This is brilliant.
I have no words, no energy left to explain this. It takes two hours to type out two sentences of music criticism these days, in between the student trauma and the home schooling and the walks to nowhere and the unforgiving Zoom meetings. I leave my video camera and mic on constantly now, might as well document this decay. I leave the porchlight shining, the music muted, the intolerance of tolerance at an all-time low.
This is brilliant. It reminds me of way underrated lower-case Welsh band mclusky, and some fucking righteous shit I’d have been sweating out my sexual frustration to during the early 1980s – The Cravats or Membranes, say. I don’t know. Give me your own examples. It makes me wish I wasn’t reduced to this quivering mass of overheated blubber every hot spring evening. It makes me wish I too had grabbed the mic and made the floorboards shake with the sound of stamping feet. I had no idea Idles sounded like this, no idea whatsoever. Do they? Do they really? I mean, WHAT THE FUCK?
This is brilliant. The lyrics are as smart as the video as are smart as the music is as smart as the repetition is as smart as the sardonic vocals is as smart as the call-to-arms. I too want to dance round my suburban blue rinse hours like a twat for hours on end to IDLES to IDLEs to IDLES to IDLES. How d’you like them clichés? Reality is, of course: I can manage about two minutes before I collapse in a blubbered heap of indifference and fatigue, fatigue that begins and ends nowhere. My god, this is brilliant. Please. Don’t even get me started on the video. Too much personal ecstasy to bear. So many moments.
God damn, this is brilliant. This is Tropical Fuck Storm great.
Like Kathleen Hannah with bear claws grabbing Trump by the pussy
Like Delia Smith after ten Chardonnays baking me a nice cookie
How d’you like them clichés?
Let’s seize the day
All hold hands
Chase the pricks away
Ten Things I learned watching Bikini Kill play Brixton Academy last night.
- I miss my community. I have never really known what my community is, am aware that it is continually shifting, but I miss it still. I cannot live up to expectations. When I posted on Facebook last night how I was shocked to find myself in Brixton against the odds, I was surprised at how many friends took it for granted I would be there. Well, duh – right? No duh. I try to never take anything for granted. I did not know I would be in Brixton last night (nerves, isolation, loneliness). At midday, I did not know that a few hours later I would be dancing next to Jon Slade in the aisles at the Brixton fucking Academy to the sight of Tobi Vail bopping at the mic. More than my community, I miss my friends. I have never known who my friends are, just that they continually shift and disappear. When one of Jon’s super-cool friends remarked last night how I would be enjoying myself later, I retorted that I was already enjoying myself. It was true. The stuff people take most for granted – being able to converse, laugh, relax – that’s the stuff I view as most special right now.
- I want to be tempted, led astray.
- I had forgotten quite how punk Bikini Kill are. By punk, I mean Washington D.C hardcore lifestyle of course. I mean invigorating, acerbic, pummeling, relentless, politically charged, short and sharp, the kids, a powerful back beat, dancing. By punk, I mean female empowerment – a good crowd of good people – because only females and trans are the true punks. I mean songs like ‘New Radio’ and ‘Reject All American’ and Tobi Vail in THOSE SHADES dancing cool and unafraid left right across the stage, dancing like each and every one of us out here, the living embodiment of rock’n’roll. By punk, I mean the way you looked at that man try to force his way into your personal space. By punk, I mean that story I told about how I am unable to sleep at night, restless, relentless, nervously anticipating Friday morning 10am to roll around when the bin men shatter the serenity of our street and yet I never hear them because I am long gone to work. By punk, I mean challenge, distortion, a refusal to stay still. By punk, I mean the speeches Kathleen gives in between songs – and the way she dances when songs are playing – acerbic and sharp, painfully self-aware and sad and inspirational and funny. By punk, I mean YOU.
- We all need a safe space.
- Of course that first night sold out in minutes. Bikini Kill long ago attained the status of legendary band from another era. It strikes me that – in terms of impact – early Bikini Kill shows are similar to the first Ramones gigs. Small crowds, intensive touring, but everywhere they played another five, 10, 20 bands sprang up. Shock waves, resonating into the future.
- Even in 2019, I am given over to self-mythologising. Much merriment was had as myself and Jon discussed the origins of the controversial choice of photograph used for the original Melody Maker Riot Grrrl cover, culled from a Re:Search book that held pride of place on the living room mantelpiece of the Brighton house that I shared with Jon and Jo (and also featured in the Kathleen Hanna documentary The Punk Singer). The one where Jo and I would stay up till five am arguing about feminist doctrine. Much of this is of course self-mythologising because I cannot remember any of it.
- The thrill of hearing motherfucking Bikini Kill performing live a song they wrote, specifically inspired by yourself – whether sarcastic, caustic or ironic (bearing in mind what happened shortly after) – cannot be underestimated. My new friends thought I was kidding when I said I’d be leaving shortly afterwards. How could I not though? How could anything else this year match that?
- It’s good to have fun. This may seem apparent to you but trust me, to me it is not.
- I miss Billy. (The new guitarist seems cool though, obv.)
- Yeah, hello? Hello? We’re still here. And we’re growing louder and louder, more and more visible with each passing year. Not that I have ever known who my community is.
Here is some further context and detail.