Thursday, February 16, 2017

SEX and steel pins ( a piece written for AARGH! magazine)

Now that I have your attention, your titillation, and your curiosity, this quick piece is about counterculture and the current lack of bad ass Grrrlz who are not bogged down in movements. Where the fuck is the Tank Girl of our generation on a musical level? Where is our in-your-face fuck authority rocker femme who is not afraid to bash a monster bass line and talk politically to power with a smile and a sneer? Did the same magick that spawned Wendy and Joan (though more rock) die out when autotune hit?
I turn on the media blaster of choice at any given time and in the rush and fury of moving mouths I hear almost no rage with edge and fire other than in “established” groups. I am of an age, (that would be 46 you nosey barker), that knows music is not just entertainment. It is supposed to be all encompassing eggsy (woman here) badassery at times. I am surrounded by safety pin warriors for social justice who wouldn’t know a good fight authority song if it shoved itself up their asses.
Make no mistake, I appreciate all the spoken word, floetry, Indigenous folk, and hip hop stylings of artistic protest by the many cultures in our nation. But where is my fist pumping “fuck you” song for the administrative nightmare going on right now? Why is there no anthem with screaming leads that inspire folks my age to get my blood pumping and my focus going? Where is the musical battering ram of social commentary that my daughter can use to scream and thrash and rally (with her friendboys) that speaks to the new times?
Look, I was everything when I was a kid. And I mean everything. Because I am from Detroit. We live on music like oxygen. You could be any race, religion, creed, or gender, and you could still jam to any music and find its message. Working class is in the very grains of the soil and sidewalks of the city and its suburbs. So when I tell you I know what power music has to motivate and express the heart of generations and movements, I know what I am talking about for real.
I wore safety pins in my face and watched the Plasmatics on television, shook my ass to Parliament, grinded my hips to Prince, and hollered along off key with Johnny Cash on the tape deck. Social and political commentary discussions always had a soundtrack. My first boyfriend was in a Punk band called SockEye Salmon at St. Andrew’s Hall and played in the Shelter (translation: dive bar that had real music and was the unofficial hunting ground for local hormonal virgin slayers). I am pulling my figurative hair out waiting for that musical messiah to arise with a bass in one hand, a microphone in front of her black-lipsticked lips, and a middle finger in the other hand, belting out the angst and rage of the times. And so far I have a singer/actress named Lady Gaga in front of me singing with Metallica and making the fucking soul of Dio cry.
Rise up, Grrrlz. There are plenty of us that will support you. And that means buying your stuff, and paying for it, not just stealing it. I got a pair of black boots and an old leather jacket just aching to take a ride.

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