| During a period in the early nineties, music critics attempted to grapple with the brashness of the riot grrrl howl, a chaotic, incomprehensible scream that was nonetheless loaded with emotion and meaning. Not knowing really what else to do with the female punk inversion, it often became theorized into a cathartic cry of resistance and celebration, a classic jouissance of repressed pain and exhilarated glorification. It was an apt enough characterization, but also an abstracted spin of a movement whose power was contained in the concrete - an intensely bodily and physical grassroots explosion of a femininity that defied convention and patriarchically defined roles in society and music. But more significantly, it was fun, it was sincere, and it was important.
Finally Punk, a local female fourpiece that includes members of The Carrots, has garnered a fair amount of attention for their riot grrrl revival and unabashedly DIY sound. Their self-titled, self-released debut already sold out, no doubt largely due to a recent mention in the Pitchfork column Interobang. The album, which features 13 highly loaded bursts of out-of-tune, shrill, minute-long punk scrawls, is an assault to say the least. The vocals are often screeching and abrasive, the lyrics usually ridiculous, and the playing sloppy and unskilled, at best. But then, that’s the point right?
Part of the thrill of riot grrrl in the nineties and punk in general was certainly the idea that anyone with enough passion could assert themselves as a band. The distinction between fans in the audience and the band on stage was intentionally blurred and, as K records and Kill Rock Stars proved, everyone had a voice that could be heard. Bratmobile’s popular debut also revealed that, to the scene at least, talent was relative.
That’s not to say there wasn’t talent in the DIY riot grrrl scene. Bikini Kill is rightfully held up as the epitome of the movement and Heavens to Betsy and Excuse 17 shouldn’t be eclipsed by the dominating success of Sleater-Kinney. Even Bratmobile’s The Real Janelle was a vast improvement in skill over Pottymouth. Whether Finally Punk is actually even concerned with those questions of skill is unclear, and maybe for fans unimportant, but if the group’s music is going to be sustainable beyond a rough novelty of a riot grrrl resurgence, then they will need to find much more coherence in their sound. DIY and skill are not, after all, mutually exlusive.
Looking to what the group might be capable of achieving, there are moments of promise on the album. “What the Fuck, Missile?” plays off the effective double entendre to add some urgency to the album without drowning it in levity. And the cover of Nirvana’s “Negative Creep” is a brilliant re-appropriation of the appropriated icon. Beginning with a shout: “Kurt Cobain is dead. I am not Kurt Cobain. But I am a negative creep,” is as effective and decisive a slogan as Sleater-Kinney’s “I Wanna Be Your Joey Ramone.” But these are only flashes on a mostly unstable album. The closing track “Circus,” for example, is hardly the fierce harbinger that Bikini Kill’s “Carnival” offered.
But what Finally Punk is doing is undoubtedly important. We can hardly claim today to have surpassed the social need for the ethics of riot grrrl or DIY punk. And culturally, the band’s presence, however limited, makes a statement that should be heeded. Just as 70’s punk became chic and nineties alternative became mainstream, today’s indie is quickly being corporately co-opted into an increasingly water-downed saturation. Finally Punk is a reminder of what the ever-elusive and constantly debated term indie stands for at its core. At least in theory.
- Doug Freeman (AustinSound.net)
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