music – The Establishment

Meet The Queer Musicians Fighting For Art And Their Lives In Brazil, The World’s LGBTQI Murder Capital

Beatriz Miranda — Tue, 13 Nov 2018 08:42:11 +0000

“Maybe it’s time for us to scare those who are afraid of losing their power.”

Brazil holds the world’s highest LGBTQI murder rate. Here, a LGBTQI person is brutally murdered or commits suicide every 19 hours. Every. 19. hours.

Among such crushing hostility, it would appear there should be little room for LGBTQI artists to exist at all. The reality, however, is quite the opposite: the queer music scene of Brazil is exploding.

The current aural landscape is comprised of incredibly diverse performers whose work ranges from rap, rock and R&B to soul, indie music, Brazilian funk and even K-pop.

Together, artists like Gloria Groove, Linn da Quebrada, and Pabllo Vittar have founded a brand new paradigm in Brazil’s music scene. The moment they dared to go up on the stage, a revolution began. And there’s no turning back.

“You Either Resist Or Die”

Refusing the second option, five rappers from the edges of São Paulo decided to found Quebrada Queer; they self-describe as the first LGBTQI cypher in Latin America.

Cyphers — singing as a group — have become very popular in Brazil’s music scene. For Quebrada Queer members, rapping as a cypher is their weapon against invisibility and prejudice.

Quebrada Queer

“Once we gathered, we became the first openly gay rap group in Latin America,” says Guigo, a member of Quebrada Queer. “We are queer, black, peripheral artists, singing one of the most homophobic music genres of all. And that means resistance and representation.”

Only a month ago, Quebrada Queer (‘quebrada’ is São Paulo slang for ‘periphery’) launched its very first single, “Pra Quem Duvidou” (which means, “For those who doubted”). Turning the traditional rap aesthetics upside down, the music video has already amassed over half a million views on YouTube.

“It’s fucking cowardice/To say it’s opinion, when it’s homophobia!/ (cut this shit) They threaten to kill my fellows/ When did it all get lost?/Can you see how contradictory it is to kill in the name of God?” demand the lyrics of “Pra Quem Duvidou”.

Guigo believes it’s time to kick in the doors that have always been closed; being celebrated in these traditionally excluding systems, however, is a whole different story. But Quebrada Queer is ready to fight: “We want to make sure that future queer artists will be welcomed with a red carpet,” says Guigo.

“Half Drag, Half Rapper”

This is how Gloria Groove defines herself. And it is this exact same duality that deftly puts Gloria — a 23-year old queer singer — beyond any stereotype: “When I sing, I can be girl and a boy. This makes my music unique.”

Groove is exemplary in her versatility, signing a whole range of genres from Soul to Trap, to R&B and Brazilian funk music. In her latest R&B single, “Apaga a Luz” (“Turn off the light”), Groove explores her vocal duality, singing both as a “male rapper” and a “female queer”.

Launched in 2016, Groove’s very first hit, “Dona” (“Owner”), is a sarcastic criticism to how queer people are portrayed in society: “Oh My Lord / What animal is that? / Nice to meet you, my name is art, darling”.

Groove is considered one of the most influential queer musicians in Brazil: her hottest hits, such as the Brazilian funk track “Bumbum de Ouro” (Golden butt) and the Reggaeton-like song “Muleke Brasileiro” (Brazilian dude), are present on every dance floor across Brazil — not just within the LGBTQI community.

But behind all the humor and glamour involving Groove’s music, her lyrics are an effort to shed light on the oppressive and dangerous reality of being queer in Brazil. “My music hopes to signify the existence of thousands of LGBTIQ people—our music becomes a platform of love and self-acceptance.”

Gender Terrorist

Linn da Quebrada is another performer who is busy proving rap can be queer as hell. Once a Jehovah’s Witness, the singer believes she has broken free from an “overdisciplined, self-repressed body,” to finally belong to herself.

The 28-year-old artist — who helped to found an NGO for trans people in São Paulo — calls her last album, “Pajubá” (2017), the “transgender Lemonade”. Highly politicized, the afro/Brazilian funk/vogue album “Pajubá” sounds as rough as the battlefield they find themselves warring on.

Linn da Quebrada

“Transvestite faggot/ of a single breast/ the hair dragging on the floor/ And on the hand, bleeding, a heart,” says “Bixa Travesty” (Transvestite Faggot), one of the most lacerating songs from the album, depicting the everyday violence against trans people in Brazil.

Calling herself a “Gender Terrorist,” Linn da Quebrada believes this boom of queer musicians in Brazil can work as a fundamental game changer: “Haven’t we been harmless for too long? Maybe it is time for us to scare those who are afraid of losing their position of power.”

Trans Pop Star Changing The Course Of History

Coming from one of the poorest states from Brazil (Maranhão, in the Northeastern region), Pabllo Vittar has taken LGBTQI representation to a whole new level. This month, Vittar became the first Brazilian artist to put land all the songs from one album — “Não Para Não” (Don’t Stop), Vittar’s second and latest album — on Spotify’s Top 40.

Having debuted in the music market with a well-humored parody of Major Lazer’s “Lean On,” Vittar’s career skyrocketed in late 2017, when she recorded with Brazilian singer Anitta and Major Lazer himself.

A constant victim of fake news (rumors ranged from Vittar being the new owner of Apple to the artist being canonized by the Vatican!), Vittar says the album aims to soften the dark days in Brazil.

A couple of weeks ago, Vittar broke professional relations due to political reasons. She was the sponsor of a shoe brand whose owner publicly supports Jair Bolsonaro, the far-right newly-elected president known for controversial LGBTQI-phobic statements.

Hacking The Process With Art

Rico Dalasam

Like Vittar, Rico Dalasam doesn’t hesitate to speak out against political regression now, when Brazil’s democracy is under serious attack. Along with Brazil’s most prestigious rappers, Dalasam, an openly gay and black artist, recently signed a petition against Bolsonaro, which alleges the presidential candidate represents a “mortal threat” against poor, marginalized people from Brazil.

Having recorded “Todo Dia” (Everyday) — one of the greatest hits from Carnival 2017 — with Pabllo Vittar, Rico Dalasam currently sings about being a black, gay, peripheral man in society.

For him, Brazilian queer music arises as an art of emergency, from the need to narrate a silenced story: “queer art is unbeatable, it is relentless in the pursuit of finding a way out, in hacking this oppressive process,” he says.

Queer Invasion Of The Indie Scene

Assucena Assucena and Raquel Virgínia.

Following quite a different path from pop star Pabllo Vittar is the “As Bahias e a Cozinha Mineira” band. More popular in the alternative music landscape, “As Bahias” stands out for their politically engaged rock and MPB (a generic term used to refer to Brazilian popular music) songs. The band is composed of three cis male instrumentalists and two transgender vocalists, Assucena Assucena and Raquel Virgínia.

Placing the trans issue at the core of their lyrics wasn’t exactly what Assucena and Virgínia had been looking for. However, the transgender vocalists couldn’t see any other option: “being silent about this issue would feel like denying something that is in eruption inside me,” says Virgínia.

Having started her career in music as a cis man, Liniker self-identifies now as a trans black woman and activist of the LGBTIQ rights. One of the most prestigious singers from the contemporary R&B and black music scene in Brazil, Liniker highlights the importance of taking sides. “This is the moment we have to resist through art. We can’t stay in the margins any longer.”

Find more amazing queer artists who are transforming the music culture of Brazil right the hell here:

How Female Musicians Of Color Are Tied Up With Soundcloud’s Bright, Uncertain Future

Wedaeli Chibelushi — Thu, 18 Oct 2018 07:22:46 +0000

Available in 190 countries, SoundCloud should theoretically burgeon the musical careers of women of color. But does it?

Here’s something that won’t surprise you—it’s not easy being an indie, female musician of color.

Actually, it’s really, really, really hard. A U.S.-based study of popular songs found that those nominated for a Grammy Award between 2013 and 2018, 90.7 percent of those were men, while 9.3 percent were women. The same study found that 79 percent of the most popular artists of color from 2012-2017 were male and 20 percent were female.

Canadian vocalist Rosina Kazi told TVO that although the country’s musician pool is very diverse, the musicians promoted by mainstream platforms are not. “It ends up being very white,” she said.

Indie female musicians of color find themselves caught in a difficult intersection.

They look up to woman of color who enjoy unprecedented success (like Beyonce, Cardi or MIA), while struggling to pass through the many gates that will lead them to that point. The obvious solution? Remove the gatekeepers.

Enter music platform SoundCloud, which snubs mainstream decision makers, and instead empowers musicians and music-lovers. “As the world’s largest open audio platform that enables anyone to upload, SoundCloud’s audience, reach and diversity of content is unmatched,” says Megan West, Vice President of Content and Community from SoundCloud.

Indie female musicians of color find themselves caught in a difficult intersection.
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Available in 190 countries, SoundCloud should theoretically burgeon the musical careers of women of color. But does it?

According to TechCrunch, “Spotify is primarily a reseller of music inventory owned by record labels.” Alternatively, SoundCloud’s content is not gained by licensing deals, it’s uploaded by the platform’s users. This bypassing of major labels is particular useful to women of color; it means the bypassing of exploitation that women of color are typically exposed to and undermined by.

Dominican singer-songwriter Maluca Mala told Billboard, “[White men] have made millions off black, queer and marginalized peoples and paid them dust in return.” This practice dates back to the fifties, where instead of paying royalties, (oft white) labels would pay black artists a flat fee per song. Industry ignorant musicians would agree to this contractually, and lose all ownership rights in the process.

Over 60 years later, Prince told the National Association of Black Journalists, “record contracts are just like—I’m gonna say the word—slavery.” And of course, there continues to be a host of modern day allegations involving financial and/or sexual exploitation by record label bosses. As labels have limited access to SoundCloud, uploaders have more financial and personal agency.

White men have made millions off black, queer and marginalized peoples and paid them dust in return.
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The limited influence of labels also means that an artist’s fan base dictates how well they do. “If people like [my music], then I’m doing something right,” Indonesian rapper Ramngvrl tells me. Influenced by the likes of M.I.A and Tyler the Creator, Ramengvrl sent demos out to a few labels before finding greater success on SoundCloud. She thought to herself, if I don’t find success on my own, “well, those labels are right, and I should probably try something else.”

Fortunately, the labels were wrong. After uploading “I’m Da Man,” a track about breaking Indonesia’s male-heavy hip-hop scene, on SoundCloud, Ramengvrl’ went viral.

The song pricked the ears of local hip-hop players, and Ramengvrl has since worked with the Indonesian rappers like Dipha Barus, Matter Mos, and Ariel Nayaka.

Lady Donli, a Nigeria-based artist, also attests the power of SoundCloud listeners. Through uploading her blend of RnB, jazz and hip-hop, the Abuja resident noticed that she had far-flung admirers of her sound. “When I started asking for music pledges, I actually had people from Tokyo donate to my music, which I thought was really cool.”

Unlike rival platforms Apple and Spotify, SoundCloud encourages musicians to network and meet like-minded industry professionals. This freedom to choose gives women of color agency, despite them being a minority in their industry. For instance, SoundCloud brought Ramengvrl together with her current management, indie collective Underground Bizniz Club.

Guitar-pop extraordinaire Nabihah Iqbal, also made a meaningful connection via SoundCloud. “I was discovered through that platform by Kassem Mosse, who subsequently put my first release out via his label Ominira,” she says. That was five years ago. Since then, the British Asian musician has put out two EPs and an album.

Where SoundCloud excels in creating networks, platforms like Spotify and Apple music primarily push latest releases and inventories owned by labels. As TechCrunch points out, “Most of the songs on Spotify you could find on Apple Music, Pandora or another streaming service.”

Because SoundCloud has the most unique content, it follows that the platform’s listeners are also the most prone to trying new things. A comparison by Forbes found that in contrast “many of Spotify and YouTube’s users (just to name two) are utilizing the platform to listen to old favorites, not necessarily discover new music.”

Therefore if a woman of color is limited by human listening habits coupled with systemic—and immediate—structural forces, SoundCloud may help them find spaces where these forces are weaker. “In Nigeria, we have about two or three women that are on the charts, and that’s it,” Lady Donli tells me. At the time of writing this article, only two Nigerian (Tiwa Savage and Simi) women populate Nigeria’s top 25 (the other women are Ciara, Jennifer Lopez and Camila Cabello). According to Lady Donli, it’s even harder to find success in Nigeria if you’re a woman that doesn’t do afrobeats/afropop.

Despite this boundary, Lady Donli’s SoundCloud has gained her recognition in the UK as well as Japan. “When I was in Nigeria, I’d get people in England messaging me and trying to get me to come for gigs down there,” she says.

Lady Donli continues: “I enjoy SoundCloud because it’s seamless. [You] record a song and post it. The internet does the rest for you. However, there’s a downside: SoundCloud’s struggles to monetize it’s content. “When money comes into play things become a lot more complicated, but the money is necessary. Everyone needs it to expand.”

Lady Donli serenades Nyuorican Poets Cafe in New York City

And while these musicians enjoy a platform for sharing their work with voracious music lovers boasting an adventurous aural palette, at the end of the day, these women need to eat. Women — especially those hailing from ethnic minorities — are paid less in several sectors across the world. Of the 50 highest paid musicians in 2017, seven were women, and only one was a woman of color (what’s up Janet Jackson)!

Women of color systemically earn less, and focusing their efforts on SoundCloud could perpetuate this ongoing injustice despite increased visibility.

SoundCloud’s business model is precarious, and potentially puts the musicians at risk who use it as their main platform. After all, SoundCloud nearly died last year. Investors considered pulling out after finding that that the platform had raised over $230 million in funding with little monetzsation progress to show for it. During this period of uncertainty, Lady Donli tweeted, “SoundCloud wants to give me hypertension…really if SoundCloud shuts down I’m done releasing music.”

“When money comes into play things become a lot more complicated, but the money is necessary. Everyone needs it to expand.”
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Many other musicians showed panic and deep concern as well — if the platform went, so would its huge archive of uploaded music. Happily SoundCloud managed to secure rescue funding and has lived to see another year. However, the company is still at risk. Via its 2017 annual report, Twitter wrote off the $66.4 million it invested in SoundCloud, because that money is “not expected to be recoverable within a reasonable period of time.”

Nabihah Iqbal promoting her European tour this past September

SoundCloud gives indie women of color the agency and recognition that is harder to find with mainstream outlets. However, it’s focus on free sharing is a double edged sword, so for these women, relying on SoundCloud isn’t an option.

Although she credits the platform as being instrumental to her career, Iqbal recognizes that, “it’s not the only platform, and so I don’t think its collapse would have too much of an impact on my career. People can find alternative ways through which to listen to my music.”

Likewise, Ramengvrl is determined not to go down with the ship if it sinks. “I’d still find a way to get my music out there. Either through YouTube or through Instagram, or probably the old school way (sending mixtapes to local collectives),” she resolves. “You gotta do what you gotta do.”

A Girl In The Pit

Rachel Sloan — Thu, 04 Oct 2018 08:44:20 +0000

There is a difference between the consensual physical exhaustion of the mosh pit and having your physical being threatened or assaulted.

content warning: sexual assault

Much of my time as a teenager was spent counting down the days until my next concert. I was a five-foot, sixteen-year-old girl, and I spent all my money on floor tickets to watch my pop punk idols thrash around on stage; I maneuvered my way through the masses of sweaty men, hoping to secure a view of the band before the chaos ensued. My mom worried, and most of my friends didn’t get it, but there, with no need to impress the strangers dancing and singing along beside me, was my refuge.

I could lose control and take up space. I didn’t know how to dance and it didn’t matter. I could sweat all my makeup off and it was only proof of how much fun I had. When men pushed me, I could push back harder. I could scream until my voice went out — and I did.

That was where I felt safe — for a while.

As I grew older so did my list of unpleasant experiences and wariness of the men around me. As much as I wanted to cling to the things I loved about live music—the release, the rush, the sense of connection that breathes new life into the intimacy of listening to music—it became harder to ignore the pervasiveness of dangerous male aggression in the spaces I wanted so dearly to call home.

When men pushed me, I could push back harder.
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It was in the pit that a man looked me in the face and told me he hoped I’d get raped.

It was in the pit that a man questioned my belonging, called me “little girl,” and shoved me to the ground.

It was in the pit during a Gaslight Anthem show I’d travelled three hours to see that a man gave me one look, called me a bitch, and punched me in the face. I still remember the fear of his fist coming towards me and the hot tears that slipped out after he was ejected while I tried and failed to look unfazed. (How else would the other men know I actually deserved to be there?)

It was in the pit that I was groped. Time and time and time again.

It’s at shows and bars and DIY venues that I am harassed and interrogated by the self-appointed gatekeepers of punk who are apparently so mired in their imagined 1981 utopia that they can’t fathom a woman wearing a band t-shirt because she genuinely enjoys the music. Where men call me a bitch because I’m there for the show and not for them, or a poser because my interests or image don’t perfectly align with their expectations. Where even self-identified progressive punk bands protect their predatory friends and image rather than use their voice for the good of the community. Where popularity still outshines virtue.

In the poignant memoir Tranny, penned by the frontwoman of Against Me!, Laura Jane Grace, she breaks down the ever present dichotomies of punk politics and her experience navigating the scene as a trans woman. “Show spaces were supposed to be open to everyone regardless of age, race, class, sex, or sexual preference, but for the most part it was just white kids oblivious to the privilege they came from,” she explains. “It also became clear to me that while these were the politics heralded by the scene, often they were not actually practiced.”

For a while, I tried to avoid these interactions by making myself smaller or dressing the part. I started watching shows from the side of the crowd for fear of getting trapped amongst men who weren’t interested in the ethics of showgoing. I followed the Guidelines of Being a Woman in the Pit: stay near a friend, definitely avoid skirts, move out of the way of men, keep to yourself, watch your drink, and accept the groping as a consequence of crowdsurfing while appearing female or queer, or being anything but a straight, while man. But unsurprisingly, none of these things made the harassment disappear.

It was in the pit that I was groped. Time and time and time again.
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I became hypervigilant and afraid; my refuge was stolen from me by the same power dynamics that threaten women on the streets, at their jobs, and even in their homes. The loss of safe spaces for uninhibited self-expression and catharsis is ultimately a loss of freedom.

One night, sitting outside our favorite dive bar after a show, my friend noted, “you know, a lot of punk dudes are really just bearded frat boys in leather jackets.” I wanted to laugh. And cry.

There’s this idea that being part of a “scene” guarantees acceptance and safety — that a community born out of guitars in basements and dive bars is somehow inherently inclusive, progressive, or just moreso than, say, a frat house. And while it’s true that punk has historically fostered community and solidarity among working class men, it’s also the genre where skinheads and known abusers run free. Even the Riot Grrrl movement failed to resonate with women that weren’t white, cisgender, and middle class.

But the (frequently ignored) reality is that people of color and queer folks have been punk all along.

Punk promises refuge from the oppressive institutions and ideologies that permeate everyday life, yet when its direction is dictated primarily by white cisgender men — as has often been the case — the same power dynamics and hierarchies that undervalue and suppress marginalized people recreate and uphold themselves. As with any subculture, the reluctance or outright refusal to acknowledge and address patterns of misogyny, racism, and transphobia only exacerbates the issue, and marginalized people are left behind, ostracized, or worse.

It's in the pit where men call me a bitch because I’m there for the show and not for them.
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But white men are not the protectors of punk — they just think they are.

Where men can voice their feelings and opinions freely, but women and queers are degraded or silenced, there is no liberation. Where concerned women are dismissed as “bitches” and “feminazis” and people of color are consistently alienated and sexualized, there is no liberation. When cis men get to choose which issues “matter,” the most vulnerable people lose.

I can’t lie and say I wasn’t or am not still attracted to the nihilistic attitude of punk; feeling lost, alone, unheard, and depressed will do that to a person. But I always thought of making music and going to shows as an outlet to express and manage those feelings of cynicism and rage—likely planted by a largely uncompassionate world — not to heighten them. I understood gigs as a space that honors solidarity — a place where I didn’t have to “prove myself.” I understood punk as community and a celebration of difference, not as an expression of self-superiority.

But it seems that I was wrong. At least, in practice. And isn’t that where it really matters?

Bad things happen in the pit. But it’s also where I found refuge as a quietly but deeply lost teenage girl harboring more rage than I knew how to manage. It was where the man who punched me in the face was almost instantly knocked to the ground by a group of men who proceeded to check in with me without commenting on my poor attempt to disguise my tears. The pit is where I desperately scanned the crowd for someone to notice I was being sexually assaulted and silently met eyes with a kind woman who stepped in and flagged down a security guard that fortunately took his job seriously enough to kick the creep out.

White men are not the protectors of punk — they just think they are.
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The pit is where most people understand that when someone falls, you help pick them up.

I don’t think many of us would willingly and repeatedly enter a situation that typically ends in bruised ribs, mysterious cuts and scratches, dehydration, and aching feet if we weren’t at least a little self-destructive, but there is a difference between the consensual physical exhaustion of the mosh pit and having your physical being threatened or assaulted. It seems that with this chosen loss of control—women love to get dirty too—the threat of real danger continues to loom.

Almost ten years later, when men challenge my music knowledge or demand a list of my favorite Dead Kennedys songs, I walk away knowing their insecurity and fragile masculinity are not my problems to manage. But when I go to shows, I’m more withdrawn. Live music is still very much a part of my life, and sometimes I still fight my way toward the stage, but sometimes it feels like I’m pushing through bodies looking for something that just isn’t there. Maybe I’ve outgrown it.

Or maybe I’m just tired.

Bianca Xunise Is A Black Goth, ‘Unapologetically Hood,’ And Changing The World With Comics

Eliana Buenrostro — Fri, 07 Sep 2018 07:44:41 +0000

‘I am exploring how goth intersects with my Blackness.’

Bianca Xunise is a Black goth and describes herself as “unapologetically hood.” An artist from the Southside of Chicago, her work is incredibly diverse, exploring anti-blackness, the reappropriation of problematic personas like Josephine Baker, beauty, gender, and of course, her love of goth icons. She was awarded the coveted 2017 Ignatz award for Promising New Talent for her comic Say Her Name, which took aim at the silence surrounding Black women killed by police violence.

My first exposure to Xunise’s work was at Pitchfork Music Festival 2017 in Union Park. I was looking through the book vendor area, when a print of Poly Styrene—the Somali-English frontwoman for the ‘70s jazz punk band X-ray Spex—caught my eye.

Poly comic // Poly performs with X-ray Spex at CBGB’s. Courtesy of X-ray Spex band’s page

X-ray Spex was a band from that era that actually had a member of color, and seeing her iconic lyric, “Some people think little girls should be seen and not heard, but I think, oh bondage up yours!” memorialized in Bianca’s art warmed my heart.

I bought the print right then and there and continued to follow her work.

From her meticulously chosen outfits—made up of leather harnesses, berets, and ’70s-inspired high-waisted pants—to her unrelenting love of The Craft, and her penchant for singing along to songs by the Damned or David Bowie, Xunise is part and parcel of a very Chicago Goth experience.

As a Chicago transplant, Bianca Xunise seems to be an all knowing insider of the city. I was lucky enough to meet up with her recently to talk about nightlife in Chicago, her unique experience as a Black goth and comic, and the political importance of going out and dancing.

How do you identify your taste in music? I ask because I tend to use the words “new wave,” “post-punk” and “goth” interchangeably.

I use those terms interchangeably too and I feel like a lot of times people misunderstand what I mean by goth. When I say goth, they’re probably like, ‘oh she likes Evanescence and new goth from like the mid 2000s or early 2000s.’ But when I say goth I mean something older—bands like Batcave and Darkwave, The Cure and Siouxsie Sioux and stuff like that.

Sometimes I use the Pitchfork video to inform people. It’s been really helpful…

That video was really helpful! Again, cause I feel like people misunderstand what it means and in our modern society with the internet and everything else, all cultures have begun to be kind of melted into one. A good example of this would be like Lil Uzi [Vert]. He like does trap rap, but he’s also sort of goth and sort of emo at the same time—it all blends together. And say if you’re like 15, 16, 17 and if you think Lil Uzi’s goth, then what you understand as goth is not going to be where it actually came from. You’re gonna have a whole new understanding of what you think goth is.

Often, as far as they want to go is Evanescence or Avril Lavigne, but you gotta keep going further and further back. I just started listening to some older goth music like Virgin Prunes—that’s from the ‘70s—so I am exploring how goth intersects with my Blackness and listening to bands like Screamin’ Jay Hawkins.

Why did you start drawing about these experiences with the goth subculture? I saw one of your comics—Saturday at the Goth Club—where it’s just a little ‘slice of life’ comic where you’re just at the club and you have poison written on your shirt?

One of the reasons is I was just trying to find something to write about. A lot of my work is political. But when I first started out as a comics artist, much of my work was kind of simple—about everyday life—and I missed writing about those things. My work was getting so heavy.

I wanted to bring some more lightness to it. I thought it’d be fun to show people a window into this world—there’s a lot of misconceptions about it, ‘like what do you guys do all day, hang out under the highway underpasses and dance?!’ I think people don’t understand a lot of it is just a bunch of nerds hanging out ’cause we like the same music—we’re all pretty dorky.

What are your favorite goth clubs/nights in Chicago?

I go to Late Bar, which is a big one for me. I used to go to the old Neo when that was still open. RIP. Not everyone agrees with me on this, but I feel interested in what has been happening now, ‘cause I feel like everyone is splitting up and making new safe spaces—like a lot of things happening at Berlin now. And that would be more Wax Trax! [the industrial music label based in Chicago]. Exit is another place that does ‘80s music either on Thursdays or every other Saturday.

And then there’s the new Neo. That was really rough at first. People were very against it. Actually, one of the things I really like about “Deboneo” as they call it, is how queer it’s become. There’s been a lot more black and brown queer faces showing up there. So for me seeing the goth culture blend with the club kid culture and become this one safe space of, like, weirdos and queers and drag queens and awesomeness—that’s super important to me. That’s when it gets to the best place—when it’s come as you are. No matter how weird. This is a place for you. Let’s all dance to this old shitty song.

What about them makes them feel safe?

Not all the clubs have done this, but I know Late Bar made a statement that they’re a safe space—I think this happened maybe during the election last year. Or maybe even the year before when we heard that Trump was gonna be running. They released a press release and they said, ‘we want to be known as a safe space. This is not a space for discrimination.’ They definitely upped their security after that. There’s always people on the floor.

But I’ve seen it misunderstood as though they were being predatory—like, ‘there’s this man and why is he coming up and taking my drink away from me. Get away from me.’ But a lot of times when they do that, it’s cause they saw something put into your drink or something like that and they’re trying to make sure that you get home safe—they filter people out all day. And make sure that it stays a place that people can feel comfortable going to.

The best place is when it’s 'come as you are. No matter how weird. This is a place for you. Let’s all dance to this old shitty song.'
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Cry Little Sister

The people there are of every race and gender and you know it’s grown to be a really great thing. I’m not really sure where the crossroads is of different cultures come together, but I think it’s just about the music. A lot of it is being borrowed from each other. Like punk has always been influenced by like the ballroom scene and the ballroom scene in turn is influenced by punk, but it’s all counterculture.

The goth community is a blend of everything.

Also it’s no longer just old white dudes anymore. Brown kids want to be a part of it and you should be allowed to identify with multiple things—you may be into goth music and goth culture but you also may be really into feminism and witchcraft. You might be really into drag and you’re also really into punk rock—you can pick and choose whatever you want. You shouldn’t have to choose what you love. Take it all in and make a new culture out of it.

It’s like, everyone else is kind of shitty, so like why be shitty here?

So your impression of goths and the goth community is pretty positive?

Yeah, I think that’s one of the reasons why I find goths to be pretty nice—they’re so used to everybody else treating them poorly. That’s how I felt about the older goths who set up the bar. They’ve always been kind of kind to me, which I’ve always kind of been a little nervous coming into the scene as a black woman who is used to—especially in like my comics world—white guys pushing back when they see me come and take up space. But in the goth community I see, ‘You’re weird. I’m weird!’ That’s all that matters.

I actually drew a comic about how the goth community is one of the few that I feel I’ve been able to be a part of and the first thing people don’t register about me is that I’m black. In every other space that I take up people think as soon as they see me—Black woman. And then with that they have all these other ideas about me in their head about black women and who they are.

But when I enter a space like Late Bar or Exit or Neo—I don’t feel like people see that right away, they just see somebody that’s just like them and they accept me.

That’s beautiful. Have you had any negative and racist experiences in the scene?

Oh yeah. I have racist experiences everywhere.

I think you mentioned an incident at a Nine Inch Nails show…

I was at a Nine Inch Nails show—actually this was before Nine Inch Nails—it was New Order. I was at New Order and this woman grabbed my hair because I was dancing—as you would—to New Order and apparently my hair touched her face and as I was bouncing or whatever and it brushed her face. So she dug her hand into my scalp and tried to rip my hair out. She grabbed my hair and said, ‘I grabbed your hair because I didn’t like it!’ That was her reasoning.

It was really upsetting and frustrating, but I don’t really attribute that to the community as much as being at a concert. I’ve always had pretty bad experiences at festivals and concerts in general. I’ve gotten into a few fist fights at concerts. It kind of goes hand-in-hand for me there.

In my comics world, white guys pushing back when they see me come and take up space. But in the goth community I see, ‘You’re weird. I’m weird!’ That’s all that matters.
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You try to reason with it and then you realize that racism is the only reason that’s going to work here. I wasn’t the only person there. It wasn’t just me being rambunctious in a group of people sitting quietly on the ground. It was me and bunch of other white dudes that were all dancing. But I’m the one that she decided to attack. I confronted her about that and when I called her out, the dudes that I was dancing with were like no need to call her that. [A racist]. That was really frustrating. And then what was weird was that the two dudes she was with ended up apologizing to my boyfriend and I was like, why isn’t anyone apologizing to me.

But it hasn’t gotten to the point where it’s made me feel unsafe—I also know the punk and goth community have done a lot to combat racism and fascism. I don’t feel like the first person I’m going to meet [in those spaces] is going to be a racist.

You try to reason with something that happened and then you realize that racism is the only reason that’s going to work here.
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I was working on a piece on if you want to check it out, about Rock Against Racism. A lot of the bands that I like—the Clash, X-Ray Spex and stuff—they did what they could do in the ‘70s to try to combat racism.

Going back to going out and goth nights as safe spaces. I’m going to reference your tweets. “I’ve been trying to figure out the point in society where we deemed going out and dancing a sinful thing to do.” I was hoping you could elaborate on this perspective. Why do you think it’s looked down upon and why is it so special and important that you are able to go out and dance? People obviously shit on it, right? Like, ‘you’re just going out and you’re drinking!,’ but to you it’s important. What is it that makes it important, in terms of your identity and your interests?

I definitely got a lot of feedback on that tweet and people brought some stuff up to me that I hadn’t considered before—especially us being a country founded on puritan beliefs and how that’s still affects American society—even in terms of our movies where it’s OK to show violence, but it’s bad to show sex.

We like to market things as sinful and I think that’s where it’s confusing to me—how is it sinful to have community and feel uplifted by this community and feel safe? Where is the sin in that? The drinking part is not super important—you can add or remove alcohol. Yes that exists there, but I also have friends who are sober and still go out to the goth club because it’s not about the drinking. It’s about being around your friends. It’s a chosen family. It’s a family you only want to be around so long and then you want to go back home.

I know I’ve mentioned this a few times but there’s so much happening in the world. I’ve noticed that I’ve gone dancing more this year probably than any other year because I just need that place, a place to not have to hear about Donald Trump, and not have to uplift all the hate that’s going on.

Every time I go to Late Bar they always play this song, “(We Don’t Need This) Fascist Groove Thing.” It’s a place be around people who are gonna give you love. Every time I’m there people ask me, ‘how are your comics? What’s going on in your life? How’s this art show going?’ We know each other enough to know what’s going on in our families and stuff like that. It’s never like a place of hate.

How is it 'sinful' to have community and feel uplifted by this community and feel safe?
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I’ve gone to normie clubs that everybody else goes to and I can see why people hate them. I feel like it’s a different experience. When you add “club” to something then people have this idea that’s it’s going to be this bump and grind, overly sexual, predatory space. In fact, I was at the Owl last Saturday and I was there for half an hour and I think I got groped like 8-10 times just from walking back and forth. Someone put their hands on my butt; they put their hands on my shoulder and tried to put their hands in the curve of my side. And I was like, I don’t want to be here.

Most dudes that I’ve dealt with at the goth club ask permission to dance with you or they have the nice Catholic school space between each other—where it’s just enough room for the holy spirit.

It’s good exercise too. I think everybody needs a space to be able to turn their brain off and just exhale. It saddens me that I try to explain this to my parents and they think I’m out living this life of sin when I’m really just sitting around with a bunch of nerdy people and we’re talking about Stranger Things.

What songs are a must for a perfect new wave night?

Love Will Tear Us Apart — Joy Division

Ant Music — Adam Ant

Girls on Film — Duran Duran

Spellbound — Siouxsie and the Banshees

I Know What Boys Like — The Waitresses

Let’s Go To Bed — The Cure

Listen To The Sound Of Gender Transforming: Five-Tracks Of Resistance

Ayesha Sharma — Wed, 22 Aug 2018 08:17:35 +0000

Diasphoria: A Narrative Archive for and by Trans People of Color by Ayesha Sharma

We experience not only the in-betweenness of gender, but also the instability of ‘home.’

I’m Ayesha Sharma, and I’m an agender multimedia creative. I move through emotions like waves and, especially with the experience of gender and cultural dysphoria, I’ve felt an urgency in the past year to find a community that would provide comfort in shared identities and could foster mutual growth at the same time.

I was motivated to find a medium to share these discussions around gender and cultural dysphoria sonically.

On several warm December afternoons in Cape Town, South Africa, old and new friends sat down around a coffee table to discuss something that was relevant to all of us: gender disruption. We are six trans and gender variant people of color who share a real boredom in the gender binary.

Some of us were determined in our resistance of gender conformity while others had grown tired and frustrated from the backlash we’d received and the dysphoria we experienced.

We had gathered on these afternoons to collaborate and spend time with one another, but our meetings offered us much more: community affirmation toward some of our daily struggles.

Shared identity definitely does not mean shared experience, but it can provide mutual comfort and potential growth.
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The group of us includes Rumano Fabrishh, Jay-Aeron Gertse, Reinhard Mahalie, Nazlee Saif Arbee, Suhail Kapdi, Saadiq Shiraz Soeker, and me, Ayesha Sharma.

We’re from South Africa, Namibia, and the United States.

From Southern Africa, East Africa, South Asia, and Southeast Asia; we are diasporic migrants through generations.

And so we experience not only the in-betweenness of gender, but some of us also feel the instability of “home.”

I produced the beats for each track through personal meditations on diaspora and gender resistance and then traveled to Cape Town to take part in relevant conversations with other trans and variant people of color.

I then recorded our conversations and later sampled words, phrases, and sounds from these recordings to overlap and mix with the theme-inspired beats I had produced.

The process evolved to become this autoethnographic EP, called Diasphoria: A Narrative Archive for and by Trans People of Color. The EP features two main tracks, “Catharsis” and “Imagining.” “Catharsis” is meant to stand as an ideological and emotional exploration of (gender) oppression and imagining as a journey in seeking elevation from the personal struggles that oppression brings as well as from the mental restrictions that keep us from actualizing our expansive selves.

This five-track recording offers a taste of our theory-forming, community-affirming group discussions.

Trans and gender variant people of color, like in this very project, are often the creators of content; the teachers, and the earth-shakers.

That’s why, when several conversations are sliced up and put together, they stand as an exhibition of new knowledge — new theory. Trans and gender variant POC are academics, journalists, and creatives in the fact that our personal acts of resistance and persistence boldly oppose colonial social structures. In that, people who occupy these identities have the potential to be role models and uncomfortable truth tellers.

The sentiments shared in this EP are arranged specifically for trans and gender variant POC listeners, as the discussions themselves were initiated with the intention to promote insight, affirmation, and expansion based on shared identities.

They comment on colonialism and the gender binary, gendered bodies, queer desire, self-confidence and community affirmation, religion, morality, social media community, and much more.

Others who are not trans and gender variant POC are invited to listen to this EP too, but with the understanding that the goal shouldn’t only be to consume, but to hold oneself accountable to meaningful reparations as well.

Some of the ways that this is possible are by promoting the media visibility of trans and gender variant POC creatives as well as by supporting representation of trans people by trans people, when cis queers often gain disproportionate mobility for capitalizing on them instead.

This project would not have been possible without the energy and time of my friends and collaborators.

Jay, Rumano, and Reinhold

Jay, Rumano, and Reinhard are an inspiring team who possess the capabilities to revolutionize their industries and people’s lives in the process.

Saif, Suhail, and Shiraz

Saif is passionate, intentional, and steadfast in their messages of liberation, meaning that they come away from most interactions either getting free things, loyal admirers, or stupefied students. Suhail is a hilarious, humble, and explorative soul whose interests are subtly rooted in a motivation toward deeper meaning and morality. Shiraz is a force whose essence and beliefs challenge traditional knowledge through creative practice.

Wandile Dhlamini

Wandile Dhlamini was the illustrator for this project and created its cover in addition to individualized designs for each track. They’re brilliant, bold, hilarious, and talented in pretty much everything they do.

If you like what you hear in this project, share it. You can also download all five tracks directly through Bandcamp.

Also, check out my feature on this project’s collaborators soon to be released on Everyday Feminism and be sure to follow everyone on social media to support their latest work. You won’t regret it.

In Bahrain, Female Artists Are Questioning What Is Right Or Wrong

Natasha Burge — Thu, 08 Dec 2016 08:00:00 +0000

‘You have to be brave to make it in this industry.’

I’m rushing down the winding alleyways of Adliya, the Kingdom of Bahrain’s funkiest district, on my way to the album launch party for the island’s only homegrown baroque’n’roll band. It’s November, but the evening is warm and jasmine-scented. Groups of people wander streets crowded with cafes, shawarma stands, and bougainvillea-draped villas that look grandiose in the moonlight.

I’m halfway through a whirlwind 24-hour exploration of Bahrain’s dynamic art scene, as seen through the eyes of some of the country’s most talked about young, female creators. Bahrain is the smallest nation in the Middle East — you’ll need to squint at the map and look for the islands off the eastern coast of Saudi Arabia to find it — but its influence on history has been tremendous. As the heart of the ancient Dilmun civilization, Bahrain spent millennia as a trade hub, saturated by the ebb and flow of cultures, which left the nation with an eclectic feel unique in the Arabian Gulf.

There were no stepping stones for me as a woman in the industry.
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The Gulf region has made waves in the art world recently, with Qatar building a collection of international masterpieces at such an impressive rate that it has become the world’s largest buyer of contemporary art, and Art Dubai and the Sharjah Biennial making the region a key stop on the international art fair circuit. In the midst of this, Bahrain marches to the beat of its own drummer by balancing an embrace of international arts culture with a celebration of homegrown creative talent — the latter of which has made the country an epicenter of a new art movement.

I began my exploration earlier that afternoon in the lobby of a plush hotel where I met with Sarah Nabil, the region’s first female hip-hop producer and composer. Sarah works with Outlaw Productions, a pioneering hip-hop label in the Middle East that’s behind hits like “Ee Laa” and “Samboosa.”

In contrast to the glitz of the lobby, Sarah was the epitome of effortless cool as she explained the nuances of what is still “a music scene, not yet an industry.” Sarah’s foray into music production started when she met her mentor DJ Outlaw at 17. She knew instantly this was the career for her. “At the time there were no other women doing this; there were no stepping stones for me as a woman in the industry.”

Sarah Nabil (Photo Credit: Abdullah Minhas)

In the seven years Sarah has been with Outlaw Productions, she has seen the local music field evolve significantly. “It’s an exciting time because artists are trying new things and the public is starting to appreciate local talent more. People used to say that if you want to make it in music, you have to leave Bahrain. We want to change that. We want to build this industry from the ground up and in 30 years look back and say we were a part of that.”

Outlaw Productions is keen to nurture young talent, which makes Sarah’s work as the music curator at Malja, the region’s first community art hub, so important. Malja, which means “shelter” in Arabic, was launched by Red Bull in 2015 to provide a collaborative space for artists of all mediums. The space holds regular open mic nights, and Sarah teaches workshops in music production and song structure.

“Malja is the only place in Bahrain with a free recording studio,” Sarah says. “It’s an amazing resource that has encouraged artists to be braver, and you have to be brave to make it in this industry. Young girls have told me they find what I’m doing inspiring. That gives me a responsibility to continue.”

You have to be brave to make it in this industry.
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That evening I met another Malja collaborator, Ramah Al Husseini, at a café on the beach where we watched the twinkling lights of dhows bobbing on the distant horizon. After earning a degree in studio art in Canada, Ramah returned to Bahrain five years ago and spotted something missing. “There were no open call exhibitions. Everything revolved around the same galleries and the same people so it was tough for emerging artists. Malja played a part in changing that.”

Ramah Al Husseini with her work

Tapped by the team behind Malja to be their art curator, Ramah quickly established herself as a linchpin of the art scene, curating exhibitions, teaching workshops, and cultivating fans of her dazzling paintings. At the core of her creative practice is a drive to reveal the connective tissue between ideas, which she says springs from her own background. She is a Saudi citizen of Palestinian descent, with family ties to Jordan and Dubai, who calls Bahrain home.

“When people ask where I’m from, I like to say that I’m Arab,” she says.” I’m not from a particular place; I’m from every place.”

Ramah echoed something I’ve heard expressed before by local artists: a desire to be viewed as individuals, rather than as symbols of an entire region. Stereotypes about the Middle East often mean regional artists find themselves viewed through a politicized lens on the international scene, which obscures their individuality and leads to one-note interpretations of their work. These nuanced considerations take center stage in Ramah’s pieces, which explore concepts of identity, culture, and tradition. “I don’t want to dictate to people what is right or wrong. I want to raise issues and ask questions.”

‘A Thinker’s Guide to Thinking: Hear Obey Follow’ by Ramah Al Husseini

Ramah cited social media as one factor in the changing nature of the local art scene:

“Social media allows anyone to share their art; you don’t have to wait for a gallery or have the right connections. If you make something, you can post it. There used to be the belief that imported art had more cache but that is starting to change. First we need awareness, then appreciation, and then investment.”

After leaving Ramah, I jumped in a taxi and sped toward tonight’s Belly of Paris gig. The self-described “Anglo-Indo-Argentine-Palestinian-Hungarian” group is the epitome of the island’s au courant eclectic vibe. Their “doom-pop” sound is reminiscent of a louche, decrepit aristocrat, and tonight is the launch of their first album, Peste, as well as a send-off as they begin their first Middle Eastern tour.

‘Mother’ by Ramah Al Husseini

Yasmin Sharabi, the band’s backing vocalist and keyboardist, greets me at the door of the packed venue. In addition to her role in Belly of Paris, Yasmin is also an artist and curator who has been a central force in the changing landscape of the local art scene. The opening band takes the stage as we find a place at the bar. With a soft-spoken brilliance, Yasmin dissects the challenges and opportunities faced by local artists.

“Art is ingrained in the culture of Bahrain,” she begins. “It’s an ideal place to lead the regional art scene because it’s open-minded but has the weight of history to draw upon. There’s always been a dialogue between cultures here, which shows in the creativity we are seeing now. As institutional support grows, artists will have greater resources and the scene will develop even more.”

Yasmin describes a series of exhibitions she co-curated with Frances Stafford, “Double Tap,” which explored how social media builds bridges between people and cultures. “Through social media, connections can be made between artists who would have never otherwise met. It’s fascinating to see what can come of that.”

This urge to make connections is a cornerstone of Yasmin’s artistic philosophy. She is one of those indefinable creative types who turn their life into an embodied expression of their art. “I think of life as my art. Bringing people together to create an artistic community, that is my work.”

Yasmin Sharabi

Yasmin is summoned to the stage, where Belly of Paris launches into a performance that leaves the crowd hollering for more. As I watch the fans singing along, I get the sense that something utterly new is taking shape between the throaty chords and the clamor of drums. As Yasmin said, the local music scene is embryonic, but that makes it all the more exhilarating.

The next morning, I make my way to the Manama souq. A tumult of shops, restaurants, and people, this is the beating heart of Bahrain’s history as a trade hub. In the store windows, bright paint lists the wares in a variety of languages — Arabic, English, Hindi, Farsi, and sometimes German and Japanese.

From the moment I meet Frances Stafford at a coffee shop, she crackles with energy. “I’m not a fashion designer,” she insists, even though I’m meeting with her, in part, to discuss Black Anaar, the fashion line she is launching later this month. She sees herself as more of a curator, almost a producer, tugging together threads of fabric, design, and people, to bring her stunning creations to life.

Frances, an art history major, first came to know Bahrain as a curator and exhibition specialist. While on holiday in Paris, she missed her flight home to Vancouver, which led her, on a whim, to visit Bahrain. In one of those serendipitous bits of synchronicity that seem so abundant here, she instantly fell in love with the island and its “kaleidoscopic” blend of cultures. “I was blown away by the talent and creativity and I knew I wanted to stay. I was made to feel so welcome it immediately felt like home.”

The fashion label Black Anaar is a love letter to Bahrain.
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As director of the Little India and Bab Market events, held by the Bahrain Authority for Culture and Antiquities (the former Ministry of Culture), to breathe life into the historic souq district, Frances was tasked with a huge role. “More than 20,000 people visited these events. We had pop-up art galleries, vendors, workshops, and dance and musical performances. We wanted to commemorate Bahrain’s long history as a cultural hub and encourage the exchange of ideas. These events marked a jumping-off point for the current surge of creativity we see now.”

Black Anaar fashion

Her fashion label Black Anaar is her love letter to Bahrain. Anaar is an Arabic girls’ name meaning “radiant,” and it also means pomegranate in Farsi, Urdu, and Hindi, in reference to Bahrain’s longstanding cultivation of the fruit. Frances, who now divides her time between Berlin and Bahrain — “Bahrain calls you back, you can never really leave it” — finds fabric in the souqs and works with local tailors to create exquisite unisex kaftans and robes, paying homage to the traditional designs of the Gulf. “I go on treasure hunts through the souq until I find a fabric that inspires me. I learn from the tailors, I learn from the way my friends and models wear the pieces, and Black Anaar’s vision is continually evolving.”

Black Anaar fashion

Frances is passionate about sharing Black Anaar with the world — when I admire the flowing cover up she is wearing, she plucks at the sleeve and asks if she should take it off so I can have it — in part to break down stereotypes about the region. “Bahrain is a magical place but because of the misperceptions a lot of the world has about the Middle East, that story doesn’t get told enough. Synthesis and the blending of cultures that are at the heart of Bahrain and fashion is a way of communicating that idea.”

In her time here, Frances has seen a seismic shift in the art scene:

“There have always been a lot of ‘bedroom artists’ in Bahrain, people with amazing talent but no venue for collaboration. Now people are expressing their individuality and exploring the differences between us rather than pretending they don’t exist. There is energy in the margins and something exciting is happening.”

After saying goodbye to Frances, I wander through the buzzing streets of the souq, past the shops selling halwa and karak chai, past mountains of Persian rugs and towers of gleaming samovars.

My frenetic journey through Bahrain’s creative scene has made it clear that a new homegrown artistic spirit is breathing life into time-honored customs and igniting something never before seen in Bahrain, or the Gulf region. This blossoming creative movement is sincere; it unabashedly wears its heart on its sleeve and it has utterly captured mine.

Like I keep hearing, there’s something magnetic about this place. There is, most definitely, magic on the horizon.

Are Mis-Gendered Band Names ‘Ironic’ Or Sexist?

Kayleigh Hughes — Fri, 20 May 2016 17:00:40 +0000

It’s about representation. Who we’re used to seeing matters.

flickr/id-iom

I n 2014, folk punk band Andrew Jackson Jihad announced a tour with three other bands: Cheap Girls, Hard Girls, and Dogbreth. Out of all four bands, there was, however, only one woman musician total — Erin Caldwell of Dogbreth. Cheap Girls and Hard Girls? No women in those bands.

As a woman, this struck me as a huge disappointment worth exploring: What does it mean to put gendered terms in your band name? Particularly, what does it mean to use feminine or female-associated terms in your band name when everyone in the band identifies as a straight cis man?

In a 2008 Spin article featuring male bands with “girl” in their name, Vas Kumar of Seattle band The Girls told Spin how when one man found out they were all men, “he was like, ‘What? There’s no girls in the band! You know how many guys probably show up looking for action and you guys show up and you’re dudes?’”

Kumar then said, “Exactly.” But while all-male bands with names like The Girls may be playing tricks on vile men expecting something to ogle, they’re also playing tricks on girls who are hoping to see someone like themselves on stage.

When I asked Morgan McCoy of Austin punk band MeanGirls what it meant to her when straight, cis, white men use names associated with women and femme language, she explained, “They don’t know what it’s like to go to show after show of never (or rarely) seeing someone on stage who is like you when you’re a young, impressionable musician.”

It’s this issue of representation that marks the main reason PC Music producer, Sophie* (stylized as SOPHIE), for example, drew ire from Grimes and so many other electronic music fans. As Grimes explained in an interview with The Guardian, “It’s really fucked up to call yourself Sophie and pretend you’re a girl when you’re a male producer [and] there are so few female producers.” [*Editor’s note: since this piece was published, it has come to our attention that Sophie uses she/her pronouns. We regret the error in the original piece.]

Women and nonbinary people are desperate to see ourselves in, well, any kind of pop culture. We’ve created organizations around the world such as Girls Rock Austin, Gender Amplified, and Girls Inc to try to work toward a future where seeing women making music, working in tech, appearing onscreen, or working behind the scenes is normalized and not othered. So, when members of dominant cultural groups take terms used to describe us or our bodies, such as “girls” or “pussy,” this works against that goal by pushing us out of even lingual spaces. Even our words aren’t ours anymore; they’re being snatched back and reappropriated by those who already have so much.

The same goes for people of color. Take the band Slaves, made up of white men. To decide as white men that a band name like Slaves isn’t offensive because “lots of words have two meanings” and, “We live in a society already where people are terrified of the way they act being interpreted, and it’s just getting harder,” is to disregard the struggle of a group whose suffering you have already benefited from and will never understand.

Don’t take language from those whose suffering you have already benefitted from.

In my unpacking of what it means to include gender in a band name, I spoke with music and gender scholar Dr. Elizabeth Keenan, who recently published an academic article entitled “Asking for It: Rape, Postfeminism, and Alternative Music in the 1990s” in Volume 19 of Women and Music: A Journal of Gender and Culture and who contributed two essays to the collection Women Make Noise: Girl Bands from Motown to the Modern.

Keenan notes that, “There’s always an element in any kind of popular music of pushing someone’s buttons. [These bands] are doing that, they’re having a name that is deliberately challenging.” The question that follows, then, is whose buttons are these names trying to push and why?

Often, when asked to talk about why a bunch of straight cis guys would call themselves “girls” of some sort in their band name, members of the bands focus on themes of humor, fun, and sometimes, straight-up stupidness.

Pete Tijerina of Austin band Young Girls says, “We were sitting around over a few beers and we thought it would be hilarious to call a band Young Girls.” Meanwhile, in an interview for Noisey on whether they had considered other band names, Daniel Fox of Girl Band says:

“I think if you met us as people you’d understand where it’s coming from. It isn’t a super ironic thing plus we are probably the least macho people, ever. Some people probably think we are taking the piss out of girls, which we are very much against. It was like ‘Look. We’re really against what you think where we’re coming from.’ I’d really hate to think that we put any women off, or any people off. But you could only do what you do and if people choose to get offended, whether they are men or women, they are entitled to feel the way they feel about it.”

Fox concludes by explaining that also, “It was a long time ago and none [were] not nearly (sic) as stupid as Girl Band.” Keenan is able to elaborate on this concept:

“It’s drawing on irony, which is always a big thing in popular music. Especially in indie music, irony is a big thread. So I can see like, okay, well it’s ironic. ‘It’s so hilarious, we’re a bunch of straight dudes.’ . . . It’s an easy joke. But the one thing about the level of irony that is, to me, slightly problematic is that ‘finding it funny’ is more than just, ‘we’re clearly not a girl band.’

Does it mean you’re better than a girl band? Does it mean you view girl bands as dismissive or stupid? They’re playing with this assumption of what an indie band is and what a girl band is, but I think it doesn’t account for structures of power or relationships of power.”

Asher Katz of Portland band Mean Girls has this to say about why they chose their name: “I’ve always been in bands that are very serious and instrumental or ambitious, and this was sort of supposed to be the opposite.” He continues, “It’s very much that the name, it just matches the music. It’s such stupid, aggressive, hilarious music.”

MeanGirls via Dave Creaney

Presented with this statement, Keenan counters by asking, “but aren’t mean girls serious and ambitious?” Morgan McCoy of Austin band MeanGirls (yes there are two bands named Mean Girls!) offers up this idea when speaking about her band’s name:

“If you deal with some type of institutionalized oppression on a daily basis (sexism, racism, transmisogyny, etc), then you reach a point of exhaustion where you can’t deal with it anymore. You get sick of acting like nothing is happening for so long that all you can do the next time you’re faced with it is yell, ‘FUCK YOU!,’ but once this happens you’re considered a bitch or mean . . . For example, the opening lyric on our album Squirm is, ‘I’m not here to console you, I am here to corrode you,’ so that’s what we are: mean girls.”

Contrast these statements with Katz’s, (i.e. Mean Girls is about being “stupid, aggressive, and hilarious”) and it’s easy to see what Keenan means when she talks about positionality as a crucial element to the discussion of gender in band names. “Are you a straight white guy, are you a straight white woman, are you a black queer woman? Everything you do really does depend on those different things. What comes from one person may read very differently if it comes from another.”

For his part, Dustin Hill of Black Pussy adamantly claims that he’s not trying to push any buttons at all. “I definitely wasn’t doing it for attention,” he says, “I think a lot people think that and it was the furthest thing from my mind, coming up with this band name.” So what was the thinking behind the band name Black Pussy, one of the most controversial band names in culture today, right up there with the aforementioned Slaves?

“‘The words just kind of came to me,’ he says. ‘It wasn’t a thought. I didn’t really conceive this idea except for the feeling of the songs and the feelings of the songs were giving me a kind of Quentin Tarantino vibe, a Blaxploitation vibe, a Soul Train, seventies vibe.’”

Hill’s statements in particular show a remarkable lack of understanding of the deeply problematic ways white men like himself and Tarantino pillage black culture and make it something for themselves. Blaxploitation was, as its very name suggests, a genre that exploited stereotypes of black people for white profit. And of course, rock and roll as a genre was built upon racist appropriation and exploitation. Citing “the seventies” as a defense of the name Black Pussy requires a willful ignorance of the racial and gender injustices of the time that defined the decade as one of turbulence, conflict, and social activism.

Citing ‘the seventies’ in defense of ‘Black Pussy’ requires a willful ignorance of racial injustice.

One man says one misguided thing; one group of men puts “girl” in their band name. On their own these are things that wouldn’t draw much ire. But such is the nature of microaggressions. They keep building and building until they begin to paint a picture of the structural inequalities and pervasive prejudiced attitudes. Context is crucial.

The stories of sexism in the music industry, and particularly in the indie rock sphere, are endless. Historically, Elizabeth Keenan tells me, “You have a history of phrases like ‘girl band’ being a pejorative. If you were looking at discourses in rock criticism that came up in the ’60s and ’70s, you would see that a phrase like ‘girl group’ was a largely negative one.” Critics and music journalists, “would basically say: the girl groups of the ’60s are what killed rock and roll and the Beatles are what revived it.”

Historically, you have a history of phrases like ‘girl band’ being a pejorative.

In scholar Marion Leonard’s book Gender in the Music Industry: Rock, Discourse and Girl Power, Miki Berenyi of London indie rock band Lush describes going into music gear shops only to be treated with disdain and baffled dismissiveness when she tried to purchase a pedal or guitar, being asked things like, “Do you want a reed for your flute or something?”

Meredith Graves of Perfect Pussy via flickr / Sid Sowder

Leonard also cites a Village Voice article by Ann Powers from 1992 — A Shot Of Testosterone — in which Powers explains how, “Women who love [indie guitar pop/rock] learn the art of transference . . . that everyone in indie rock is a boy.” And noted rock critic Jessica Hopper asked women on Twitter to share stories of sexism in the music industry, amassing over 400 infuriating replies in three days. The expectation is that women don’t belong in music.

The expectation is that women don’t belong in music.

In this undeniably rich context of sexism in the music industry, gendered language in band names and the reasons and intentions behind them become much more important.

It’s this context, also, that’s missing from a recent Paste Magazine piece inspired by the long overdue changing of the band name Viet Cong to Preoccupations. Claiming that the all-women garage band The Coathangers is problematic in the same way as all white-male psychedelic band Black Pussy is more than tone deaf — it’s delusional.

A name like The Coathangers is intentionally provocative and political; it’s not done for an ironic lark. The listener is forced to revisit uncomfortable facts and envision a brutal medical procedure that thousands of desperate women were forced to endure and often died from. It does not allow you to dehumanize those who seek abortion.

The author of the article remarks that the name induces disgust by using a “really messed up” symbol of abortion rights, but that’s exactly what it’s intending to do in order to try to get an important social issue across. It’s easy to ignore abortion rights issues when they’re spoken about in euphemistic ways; it’s harder when, as a man or an ardent member of the pro-life movement, you’re required to imagine a scared woman suffering in a very specific, visceral way.

Essentially, just because something is challenging, that doesn’t make it problematic. Similarly, however, just because something is challenging, that doesn’t make it not problematic.

“Rusty Coathanger” of The Coathangers via Wikimedia.org

In response to every argument or defense that something “starts a conversation,” or “makes a statement,” I want to ask, “What conversation?” “What is the statement?” If the defense of a band name or a piece of art is, “It says something,” surely you must be able to clarify what it’s saying. From there, it’s up to the audience to decide whether what it’s saying is worth the negative impact it may be causing. As Keenan says, “It depends on how much you think irony is worth.”

So why might it be a different story when a band that has gendered language in their name actually contains members of that gender group? For example, take bands such as The Girls!, the aforementioned MeanGirls, and Perfect Pussy. Reclaiming a word, Keenan explains, “is saying to the culturally dominant group, I’m taking this name and it’s going to mean what I want it to mean. So that’s really different than somebody taking it and using it in an ironic way based on the history of what that word means.”

When it comes to reclaiming pejorative or stereotypical terms and subverting them, again positionality matters. Keenan describes Perfect Pussy’s reappropriation — led by Meredith Graves — as decidedly different because, “They’re taking that term [pussy] and they’re not using it in a way that fulfills cultural expectations. They’re imbuing the term with something that they want to convey.”

Marisa Dabice of Mannequin Pussy echoes the sentiment: “Pussy is a reclamation! It’s disappointing to me that a word associated with my body is used to either insult or sexualize people . . . I want a broader definition. I want to define that for myself. To me, pussy is power.”

Mannequin Pussy via Facebook

Pussy is a reclamation! To me, pussy is power.

But even in reclamation, those in positions of less power are still subjected to heavier criticism and higher expectations than the dominant group. In the aforementioned Fader article about controversial band names, Meredith Graves remarks that,

“We’ve seen white men in a band called Slaves, we’ve seen all-male bands called Girl Band. We see people doing garbage human shit every day, and I feel like they get less shit for it than I do for having the word ‘pussy’ in my band name.”

Reappropriation can — or should — only be done by the group at which the terms have been thrown. On the significance of her band’s name, Screaming Females, Marissa Paternoster notes, “If Screaming Females didn’t have a female identified human in the band maybe we would have thought twice about using the name.”

Ultimately, meaning, identity, and impact do matter.

We don’t want to think of ourselves as bad people, so we try to find ways to argue that we don’t do bad things. None of the bands I talked to, for example, believed their name was sexist.

“I don’t know that we’re being sexist or appropriative in any sense,” Tijerina of Young Girls says. “We’re not trying to sell any kind of thing or objectify anybody.”

Katz says he would respond to someone saying his band’s name was sexist by saying:

“You don’t get it. If you listen to the music, if you come to one of our shows, if you meet us in person, it’s very clear that it’s satirical and it’s all in good fun and it really doesn’t have much to do with gender politics . . . if you take offense, then you’re not understanding that it’s a satirical joke.”

Dustin Hill of Black Pussy describes the controversy over whether his band’s name is racist or sexist as “kind of kooky.” He says, “The response, anyone saying that those two words condone sexism and racism, that’s kind of crazy to me. I don’t get it. It’s really hard for me to wrap my head around, that those two words condone it, because it’s just two words.”

Similarly, in the previously cited interview with Noisey, Daniel Fox of Girl Band says, “At the time of coming up with it, we didn’t really think about that kind of aspect of it and it was upsetting to have someone think that about you.”

The fact is that men don’t really consider the implications of their name on other groups and the reason, Keenan explains, “is that they don’t have to.” Men are in the position of staring down at the rest of us from their place of privilege, head cocked and eyes wide, pondering how on earth someone could see things another way.

Men stare down from privilege, curious how someone could see things another way.

“I came up with the idea [of the name Black Pussy] nine years ago,” says Dustin Hill.

“Initially, when I was doing it, there was no negative [statements] surrounding it. I think if I played my first show or my first few shows and people were like ‘this is a horrible idea,’ I would have rethought it. It’s only in recent years that people are saying this is a horrible idea.”

“If you look at the position of even women journalists in popular music,” Keenan tells me:

“It’s never been a situation where there’s been a whole lot of women who have very powerful positions in rock journalism, and it’s not necessarily women who are setting this discourse about critical discussions there. It’s easy to dismiss criticisms that are completely valid, like ‘Hey what histories are you drawing on when you’re using these terms?’ It’s easy for people these days to dismiss that as, ‘Oh that’s just part of callout culture.’ People don’t even pay any attention to those kinds of critiques. They think it’s ‘humorless feminists’ saying these things.”

It’s easy to dismiss completely valid criticism. They think it’s ‘humorless feminists’ saying it.

Keenan surfaces an important point about invoking the concept of “callout culture” to deflect criticisms. It’s a common tactic, especially in an age where everyone can so easily share their opinions to worldwide audiences; we often dismiss “callout culture,” acting as though people are merely looking for ways to complain or get angry about anything. The problem with that idea, however, is that it’s ignoring the most important impact of this new World Wide Web-ed world where everyone has a platform — which is that it’s given so many people a platform for the first time.

For centuries — and still it persists today — white men in power had the ability to dominate large cultural conversations because they controlled the platforms of discussion. With social media and widespread access to devices that connect to the internet, it’s harder and harder for a single cultural narrative to exist, for a single type of voice to be heard as the Truth. So it’s easy to how see those in power could respond poorly and dismissively to new, negative critiques from previously unheard groups. When you’re accustomed to privilege, equality feels like oppression. It’s not.

When you’re accustomed to privilege, equality feels like oppression.

“Maybe [these bands] will change their ideas,” Keenan muses.

“It can happen. The Beastie Boys are a really good example of that. They thought it was really funny to play the ironic sexist jerks on their first album, and everybody responded to that and they realized: What’s the difference between sexism and ironic sexism? There’s really not a difference. And they ended up changing their tune.”

Indeed, other bands have changed their name when faced with backlash. Most notably, the aforementioned changing of Viet Cong to Preoccupations after years of resistance. Similarly, Andrew Jackson Jihad recently released an announcement that they would be simply AJJ from now on and Richmond band Black Girls now goes by Rikki Shay.

The day after my conversation with Pete Tijerina of Young Girls, the band posted the following question on their Facebook page: “Do you guys think our name is sexist?” Unsurprisingly, many of the responses were from men who were already fans of the band: a lot of flat out “no”s. Upon realizing the inherent bias of their fanbase, the band then asked that the question be shared across the internet to spaces that wouldn’t have that same bias. And that is, well . . . something.

This step, of questioning things that, as men, they might not have previously questioned, is a sign that greater awareness and consideration is possible. It suggests that opening a dialogue and asking “why” really does have the ability to affect change.

Prince Was The Patron Saint Of Black Weirdos

The Establishment — Fri, 22 Apr 2016 03:36:35 +0000

flickr/Scott Penner

By Ijeoma Oluo

I remember it clearly, my white mother talking to her black friends as my brother and I, six and four, played underfoot.

“These kids need to be around you, I’m afraid they won’t learn how to be black.”

I understand now, as an adult, what my mom was saying. My white mother was concerned that she would not be able to raise two black kids fully in their blackness, on her own. Many black children raised by white parents do indeed suffer from being cut off from their heritage, from feeling different and erased.

But hearing those words, at six, I felt adrift. I walked over to the always-on television, and turned it to MTV where Prince was guaranteed to be on within minutes.

By six, I was already an awkward, bookish kid and by four, my brother was already a highly sensitive, creative weirdo. These were our personalities then, and they are our personalities today. But for many people we encountered, our very personalities were a sign that our “blackness” had never fully developed.

To kids at school we weren’t “really black.” Older black folk shook their head at our weirdness, “This is what happens,” they would say, “when black kids aren’t raised right.” White people saw us as black, but as the stereotypical idea of black that they were comfortable with — so they didn’t see us at all.

And at an early age, my brother and I both desperately wanted to prove ourselves to our community, but we didn’t know how. We were who we were, and we were made to feel like we were broken.

But even at six, I had an idea that there might be a place for us. I didn’t know where Lake Minnetonka was but I knew it was home. Watching a black man in lace and ruffles and leather slide across the screen in complete confidence was a revelation to me. He owned the screen and the stage, and he was so damn weird. Everything that my brother and I were told not to be as black kids, he was. He was sensitive, he was flamboyant, he was sexy, he was bold, he was as feminine as he was masculine. He lived in a place where nobody questioned why his voice didn’t sound “black enough,” he lived in a place where nobody asked why a black dude would love rock n’ roll, he lived in a place where nobody told him to “toughen up” the way they were always telling my brother, he lived in a place where he could wear heels and lace and eyeliner and nobody told him to “be a man.”

And nobody questioned Prince’s blackness. Not a single person.

The same people who bullied my brother and me for not being “black enough” sat next to us to watch “Purple Rain” time and time again. The same people who just this week were pulling up pictures of my once blue hair and lighter skin in order to revoke my “black card” are likely listening to “Let’s Go Crazy” today and mourning the loss of an undisputedly black man who defied all their norms. Prince was my safe haven at six; he helped give me the confidence to be who I am today.

Prince was, and is, magic. He got the entire world dancing and singing along to a music that defied genre, played by a man who defied every constraint placed on black and male identity. He was a beacon for all of us who were told that we must cut out a part of ourselves in order to fit. I never considered a world without Prince, it did not seem possible that a man made of art and beauty and sex and the boldest chords and the brightest colors could ever die.

Prince will live on, in the hearts of every music lover in the world, and in the defiant existence of black weirdos everywhere.

So many of us exist, as we are, because of him.

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