborhood. The unnamed “they” are the backdrop against which the rebel girl shines, she who is imbued to her core with the revolution in her voice, her hips, her walk, her kiss. But first and foremost, her voice, because this rock’n’roll beloved is a dancing, conquering, stylish, screaming woman with agency. The song takes great glee in proving her enemies wrong. More than a love song, it’s a song of comradery, a song with the promise of kinship. The very concept of family is rewritten. Love you like a sister, Hanna sings with a wink.
It is a community extending beyond genre, beyond merely music. The song “Hot Topic,” performed by Hanna’s later band Le Tigre, chants a roll call of artistic revolutionaries, from Gertrude Stein to Sleater Kinney. It’s a long list, of course; it’s a long legacy. You’re getting old – but I’m listening anyway, the lyrics acknowledge. Relevant still. Because the list keeps growing, and the legacies on the list must smile at how the work of outsider art carries on.
That’s it. That’s my love letter. It may be a manifesto.