Those Were Different Times

Rebel Girl by Kathleen Hannah

I came here to write about Kathleen Hannah’s excellent memoir Rebel Girl: My Life as a Feminist Punk. First, I want to say something about audiobooks. I’ve been listening to more audiobooks than reading conventional books since Spotify built them into my family plan. That said, I’ve been an audiobook consumer my whole adult life. Audiobooks are about half of my leisure reading - though several people in my life insist it “isn’t really reading.”¹ I absolutely do consider it reading, though there is one big problem: Narration. Great narrators differentiate characters without adding too much tone - basically they disappear into the work. Bad narrators either distract or change the narrative through inflection and emphasis.

The best audiobooks to me are read by the author - assuming the author is a good narrator. I started a new audiobook this weekend, Willie, Waylon, and the Boys by Brian Fairbanks; it’s a great read but I’ll probably buy the physical book because the narrator is struggling with a godawful Sam Elliott impression. It is SO HARD to focus on the words when the delivery is strange or calls attention to itself. Kathleen Hannah is a fantastic narrator. She brings the right amount of emotion at the right times, and it is authentic. She knows how to pronounce all the words, which is often a huge problem with audiobooks. Rebel Girl is an excellent memoir, but it’s also a great audiobook. I’ll venture that Rebel Girl is better as an audiobook - at least that’s how I feel. Her voice adds nuance to the prose and makes it more compelling.

I especially enjoy reading memoirs by authors with some proximity to my own life. Hannah refined her creative voice in Olympia, Washington, as part of the same underground culture that gave us K Records and Kill Rock Stars. On our first real road dates in 1988, Blake Babies opened for a band called The Go Team, one of Calvin Johnson of K Records’ side projects. The Go Team featured two future Bikini Kill members, Tobi Vail and Billy Karen. Calvin was the first person outside of Boston to support our band. He loved Nicely, Nicely, and offered to take us on a few New England dates after we supported (and put up) Beat Happening in Boston. I’m forever grateful for Calvin’s support - it meant the world to us. When I eventually realized Tobi and Billy were part of Bikini Kill, I paid attention. I can’t say I became a fan, but I listened to the records and found things to enjoy. I never saw them live, but I’d have absolutely seen them given the chance. I’ve met a dozen or more folks mentioned in Rebel Girl, which always makes for a fun read.

Another connection is that my name is on the massive list of guest artists on Mike Watt’s epic solo album, Ball Hog or Tugboat? Hannah’s on that list as well. Watt built the album track Heartbeat around a wild answering machine message from Hannah on the album, declining to participate because one of the “big rock star” guests on his “white rock boy fuckin’ hall of shame” sexually assaulted a minor friend of hers. Was it real? I have no idea, but it’s brilliant. “I guess what I’m saying,” she says, “ is I’m just too cool to be on your fuckin’ record, OK?” Hearing that for the first time is the moment I knew I’m a Kathleen Hannah fan. After all, if she actually declined to be on the record, she agreed to have her message included. It’s cool if it’s authentic, it’s cool if it’s a bit. I’ve always assumed it’s authentic because she makes some good points I’m sure Watt wanted to share. I probably know the male rock star in question, better not to know who it is.

I’m won’t delve too deeply into the actual narrative of Rebel Girl, because Hannah is a fantastic storyteller. You should read it, or better yet listen to it. I never questioned the honesty or sincerity of the narrative; it’s raw and, at times, difficult. She can’t effecitvely tell her story without describing and referencing numerous first-hand accounts of male sexual violence, including descriptions of rape. At one point she wonders if she makes music because of male sexual violence, or in spite of it. There isn’t an answer - seemingly both things are true. It’s harrowing at times to read, but ultimately it’s deeply inspiring and insightful.

There’s a fascinating commentary on privilege, focusing on the fabled D.C. punk scene. Bikini Kill spent time in Washington, D.C. in the early 90s. Hannah became close friends with Ian MacKaye after having her mind blown at a Fugazi show. She often went to Ian to discuss the most consequential, complicated issues she faced in punk scene politics and challenges of creative life. The ideology of the D.C. punk community appealed to her, but she found cracks in its strident facade. For example, Hannah worked on and off as a stripper to support herself, first in Seattle and later in D.C. She made a point to strictly separate her sex work from her feminist punk life. Nevertheless, punks discovered her secret work life and it caused serious problems. She received unwanted attention from men outside of work, including strip club regulars vying for her attention at Bikini Kill shows. Meanwhile, feminist punks, including members of the Riot Grrrl community, shunned her as they rejected the idea that a feminist could also be a sex worker. Those were different times - that would have been a hard and fast rule in second wave feminism, and it would have been a radical (though not unheard of) idea at the time. I have the impression that feminism has largely evolved to accept this duality; however, she took a lot of abuse for a lot of things related to her work life. Much of the pushback came from people from her punk tribe, calling her out for failing to have exactly the right beliefs and lifestyle. She helped create Riot Grrrl, then became estranged because she couldn’t follow their constantly changing rules.

Hannah worked to support herself in D.C. in part because making money as a punk musician wasn’t easy. She had a high profile in the mid-90s, and it would be reasonable for anyone outside the punk culture to assume she made enough money to support herself. Scene politics, however, dictated that most shows in that scene were benefits to support relevant causes, not to line the pockets of the acts, promoters, and venues. Remember “Cashing In” by Minor Threat? The notion of “selling out” permeated everything in the punk and indie worlds back then. Bands wanted to change the world, or at least the local scene. Often they could do endless benefits because they didn’t need the money. The members of Bikini Kill, self-described as lower-middle-class with few available family resources, needed to make money, especially thousands of miles from their own community. If they couldn’t make money from their shows, they had to find another way to make money. Hannah isn’t the only respected indie musician I know who has made money stripping. Creative people do what they need to do to survive.

The commentary on privilege really struck a nerve for me. Like Hannah, Freda and I had to make money to survive in Boston when we were part of Blake Babies. You could argue I had a safety net with middle class academic parents, but Freda did not. We knew quite a few people in our scene who didn’t really have to work or worry about bills and expenses.² I didn’t live on the money we made as a band, but it certainly helped quite a bit. If all our early shows were benefits, we’d have really struggled. It actually costs money to play a show. A free show for a benefit is a donation to a charity, and maybe it’s “exposure” as well.

Here’s where my musician ideology kicks in. Musicians should be paid for their performance and from exploitation of their work, full stop. If they want to donate it to charity, that’s great. But it should always be their choice. If they want to organize a charitable event and recruit bands to also contribute their time and talents, fine. If you are raising money for charity, do not pressure an act with market value to play for free, any more than you’d approach a catering company and ask them to cater for free. There is no difference. If a musician wants to donate their services, that’s great. But even then, they have to pay their crew and incur costs. At least let them break even financially to donate their value to your cause. You can say, oh, they had higher ideals back then; it wasn’t about commerce, it was about revolution. Maybe so, but it still fucked things up for Kathleen Hannah when she had to find money to pay her bills.

Another thing that struck me involved commentary on men holding themselves out as feminists or advocates. Remember, I played in an indie band with two young women, each in their own way a strong, unflinching feminist. I saw a lot of sexism and misogyny in those days. We’ve made progress, believe me. Back then I always had strong feminists in my life, including my mother, and especially Freda. We were a couple from age 15, and her ideology by then was fully-formed. I’d have identified as a feminist back then. I’m more clear-eyed about it now, and I consider myself an advocate, as I do for other classes of marginalized people. Hannah discusses this in a really interesting way. She writes about the Fugazi song Suggestion, sung by men from a woman’s perspective, commenting on male sexual violence. It’s powerful work, disturbing and it absolutely got its message across to me as a young fan. Does it matter that it’s sung by a man? Yes, it does. Hannah concludes that it’s useful, this sort of advocacy. But it’s substantially different from a woman singing about her own experience, or any marginalized person sharing their trauma.

The sweetest and most life-affirming part of the book is Hannah’s marriage to Adam Horowitz, King Ad-Rock of Beastie Boys, and the adoption of their son Julius. They just seem like fun, lovely people with great values. Their relationship is sweet, and Horowitz is an inspiring character in his commitment and dedication to Hannah through a chronic illness. It’s really affirming to read about her later experiences making music with her bands Bikini Kill and Le Tigre - she loves making music with her friends, but her 90s experiences were difficult on every level. I relate with this so much. I do a version of this, dipping back into the formative relationships of my early music-making to find that it fits like a glove. She seems to have found a real happiness as a wife, mother, and artist in middle age, which is inspiring. I could go on and on, but seriously - just read the damn book and let me know what you think.

1. This is bullshit, by the way. I know this because I used to check out an audiobook along with the physical book from the library, and I’d switch off between audio and physical book - and it’s substantially the same experience. I don’t think it makes me dumber or less imaginative.

2. One time, in 1989, I was in line for an ATM in Harvard Square, behind a popular local musician I’d heard came from a wealthy family. He left the receipt behind, and I took a peek. He had over $50,000 in his checking account. I don’t think I ever had more than $1,000 in the bank the entire time I lived in Boston. I also knew a musician around my age, in a popular local band, who inherited $30M at age 21. That sort of thing was pretty normal.