Branching off from the punk subculture, riot grrrl built its culture through the dissemination of fanzines, original art and music.
This playlist aims to capture some of the sounds that built the riot grrrl movement and continue to change the lives of girls and women in the scene.
The Playlist
“New Radio” – Bikini Kill
“Alien She” – Bikini Kill
“Suck My Left One” – Bikini Kill
Bikini Kill changed me.
I don’t even mean that as an exaggeration. Vocalist Kathleen Hanna’s particular brand of unrestrained rage truly speaks to me, and what it says is that I need to get a new facial piercing.
“Eating Toothpaste” – Bratmobile
“Bitch Theme” – Bratmobile
“Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” – Bratmobile
Bratmobile is a classic riot grrrl band. With their hit song “Cool Schmool,” they give off a disaffected “cool girl” style that I really love.
“Jenny” – Sleater-Kinney
“Words and Guitar” – Sleater-Kinney
“Don’t Think You Wanna” – Sleater-Kinney
Sleater-Kinney presents a rolling, twangy rock sound that evokes orange-tinged skies and flannel shirts.
“Bluebell” – Babes in Toyland
“Hello” – Babes in Toyland
“Pain in My Heart” – Babes in Toyland
Babes in Toyland presents a similarly unrestrained sound as Bikini Kill, with moaning vocals giving way to full-on screams. Though it also has a grungy slant, as though the music were being diffused through smoke.
I’ve discussed the exclusivity of alternative scenes before.
It seems an inevitability that a subculture hinging on nonconformity and countercultural stylistics and beliefs would eventually grow into something of a monolith itself. We’ve seen this in most alternative scenes, and I’ve specifically discussed its manifestation in the realms of the metal and goth scenes.
Punk is no exception. Though it constitutes one of my all-time favorite genres, I can’t ignore that both historical and contemporary punk spaces tend to be something of a “boy’s club.”
“The punk/riot grrrl band Bratmobile at The Charlotte in Leicester, England in 1994,” uploaded to Wikimedia Commons by Greg Neate, licensed CC BY 2.0
Especially in the scene’s earliest iterations, misogynistic convictions abounded. The unhinged vigor and brazenly bellicose slant of the punk subculture seemed to preclude female involvement. Male anger was “cool” and “hardcore,” but female anger was rarely taken seriously.
Female-fronted punk bands, such as The Slits, faced significant difficulty in garnering the critial acclaim of their male-fronted counterparts during the 70s and 80s.
As frontwoman Ari Up said in an interview with Rolling Stone, being punk was “hard enough for the boys, but for the girls it was a witch hunt.”
It was becoming increasingly clear that the prospect of solidifying women-safe spaces in the punk scene was a punishing task. For groups like The Slits, existing in the punk scene meant existing in a constant battle against misogyny and patriarchy.
A Girl Riot
In the early 90s, a group of women from Olympia, Washington assembled to discuss the pervasion of sexism within their local punk scene.
The idea of the “Riot Girl” blossomed from these talks, with “girl” used to invoke the freedom of a child’s self-expression and “riot” to encompass the movement’s goal of lashing out against a patriarchal society.
While the original punk movement existed in opposition to the oppressive institutions of contemporary society, Riot Grrrl picked up the slack with staunch pro-trans, anti-racist and feminist credo.
“Bikini Kill performing live at Sylvester Park in Olympia, Washington on May 1, 1991,” uploaded to Wikimedia Commons by johnathancharles, licensed CC BY-SA 2.0
The Foundations
Riot Girls carved out their own subculture, producing original music and fanzines to disseminate and network their ideas within a distinct cultural space.
These zines discussed domestic violence, incest and rape and covered themes relating to sexuality and the exploration of identity in relation to femininity.
“Sleater Kinney,” uploaded to Wikimedia Commons by Pat Castaldo, licensed CC BY 2.0
Zines served to affirm women’s experiences, disseminate praxis and strengthen the unity of the movement.
Riot girl bands, such as Bikini Kill, Bratmobile and Sleater-Kinney radicalized the masses with evocative and irreverent performances that both centered and destigmatized the female body. Clothing and bodies and language became tools for orchestrating the “girl riot.”
The Significance
Riot grrl’s combination of fashion and performance became an art form in of itself, both a subversion and solidifier of conventions of femininity.
Feminism, a concept previously localized to feminist circles, was projected outwards in a staggering display.
Not only were the women in riot grrrl bands projecting their innermost struggles, desires and beliefs, but they did so in a way that empowered other women and girls.
I can still remember going to my first hardcore show and feeling smaller than I’d ever felt before, walled in on all sides by towering men who hardly seemed to recognize that I was even there.
I hated feeling that way, like I was in a place I shouldn’t be.
Evidently, the women behind the riot grrrl subculture felt the same way. The feeling of alienation that often comes with one’s womanhood, both in the hardcore scene and in general society, is an agony that never dulls.
Riot girls responded to this agony with boldness. No longer content with waiting, they made their own spaces in the scene and defended them with animalistic fervor.
They took their bodies, perpetually objectified and minimized by the male gaze, and created something dynamic and frightening and decidedly hardcore.
“Girl power,” a phrase often derided in contemporary circles for its hollow nature, was once the clarion call of the riot girls. Before its co-opting by mainstream pop artists, “girl power” really meant something. It meant seizing — literally or figuratively — what was owed.
It’s not really called “girl power” anymore, but it still exists.
I’ve seen it when girls at shows huddle together, pulling their friends out of the path of crowdkillers. I’ve seen it when female vocalists wail into the mic, their voices frayed with lifetimes of rage. I’ve felt it within myself at shows when I would shove aside men who invaded my personal space.
While some may argue that the “girl riot” ended when “girl power” lost its kick, I don’t think that’s true. I think the “girl riot” is ongoing, and in the wake of the overturn of Roe v. Wade, soon apt to reach a new intensity.
Additional Reading
Zine-Making as Feminist Pedagogy
Just a Girl? Rock Music, Feminism, and the Cultural Construction of Female Youth
The goth subculture is, for many, inherently queer. In fact, a running joke between me and several of my goth friends is that gayness in the goth community is considered “boring” due to the sheer volume of bi and pansexuals populating the subculture.
There are many different reasons as to why goths are so queer, and I doubt I’m wholly qualified to speculate. I will do so anyways.
Perhaps the marriage of the anti-establishment ethos from which goth was born and its darkly Victorian aesthetics gave way to the dissolution of contemporary markers of gender and sexuality.
Below is a short compilation of some of my favorite tracks by queer goth artists. Some of these songs focus on themes related to queerness while others simply intersect with the artist’s identity.
The Playlist
“Deathwish” – Christian Death
“Spiritual Cramp” – Christian Death
Christian Death is one of my all-time favorite goth bands. To me, they represent what I would consider to be the archetypal goth sound: doomy guitar, moody vocals and flippantly dark lyrics. Original frontman Rozz Williams was known for dressing in drag in opposition to the hypermasculinity of the punk scene, an act which solified him as something of a queer icon.
Cover for “The Iron Mask” by Christian Death
“Burial Ground” – Sopor Aeternus and the Ensemble of Shadows
“Deathhouse” – Sopor Aeternus and the Ensemble of Shadows
Sopor Aeternus and the Ensemble of Shadows is a largely underrated pioneer of the goth scene. I adore her work so much that I’ll probably dedicate an entire blog article to her in the future. The mastermind behind Sopor Aeternus (meaning Eternal Sleep or Sleep of Death) is Anna Varney, a trans woman whose experiences largely fuel her music. Varney’s 2020 album, “Island of the Dead” captures the despair of being in a relationship with someone who cannot accept their partner’s transness and is based on real-life experiences.
Cover for “Island of the Dead” by Sopor Aeternus and the Ensemble of Shadows
“Inked in Red” – Vision Video
“Death in a Hallway” – Vision Video
Vision Video is a band based in Athens, Georgia that is quickly mobilizing to change the goth subculture for the better. In my article about the band, I touched on the rich political commentary the band touches on in their songs as well as the work of frontman Dusty Gannon in cultivating a safer, more accessible goth scene.
Cover for “Death in a Hallway” by Vision Video
“Dark” – Secret Shame
“Who Died in Our Backyard” – Secret Shame
Based in Asheville, Secret Shame brings an interesting contemporary sound to the traditional goth style. With a slant bordering on alternative rock and a vocalist who sounds like a centuries-old ghost, Secret Shame produces songs right on the cusp of the goth scene.
Taking a brief detour from this month’s Pride-based content (because I’m very sick and incapable of concerted research) to cover a recent show I attended.
This show was special, not just because it was insanely fun and had a great line-up, but because it was the first show my younger brothers had ever attended.
Taking place June 18 at Kings in Raleigh, this three-band show was a wildly good time and a great way to kick off a fresh work week.
Paranoid Maniac
Composed of Raleigh locals, Paranoid Maniac delivered a frenzy of hurried, untethered sounds.
The five-piece group were the first of the three headliners to go on, and their performance certainly set the tone for the rest of the night.
With an unceremonious start, the vocalist and band quickly mobilized to flood the room with a slant of distorted guitar, gnarling bass and reverberating drums that thrummed in the ribcages of everyone in the audience.
Cover for “Hold Your Own Leash” by Paranoid Maniac
The vocalist, clad in a vest and large pair of opaque black shades, wailed barely-comprehensible lyrics into the mic as they paced back and forth across the stage.
Amid the swell of music that pounded against the venue’s concrete walls, certain phrases rang out with clarity, such as “f– the alt-right.”
The crowd was (frustratingly) still during this performance, headbanging and swaying in place despite the palpable energy that electrified the air.
At the end of the set, we’d all sufficiently woken up from our perpetual daytime half-slumber.
Reckoning Force
Reckoning Force is a rapid and rabid group based out of Norfolk, Virginia.
My first impression of the band formed while watching a roadie unceremoniously duct tape a flag on the venue wall.
Reckoning Force at Kings, Raleigh, photo by J
Everything following was perfectly intense and chaotic.
As Reckoning Force started their set, patrons who’d been tucked away at the bar began to flock to the stage.
The vocalist lurched around in a torn-up yellow shirt with a frayed, screaming voice that paired nicely with the frantic music. Shortly after the start of the set, the crowd parted as two individuals darted back and forth across the floor.
The energy in the crowd changed instantly. Everyone moved at once either to dart to the sides of the room or to slam as hard as possible into the nearest person. I went for the second option and was promptly knocked to the ground by someone twice my size.
Two massive punks in studded vests immediately grabbed me, pulling me to my feet and checking to make sure I hadn’t broken something. I was fine, if not a bit embarassed, but felt better after watching several others take a similar tumble later.
Though the pit was small, we were sufficiently invigorated by the sounds — or maybe the force — of Reckoning Force.
The highlight of their set was certaintly when they covered Minor Threat’s “Screaming at a Wall,” a track well suited to the vocalist’s particular brand of angsty screams.
Public Acid
The final band to perform was Public Acid, based out of Richmond and North Carolina.
Like Reckoning Force, the band set up a flag before their performance. To my absolute delight, they simply taped their flag — baring a Rorschachesque skull — over the one left up by Reckoning Force.
Cover for “The Beat Sessions” by Public Acid
Public Acid was my brothers’s favorite act of the night, as they said the music reminded them of the DOOM franchise.
The band’s straight-up heinous sound compelled my brothers, both teenagers “too cool” to do much of anything, to bob their heads and sway around. I consider that a massive win.
Though not many patrons entered the pit, this allowed for more movement and dynamism as people kicked their legs around, spun and knocked into each other. The energy in the room was magnetic, even for those outside of the pit.
Public Acid was a great way to end off the night, leaving the audience sweat-drenched and shaking with adrenaline. After the show, I felt both like I could run ten miles and sleep for ten years.
Closing Thoughts
Paranoid Maniac, Reckoning Force and Public Acid are three bands with small online presences.
They make up for this by totally dominating the stage and plunging the audience into a landscape of chaos, insanity and vigor.
Familiarity with the bands isn’t necessary to enjoy them. Their vibrant sounds and captivating stage presence strike you right through the ribcage in the best possible way.
Cover for "The Pink and Black Album" by Dog Park Dissidents
Dog Park Dissidents is a self-described “loud and flamboyant” queer rock band from New Orleans, Long Island and Philadelphia.
As the band explains, they “bend genres, genders, and decency” with a mix of “old-school” punk, pop punk and camp energy in order to stoke the flames of queer rebellion.
Anti-Respectability
The band’s reputation largely comes from its unflinching condemnation of respectability politics and the corporatization of Pride Month.
While I personally am not a huge fan of the band I do admire their commitment to the defense of “queer anger,” a concept often shirked by mainstream circles due to its “poor optics” and “lack of respectability.”
The idea that being a “good queer” will somehow garner the support of the straight hegemony is certainly not new. The classic “kink at Pride” debate is a prime example of this.
“Norwich Pride 2019-308” uploaded to Wikimedia commons by Sasastro from Suffolk, licensed CC BY 2.0
While it’s understandable that members of a marginalized class would strive for anything to lessen the burden of systemic oppression, recent events involving a certain big-name grocery store demonstrate that even “respectable” queerness is not enough to win over those who have already decided that queer people are not worthy of public existence.
Thus, Dog Park Dissidents is wholly committed to being a group of “bad queers.”
Such is the reason that I respect the band. Not only do they produce flagrantly bitter, queer music, but they exist as open members of the predominately-gay puppy play scene, a group often looked down upon by fellow members of the LGBT community for its lack of respectability.
Cover for “Sexual and Violent” by Dog Park Dissidents
If Dog Park Dissidents makes anything clear, they couldn’t care less about playing the game of LGBT respectability, especially when the rules are made by the same people who oppress LGBT people in the first place.
“Queer As In F– You”
Dog Park Dissidents formed in 2017 after vocalist Zax Xeper and guitarist Jon Greco produced the single “Queer As In F– You” as part of an anti-Trump sampler compilation.
Don’t sell me a rainbow Your market’s never done s– for me Don’t want a seat at your table And f– an invitation to your party
You want to celebrate a gay man on your cable TV While trans lesbians of color dig in garbage just to eat You’ve paved the road for CEOs to suck on some d– While all the kids on the street are getting pelted with bricks
The following year, the band had their first live performance in Long Island with drummer Mike Costa and bassist Joe Bove from The Arrogant Sons of Bitches, a 6-piece ska band active from 1998 to 2006.
The EP features the track “Refugees,” which highlights the growing fear within the queer community as the enactment of anti-LGBT legislation becomes a growing threat on the horizon.
Into the great unknown In fear of losing our home With the stroke of a pen Threatening to erase us Our lives can be revoked Hard won rights in limbo When your shield’s on the books It’s thin as the pages
“Refugees,” Dog Park Dissidents
The band’s next release came in 2021 with the EP “ACAB For Cutie,” featuring Costa on drums.
Cover for “ACAB For Cutie” by Dog Park Dissidents
The EP touches on classism and queer liberation, exploring themes related to the queer community’s relationship to the police force and the ways in which prominent LGBT figures capitalize on fame at the expense of their peers.
I don’t care that the labor board Says it’s A-OK to be gay When they shout, “get out” You don’t got no clout They don’t need a f– reason They can say whatever they gonna say I don’t care that the police Carry rainbows in our parades ‘Cause they’ll be sent to take down all our flags As soon as their bosses want to put us in body bags
“Class Struggle,” Dog Park Dissidents
“Gay Pride in Valencia,” uploaded to Wikimedia Commons by Dorieo, licensed CC BY-SA 4.0
She’s that empress with her fierce jeweled crown And she don’t care if you call her a sellout Took your culture and she made it her brand That’s how you play, it’s just the law of the land But it was not enough for she To make it a commodity To turn your queerness into business And to sell your raison d’etre Bitch, she put on these nails To hydrofracture some shale You came to play, she came to slay Entire ecosystems, hunty
“RuPaul’s Frack Race,” Dog Park Dissidents
The Pink and Black Album
As Dog Park Dissidents released their third EP, they announced their partnership with Say-10 Records.
On June 2, 2023, they released their first full-length album, “The Pink and Black Album,” featuring a compilation of remixed and remastered tracks from all 3 EPs.
What I find particularly important about the album is its context. While other bands I’ve discussed, such as Limp Wrist and Los Crudos, were largely active during the 80s and 90s, Dog Park Dissidents exists in the contemporary sphere of queer culture in America.
As someone who often hears straight people chalk-up queerphobia to something of the past, something I and other queer people are responsible for “getting over,” projects such as “The Pink and Black Album” preclude the idea of straight people’s plausible deniability.
Straight people cannot look past the messages laid out by Dog Park Dissidents without admitting their deliberation in ignoring queer suffering and contributing to institutions which directly suppress our freedom and self-expression.
With songs targeting specific political and social figures, dynamics and events, “The Pink and Black Album” paints a very real picture of the fears and struggles of the modern-day queer community.
We’re only free to be you and me to the degree Capital and the state consent We only live our lives and we can only thrive Within the boundaries they have set
“Class Struggle,” Dog Park Dissidents
The purpose of groups like Dog Park Dissidents is not to make the queer community “look bad,” but rather to liberate the community from the burden of having to exist within the strictures of heterosexual respectability.
Once the queer community can reclaim its freedom of expression, it will be all the more easy to mobilize in defense of our civil liberties.
Until then, Dog Park Dissidents and other unabashed creatives will work to lay the foundation for queer revolution.
Vision Video makes “dance music for the end-times.”
Drawing inspiration from The Cure, Joy Division, Bauhaus and The Chameleons, Vision Video introduces a familiar but distinct concept to the post-punk genre that blurs the line between contemporary and classic sounds.
Overview
Featuring guitarist and lead singer Dusty Gannon, keyboardist Emily Freedock, bassist Dan Geller and drummer Jason Fusco, Vision Video cultivates an intimate atmosphere through each of their songs.
Cover for “Inked in Red” by Vision Video
Based in Athens, Georgia, the band debuted in May 2020 with their single “In My Side.”
The track features a dreamlike arrangement of guitar, keyboard, bass and vocals that evoke the sensibilities of Robert Smith and Ian Curtis.
The rest of the band’s discography, now spanning across two albums and 12 singles, is similarly nostalgic. Without the ethereality of synths, the band’s raw sound smacks of decades long past.
Artistry Through Vulnerability
One of the main things that sets Vision Video apart from other groups is their unflinching irreverence, something reflected primarily through their lyrics.
Subject matter for the band’s songs draws from the lived experiences of frontman Dusty Gannon, a former soldier, paramedic and firefighter.
One of the first Vision Video songs I ever heard (and also played on-air during my DJ set) was “Death in a Hallway,” released October 2022.
As Gannon explains in a short video, his time as a paramedic during the pandemic and his frustration with surrounding political discourses led him to compose the song as a “big f– you” to influential individuals who profited off of the pandemic while simultaneously downplaying its severity.
The song’s music video, filmed in an abandoned hospital, served to punctuate the massive loss of life incurred by the pandemic.
Liеs likе bоdiеs соunting up Whilе thеy оvеrflоw thеir сups In dеniаl, gаsping fоr brеаth In this hаllwаy оf yоur dеаth
“Death in a Hallway,” Vision Video
Another track, “Kandahar,” draws inspiration from Gannon’s time as a rifle platoon leader in Kandahar, Afghanistan.
Part of the 2021 album “Inked in Red,” the song captures the pointlessness of modern warfare and the emotional weight of the destruction left in its wake.
Pain made manifest A scream out like broken glass A cry out into the void To pronounce its pointlessness
Did you hear we killed the monster? Did you you think we did so well? Did you see the broken bodies lying there? We’re getting good at building hell
“Kandahar,” Vision Video
Goth Dad
Argubably the face of Vision Video, Gannon is also known as “Goth Dad,” a quirky online persona with a midwestern accent and heavily made-up face.
Primarily active on TikTok, “Goth Dad” videos consist of song recommendations, fashion advice and general topics such as how to tie a tie and how to shave.
Cover for “In My Side” by Vision Video
Given the goth scene’s unsavory history (a topic I may touch on in a future post), it is unignorable that a figure such as Dusty Gannon is a beacon of light for young goths across the subculture.
Not only does his proud existence as a queer man (Gannon identifies as bisexual) help to destigmatize “unconventional” self-expression, but his “Goth Dad” persona stands as a constructive, purposeful role model for young members of the scene.
A Safer Scene
As many subcultures can attest, alternative scenes often become breeding grounds for predation. Impressionable young people eager to prove themselves amid cultures of exclusivity can easily fall victim to malevolence.
The risk increases significantly when alleged malefactors are prominent subcultural figures. Influence becomes a tool used to exploit and abuse young and vulnerable individuals.
The situation with Marilyn Mansion a perfect example of this.
With these dynamics coloring aspects of the goth scene, it’s important to recognize individuals like Dusty Gannon whose efforts contribute to making goth safer and more accessible.
Judas Priest formed in Birmingham, England in 1969. In its early years, the band underwent numerous lineup changes.
In 1972, the band recruited Rob Halford as a vocalist. In May of the following year, Halford had his first show with Judas Priest at The Townhouse in Wellington.
Halford’s success would eventually earn him the title “Metal God” by his fans as Judas Priest moved on to become one of the most influential heavy metal groups of all time.
Drawing influence from Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin and Queen, Judas Priest distinguished itself with a unique musical and aesthetic style.
When imagining frontman Rob Halford, one may see him clad in leather, draped in chains and donning a muir cap.
Perhaps a testament to his distinct stylistics, many fans were unsurprised when Halford came out as gay in an MTV interview in 1998.
As Halford explained, he feared the destruction of his identity and career. For much of his involvement with Judas Priest, he did not see a place for himself as a gay man within the metal scene.
And while the aftermath of Halford’s MTV interview demonstrated that Judas Priest’s success did not hinge upon its frontman’s sexuality, Halford’s story is an important staple in metal history.
Namely, it stands to affirm the necessity of representing queerness in metal.
Metal’s Issue with Queerness
While Judas Priest is far from what could be considered an iconic queer band, Halford’s openness with his sexuality is important.
In a subculture placing a heavy value on traditional masculinity, queerness often begets hostility.
While subcultures like the metal scene, the punk scene and others formed in part as countercultural movements, it’s undeniable that they themselves foster a sort of hegemony.
Cover for Judas Priest’s “Turbo”
These spaces are often saturated with specific demographics who, purposefully or not, exclude individuals existing outside of these spheres.
For queer people, the metal scene specifically can be particularly hostile. For a movement not rooted in leftist politics but rather anti-establishment ideology, this does not always mean that certain differences are tolerated.
The Veneration of Heterosexuality
Often, patriarchy and heteronormativity underscore the metal scene.
While Steele argued that the song was purely humorous and ironic, its homophobic themes were undeniable.
You can drool, beg me and hope There’s no damn way I’m playing drop the soap Ok, I know I’m strange but I ain’t no q– So take your rage and disappear But I’m proud not to be PC
Cause
I like goils
Type O Negative, “I Like Goils”
In Steele’s song, he portrays homosexuality — and gay sex — as disgusting and strange.
His reference to “political correctness” smacks of classic boomerisms decrying inclusivity and progressive language.
While it’s fully possible given Steele’s track record that he was simply “being edgy,” this doesn’t excuse the harmful ideology his song presents, nor does it mean his audience is capable of critically receiving the alleged irony outlined in his song.
Edginess only works when everyone is in on it.
The Relevance
For much of Steele’s career, his persona hinged on his sexuality. Specifically, the ways in which he desired — and was desired by — women.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with this, and I’ll be the first to admit that I am a fan of most of Type O Negative’s discography.
I also don’t deign to imply that Peter Steele had any influence on Rob Halford of Judas Priest, or that the two men are somehow connected beyond their simple association within the genre of metal.
Rather, what I aim to focus on are how the dynamics surrounding Peter Steele are indicative of larger discourses that affect queer individuals, specifically queer men, within the metal community (we won’t get into how the metal scene treats women, lest this post become a multi-chapter dissertation).
Cover for Judas Priest’s “Ram it Down”
Queer men pose a subversion of archetypal male roles. In the often hypermasculine metal scene, male queerness can be seen as weakness, fragility or inadequate manhood.
The veneration of a very specific, often regressive ideal of masculinity makes the metal scene inaccessible — and perhaps dangerous — to many individuals.
This was likely a factor in Halford’s decision to be private about his sexuality for so long, the idea that there wasn’t a “place” for his identity in the metal subculture.
That is why recognizing Rob Halford’s sexuality is so important. To know that Halford, named “Metal God” by his fans, is happily married to another man solidifies a place for queerness in the scene.
Halford’s signature leather and studs, evocative of the style of “leather daddies” and emulated by millions of straight male fans of Judas Priest, blurs the hard-set line between heterosexuality and homosexuality.
The band’s continued success following Halford’s entrance from the closet demonstrates that identity cannot obfuscate talent and performance.
It brings us back to the roots of metal’s purpose as a force rallying against oppressive institutions and conformity.
Ultimately, a place where queerness deserves to exist.
Last week, we learned about the proliferation of queercore within the hardcore punk scene.
To briefly recap, queercore emerged as a subculture in the mid-1980s. It started from punk’s DIY scene, with purveyors of handmade magazines and other forms of media serving as the movement’s basis.
Queercore, also known as homocore, reflected the experiences of LGBT individuals in a society that was often hostile towards open displays of queerness.
“homocore block in 1994 chicago pride parade.” Image published to Wikimedia Commons by QZAP.org, licensed CC BY-SA 2.0
While I primarily focused on Limp Wrist’s influence on the scene, there are numerous other bands that defined the genre.
As we move farther into pride month, I encourage both members of the LGBT community and allies to reflect on the convictions outlined by the queercore scene.
To help with this, I’ve composed a short “field guide” of various tracks and artists — some punk, some not — classified under the “queercore” umbrella.
Pansy Division
This band has a classic summertime driving-down-the-road-with-the-windows-down style.
Closer to the sound of blink-182 than Limp Wrist, Pansy Division is edgy but light enough for casual listening. With upbeat guitar riffs and a sardonic lead vocalist, the band produces tracks to be enjoyed both ironically and in earnest.
Album cover for “More Lovin’ From Our Oven” by Pansy Divison
Based out of San Francisco, the band formed in 1991 and solidified itself as one of the only openly gay rock bands in the contemporary scene.
Touring with Green Day in 1994, Pansy Divison was one of the most commercially successful queercore bands to exist. The band’s pop-punk style and often-comical songs about queerness garnered significant acclaim.
A flagrantly ironic cover of a Nirvana classic, this track cleverly queers one of the most well-known songs by one of the most gatekept bands. Play this track for your favorite straight white man and watch his blood pressure surge.
Against all odds, we appear Grew up brainwashed, But turned out queer Bunsplitters, rugmunchers too We screw just how we want to screw Hello, hello, hello, homo
Pansy Division, “Smells Like Queer Spirit” (Nirvana cover)
He looks as good in a skirt as he does in jeans He is a most notorious queen His personality, I’m not impressed But I can’t wait to get him undressed
Pansy Division, “Fem in a Black Leather Jacket”
G.L.O.S.S. (Girls Living Outside Society’s S–)
Based in Olympia, Washington, G.L.O.S.S was an openly trans-feminist hardcore punk band.
Formed in 2014 and dissolved in 2016, the band’s existence was tragically brief. While G.L.O.S.S. had the opportunity to “make it big” with a $50,000 deal by Epitaph Records, the band ultimately decided to remain unaligned with a large corporation.
Shortly after turning down Epitaph’s deal, G.L.O.S.S. announced its breakup in an issue of the punk zine Maximum Rocknroll.
Cover for G.L.O.S.S. album “Trans Day of Revenge”
The band members explained that the growing “cult of personality” surrounding the group, as well as the obligations of touring and performing, were taking a toll on their mental and emotional health.
The band’s sound blended classic hardcore with trans-affirming themes to create raucous, angsty riffs striking back against heterosexual hegemony and anti-transness. Their songs are undeniably iconic.
They told us we were girls How we talk, dress, look, and cry They told us we were girls So we claimed our female lives Now they tell us we aren’t girls Our femininity doesn’t fit We’re f– future girls living outside Society’s s–!
They told us to die, we chose to live They told us to die, we chose to live Straight America, you won’t ruin me Sick American dream
G.L.O.S.S., “Lined Lips and Spiked Bats”
Los Crudos
As I mentioned in last week’s post, Limp Wrist’s predecessor was a Chicago-based band called Los Crudos.
Active from 1991 to 1998 and comprised of all Latin American members, Los Crudos helped to make a place for Latine punks in a predominately white subculture.
Album cover for “Doble LP Discografia” by Los Crudos
The band tackled themes related to imperialism, xenophobia and immigration. All songs were sung completely in Spanish.
In addition, they openly called out homophobia — the band’s lead vocalist, Martin Sorrondeguy, was openly gay — and thus Los Crudos solidified themselves as adjacent to the queercore movement.
With a career spanning between 1998 and 2005, The Butchies started in Durham, North Carolina as an all-female punk band.
Though their style was far from hardcore, they were a distinct force within the queercore movement.
Their songs were imbued with staunch political messages, focusing on themes relating to lesbianism, gay romance and misogyny.
Album cover for “Are We Not Femme?” by The Butchies
In a 1999 issue of The Advocate, singer-guitarist Kaia Wilson said of the band’s reputation for its leftist politics:
“I say, maybe it’s because we’re so openly hated every day, maybe because one in three teens who commits suicide is gay. I say that the people who come to our shows are glad that we are [political].”
Well it’s not supposed to bring you madness And it’s not too far too cold forgiveness When we hold to truths so false like bibles Won’t you come and meet me here
Who are you anyway and how did you get inside II heard you’re from the gay galaxy and now you’ve got to hide Sure wish you would have gone here Wish just the same you’d stay next year
As we usher in this year’s Pride Month, I think about how frightening it has become to exist as a queer person in the United States.
Amid a sudden resurgence of anti-LGBT rhetoric, expressed both through discourse and legislation, I feel far removed from the corporatized and polished version of Pride that has been offered to us in recent years.
Thus, I have decided to spend this month highlighting aspects of queer history the mainstream often finds unpalatable. I aim to cast a spotlight upon subversive queer artists and the often-obscured dynamics of queer music history.
The best place to start is with a band whose audacious queerness empowered its fans to live their lives unapologetically and with radical self-love in the face of an often-stifling heteronormative society.
In staunch opposition to the concept of “queer marketability,” this group expressed the crux of the queer experience as something deeply emotional, often sexual and ultimately transcendental.
Limp Wrist, Raised Fist
Limp Wrist emerged in 1998 from a Philadelphia basement.
Their first performance a year later at Stalag 13, a now-defunct venue in West Philly known for its status as a punk powerhouse, carried them into the subcultural consciousness.
Cover for “Thee Official Limp Wrist Discography”
Following the dissolution of Chicago-based band Los Crudos, singer Martin Sorrondeguy and guitarist Mark Telfian decided to form Limp Wrist as a means of addressing dynamics affecting the queer community.
The band’s first release was “Don’t Knock It Till You Try It,” a self-released demo featuring savage drums and guitar and barely-comprehensible lyrics about men-loving-men.
Their most well-known song, “I Love Hardcore Boys, I Love Boys Hardcore,” validated the presence of queerness within the hardcore punk scene, with the song’s lyrics illustrating shameless themes of sexual attraction.
I love hardcore boys, it’s too good to be true One on one or the whole damn crew It’s all exciting for us so lets give it a whirl I love hardcore boys cuz they make my toes curl
Limp Wrist, “I Love Hardcore Boys, I Love Boys Hardcore”
An all-gay band, Limp Wrist stands as a pioneer of the punk queercore movement.
Also known as “homocore,” queercore emerged as an offshoot of the punk subculture in the 1980s in response to societal hostility towards the LGBT community.
Cover of the American magazine Homocore, edited by Tom Jennings and Dick Nigilson. Image published by Деніел Ніколлета (Deniel Nicolleta) on Wikimedia Commons, licensed CC BY-SA 4.0
Bands associated with the subculture produced songs exploring sexuality, gender identity and the intersection of queer identities with systemic oppression.
The queercore movement primarily expressed itself through the DIY convictions of the punk movement, with members producing zines, films and other forms of art.
Limp Wrist’s contribution to the queercore subculture lay in its musical content.
With lyrics decrying homophobia and the straight hegemony as well as tounge-in-cheek quips about corporatized homosexuality, Limp Wrist created a space for unrestrained male queerness.
Don’t be the world’s punching bag A defenseless queer open for attack Thick Skin –They can’t get through Layer upon layer they can’t get through
Limp Wrist, “Thick Skin”
Submissive tired f—ing scene Boring predictable queens Absorb and swallow what’s being pushed Individuality is crushed
Limp Wrist, “Fake Fags”
During live shows, band members implored queer men to “stop hating their bodies” and “stop imitating Daddy.”
At one performance, frontman Martin Sorrondeguy told the audience “there’s not nearly enough guys in here with their shirts off right now,” a statement reflecting the band’s staunch philosophy of sexual expression and self-love.
Limp Wrist Today
A self-proclaimed project band, Limp Wrist’s inactivity is largely due to the fact that none of its members have ever lived in the same city as one another.
In a way, this makes it all the more special when they finally come together.
Cover for Limp Wrist’s album “Facades”
The band’s most recent activity includes a 2018 show at The Regent in Los Angeles and a 45-minute radio show with NTS Remote Utopias in May of 2020.
While the band still remains inactive on all platforms, hope prevails that current political tensions may compell them to rekindle Limp Wrist’s unique spark.
House music began in the underground clubs of 1980s-era Chicago.
Defined by its signature four-on-the-floor beat and classical tempo of 120 beats per minute, house served as the foundation for contemporary pop and dance music.
Despite house music’s significant cultural impact, its history is rarely addressed in discourse.
Not only was house music instrumental in the development of many contemporary music genres, but it was rooted in unequivocal Black queerness.
Emerging in the 1970s, disco formed with influences from the LGBT community, Italian Americans, Hispanic and Latine Americans and Black Americans.
The genre was known for its four-on-the-floor beats, syncopated basslines, string sections, brass and horns, electric pianos, synths and electric rhythm guitars.
Though its elevaton to the mainstream distanced the genre from its roots, disco’s inception was starkly countercultural: a response to the aggression (and subcultural hypermasculinity) of rock and the social stigma surrounding dance music.
Derived from within marginalized communities, disco represented a richness in history and culture far removed from the straight white hegemony of the twentieth century.
Disco centered on vivid, unapologetic self-expression rooted in the era’s overarching sexual revolution. Groups like Earth Wind & Fire and Kool and the Gang emerged, bringing disco — and its message — to a broader audience.
However, such popularity also garnered enmity.
Disco Demolition Night, an event often marked as the death of disco, occured July 12, 1979 at Chicago’s Comiskey Park.
During the event, originally marketed as a Major League Baseball promotion, a crate of disco records was blown up on the field. Chaos ensued as thousands of audience members rushed out after the explosion in a riot.
This brazen display of hatred for disco music riveted the nation, inflaming the stigma already surrounding the genre. In the years following the event, disco’s popularity nosedived.
The once-bustling scene faded into virtual obscurity.
The Birth of House
In the decade proceeding the death of disco, queer Black DJs in Chicago’s underground club scene began developing something new, something that expanded upon the danceability and expressivity of disco.
Among these DJs was the openly-gay Frankie Knuckles, whose impact on the genre’s development earned him the moniker “Godfather of House.”
Knuckles defined himself in the scene by playing unique mixes, blending together tracks and experimenting with different sounds and speeds. He also pioneered the practice of adding a drum machine and reel-to-reel tape player to create new tracks.
In the background of Knuckles’ musical innovations, a darkness was brewing. In June 1981, the first cases of the illness now known as AIDS were identified in five young gay men in Los Angeles.
House as a Home
While some argue that Knuckles was not the founder of house (in fact, the source of the name “house” is even contested) as a genre, it’s undeniable that his passion for the craft helped transform house into an international phenomenon.
Like disco, house was born from the creative influences of queer people of color. Its vibrance reflected a desire for freedom, autonomy and actualization.
Dance halls were unifying spaces in which patrons could exist without fear. They became sanctuaries for individuals cast out of their broader communities on the basis of their sexual and/or gender identities.
Additionally, house reflected a bold response to the “murder” of disco at the hands of (majority white and heterosexual) detractors.
House rose from disco’s ashes a stronger, more sensational being. And it still goes strong today.
