Bikini Kill: The Singles

BIKINI KILL: THE SINGLES (1998)

1) New Radio; 2) Rebel Girl; 3) In Accordance To Natural Law; 4) Strawberry Julius; 5) Anti-Pleasure Dissertation; 6) Rah! Rah! Replica; 7) I Like Fucking; 8) I Hate Danger; 9) Demirep.

For the sake of extra accuracy, I suppose this very short compilation, consisting of several A- and B-sides, as well as a four-song EP from 1995, deserves a brief mention. ʽRebel Girlʼ has already been discussed several times above, and without that song the entire compilation is around 17 minutes long — nevertheless, it still contains songs that are abso­lutely essential for any fan of the band.

In a way, ʽNew Radioʼ, the original A-side of ʽRebel Girlʼ, is much more ferocious and disturbing — not only does it feature the scariest Kathleen Hanna screeching on record (she almost literally spews her lungs out in little pieces), but its lyrics, suggesting something uncomfortable, unspea­kable, and almost certainly illegal, are a very far cry from the anthemic swagger of ʽRebel Girlʼ that sounds dang near comical in comparison.

The EP Anti-Pleasure Dissertation, released in 1995, already shows the beginning of the tran­sition to the «softer» sounds of Reject All American — the title track has certain melodic traces both in the guitar playing and in the singing, although the ideology remains the same (as usual, the song is directed against the sterotypical macho boyfriend looking for sexual conquests — "did you win that race, did you score that point?.."). But even sad stories like that do not prevent Hanna from proclaiming that ʽI Like Fuckingʼ — "I believe in the radical possibilities of plea­sure, babe!", she states at the end of the song (if you can call it a song, that is).

Musically, the best song is probably ʽI Hate Dangerʼ; its melody sounds like a slightly de-synco­pated variation on AC/DC's ʽDirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheapʼ, but that particular dangerous, grow­ling sound suits Bikini Kill to a tee — in a different world, I could easily see them as the female equivalent of AC/DC, counterattacking that band's aggressive machismo with their equally fiery brand of aggressive feminism (now if only they learned how to play those instruments...). On the other hand, their recording of the ʽMary Macʼ clapping game at the beginning of ʽDemiRepʼ is a rather silly novelty whose symbolism I am not able to decode, probably because there isn't any, they just felt like letting out ther inner child for a while.

To conclude these reviews, I just want to state that, although I am not and will never be a big fan of Bikini Kill, I do think that, had they managed to stay together, there were some actual chances of their gradual evolution into a band that might be taken seriously even outside of ideologically charged discussions. Fire and passion in art always deserve respect, regardless of whether they are used to express radical social ideology or not, and all they needed to learn was how to control and direct that fire — something that they had almost mastered by the time of ʽI Hate Dangerʼ and Reject All American. But then, of course, it became clear that the «Bikini Kill» brand was all about ideology first and musical impression second, so that any musical growth was a direct mortal threat to the band's existence. Too bad about that. But you can always check out Hanna in Le Tigre, her subsequent and much more «musical» project in the «electroclash» genre, rather naturally evolved from Bikini Kill and certainly easier on the ears of the average music lover — the wilder they start, the softer they get, eventually.

Bikini Kill: Reject All American

BIKINI KILL: REJECT ALL AMERICAN (1996)

1) Statement Of Vindication; 2) Capri Pants; 3) Jet Ski; 4) Distinct Complicity; 5) False Start; 6) R.I.P.; 7) No Back­rub; 8) Bloody Ice Cream; 9) For Only; 10) Tony Randall; 11) Reject All American; 12) Finale.

This is the first Bikini Kill album for which the band finally decided to try writing and per­forming some music, as opposed to «distortion-enhanced social activity» — and, incidentally, the last one as well, because the effort proved to be too much for the band, and it imploded from internal conflict. Also, most people hated the album, because nobody wanted Bikini Kill to try to grow and mature — Pussy Whipped had listeners falling on their knees and surrendering to the sheer wrath of the «songs», but Reject All American had ballads. BALLADS! How are you supposed to make a bikini kill with a frickin' ballad?

Logically, I suppose that we should be going along with critical opinion. Bikini Kill are not musicians, but activists. They cannot write songs, they cannot (or will not) play, they don't know how to sing, and all they got going for them is their animal passion and feminist ideals. So if they start cutting down on the animal passion without significantly compensating on other levels, who needs them? Better a doggone awful band that can't play at all than a boring mediocre band that pretends to be playing well.

But wait, not so fast. First of all, it is not really true that Hannah and her gang got «softened up» on this record. The very fact that their guitarist is playing a few more notes than usual, and that the barking and nagging is occasionally shaping up in the form of a vocal melody does not nece­s­sarily mean that they lost anything in terms of energy. What may have been really disappointing to some of the fans is that lyrically, Reject All American transcends the level of primitive, gut-level «riot grrrrl» slogans — in fact, there is not one single direct reference here to the evils of sexual objectification, although many of the songs deal with the evils of objectification as such, period, and sometimes in almost surprisingly smart ways.

The title track, even if it is superficially poppier and even «girlier» than ʽRebel Girlʼ, is arguably Bikini Kill's finest two and a half minutes — Hannah concocts a well-modulated mantra of «social activity clichés» ("regimented, designated, mass acceptance, overrated, lip synch, teen anthem, lip synch, obligation...") that her co-workers are happy to throw on the bonfire ("reject! all american! reject! all american!") with catchy glee and generic, but tasteful pop-punk riffage. Primal chaos, it is true, has been replaced by a tighter, better controlled, more disciplined (and clearer articulated, might I add) way of presenting the message — but why not, if Billy Karren is capable of playing in the style of, say, Lenny Kaye?

None of the other songs try so hard to imprint themselves in the listener's mind, but the overall sound — provided you have finally gotten used to Hannah's nasal wail — is still an improvement over Pussy Whipped. There is a certain immediacy and minimalism to the songs that was pre­viously lacking: most of the rockers start and finish abruptly, without any «moody» introductions (on Pussy Whipped, about half of the songs had some sort of amateurish bass intro to them), and, surprisingly, at least three or four finish abruptly twice — for some reason, the band had develo­ped a consistent taste for false endings, which creates the illusion that there are far more songs here than there really are (a nod to Wire's Pink Flag?).

The two «ballads», sung by Kathi and Tobi rather than Hannah, are forgettable but not particu­larly corny — they may have been written with somebody like Blondie in mind, with a mix of tenderness and inner strength that is certainly incompatible with the idea of a «girlie sellout», and, after all, there is nothing wrong about showing a little tenderness, is there? I even think that the ironically titled ʽFalse Startʼ has all the makings of a good song — pretty vocal melody and cute combination of gruff electric riffage with tinkling chimes. Just lacks that special something to put it over the top, but on the whole, it is their ʽSunday Morningʼ and ʽDreamingʼ all rolled in one, even if the result is ultimately quite amateurish.

In any case, my logic is simple: Reject All American is the most «musical» album these girls ever made, and ideologically, it does not betray their agenda, but extends and deepens it. With a few years more work, they might very well have matured into decent songwriters and competent players — sadly, the male chauvinist Olympic gods were all against this, and the band split up less than two years after they decided to reject all American (then again, logically, Bikini Kill is also very much American, so they had no choice but to reject themselves). Which leaves me with no choice but to award this album a very low thumbs up — for (a) not being irritating, and (b) honoring the «growth curve» and showing promise for the future. So it never came to pass, but really, what matters is the dynamics of the action, not the result.

Bikini Kill: Pussy Whipped

BIKINI KILL: PUSSY WHIPPED (1993)

1) Blood One; 2) Alien She; 3) Magnet; 4) Speed Heart; 5) Lil Red; 6) Tell Me So; 7) Sugar; 8) Star Bellied Boy; 9) Hamster Baby; 10) Rebel Girl; 11) Star Fish; 12) For Tammy Rae.

Since this is the band's first, loudest, and most straightforward full-fledged LP, it has become the classic point of first reference for Bikini Kill — but it is not easy to say something about it that has not already been said in the context of discussing the first EPs. In fact, Pussy Whipped plays off the idea that nobody has probably heard those EPs, because they go to the trouble of re-recor­ding ʽRebel Girlʼ — in an inferior version, I might add, with noticeably lower fidelity and with a sur­prisingly tamer guitar tone from Billy.

Of course, the band in general is anything but tame: Hannah's screeching has only got wilder, to the extent that it is nigh impossible to decipher the sound waves battering against the poor micro­phone. Maybe it's all for the better — it is hard not to cringe at all the «radical feminist» dribble that is delivered non-stop without the slightest hint of humor or irony ("your alphabet is spilled with my blood", "all you do is destroy", etc.). Then again, I would be lying if I said that every song on here qualifies as a straightforwardly dumb anthem; and I would also be lying if I said that songs like ʽStar Bellied Boyʼ or ʽSugarʼ, decrying brutal sexist attitudes of guys who treat girls like fuckmeat, had nothing to do with reality — for justice' sake, it would constitute a good balance to have ʽStar Bellied Boyʼ sitting next to, say, the Rolling Stones' ʽStupid Girlʼ as a call-and-answer thing on ridiculing stereotypes.

Anyway, the real bad news is that the music is still being treated like a bitch. All the riffs have been pilfered, as usual, from the band's favorite recordings by the Troggs, the Ramones, and the Sex Pistols, so that the record rides exclusively on attitude — and the attitude never varies from song to song, depending only on whether Hannah plays it completely straight or gets a little theat­rical (on ʽSugarʼ, she spends some time mocking and parodying the «pornstar approach» towards guys, before cutting the crap and asking it straight — "why can't I ever get my sugar?"; right next to it, ʽStar Bellied Boyʼ culminates in a frantic "I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't cum!" that really shows all that dumbass guy how much of a pathetic «hero» he really is).

To those listeners who think that only the spirit matters, these forty minutes may seem like a single, super-concentrated energy punch, a nuclear warhead of an album that takes the feminist revolution in art to a whole new level. Myself, I don't see the principal progress over Patti Smith, who was a better poet, had a more professional musical backing, occasionally authored catchy songs, and was at least as ballsy as Hannah. But yeah, Bikini Kill make more noise, and all their riffs are thick, crunchy, and distorted to the max.

Oh, I forgot: the last song here breaks the trend — it is nothing less than a ballad, dedicated to Tammy Rae Carland, a lesbian artist friend of theirs who also designed the album cover. Its com­positional genius could probably be matched by a five-year old Paul McCartney, its catchiness factor drops well below zero, but the artistic statement of finishing this hyper-aggressive package with a sweet-but-not-too-sentimental confession of love (for that one person who might probably be able to finally make Kathleen cum!) cannot be beat.

As a final disclaimer, I have to say, of course, that I only feel somewhat qualified to dismiss Pussy Whipped as a «musical» non-entity — as to what concerns its power and authenticity as a social performance act, well, I guess that guys have about as much business discussing this stuff as propagating their views on abortion. In a way, it might be so that Hannah and her friends are simply doing here the kind of thing that should have been done a long time ago — that, as a girl band, they are simply «ideologically catching up» with the hardcore punk aesthetics. It is true that, even if musically Bikini Kill are not doing anything in 1993 that could not have already been done in 1983, or even in 1977-79, for that matter, there was no band quite like Bikini Kill (music, lyrics, image combined) circa 1977-79 or 1983, and that should get you a-thinkin'. Maybe if all these songs had been written in 1977, I would not be tempted to snicker at them so much.

Nevertheless, I am here primarily to opinionate on the music, not on the ideology, and from that point of view, if you come here searching for music, I have no right to recommend Pussy Whip­ped, an album whose chief target audience, so I'd think, would consist of sexually oppressed mid-to-low-class young females in need of a psychological crash course on how to defend yourself (nothing to laugh about, actually — far be it from me to deny the grave seriousness of this issue!). So remember this, ladies: next time you find yourself sexually harassed by your male chauvinist pig employer / colleague / high school «admirer», just put up ʽBlood Oneʼ or ʽStar Bellied Boyʼ as your ringtone, and watch his allegedly mighty tool wither on the spot.

Bikini Kill: The CD Version Of The First Two Records

BIKINI KILL: THE CD VERSION OF THE FIRST TWO RECORDS (1992; 1994)

1) Double Dare Ya; 2) Liar; 3) Carnival; 4) Suck My Left One; 5) Feels Blind; 6) Thurston Hearts The Who; 7) White Boy; 8) This Is Not A Test; 9) Don't Need You; 10) Jigsaw Youth; 11) Resist Psychic Death; 12) Rebel Girl; 13) Outta Me.

«Bikini Kill are activists, not musicians», as a passionate, but somewhat ambiguously disposed female person tells us, among other impressions of the band, in the spoken overdub on ʽThurston Hearts The Whoʼ, and, frankly speaking, I was not even sure whether it was worth tackling this band in the first place — because, well, it is pretty hard to deny that Kathleen Hanna and her band of Amazon warriors use music primarily, if not exclusively, as a «sociopolitical tool», trying as hard as possible not to stoop to thinking about it as a value in itself. But then, what the heck? They only have had a few albums out, and some of the songs are fun, and when you deal with punk music, it takes a real brain surgeon to understand where «music» ends and «activism» be­gins. And besides, in my collection they are probably the closest thing to Pussy Riot, a «band» that has even less musical substance (at least Bikini Kill have a vague understanding of how to play their instruments) but for which I have actually gotten review requests — so, since I am never ever going to review Pussy Riot, why not say a few words on Bikini Kill instead?

So, in a nutshell: Bikini Kill are the spearheaders of the «Riot Grrrl» movement (that's three r's, right? don't forget to check your spelling every time), an aggressive (thankfully, non-lethal so far) punk-feminist current in music and performance art which many people have heard of, but few can identify by any names of its representatives — in fact, some of the less politically minded, but more commercially popular or critically applauded bands (such as Hole or Babes In Toyland) have also been dubbed «Riot Grrrl» by the unsuspecting, deeply confused masses. Well, finally, here are Bikini Kill, and they are the real thing.

Describing the band's sound is not particularly difficult, since they never worked hard at putting any unique stamp on it. A standard 4-piece band with a rhythm section, one guitar player, and one vocalist. The guitar player (Billy Karren) is surprisingly male (it is not known if the other girls ever referred to him as «our bitch») and may have been hired as a political gesture (to show that «radical feminism» does not imply cessation of interaction with the other sex), or, more likely, because, deep down in their hearts, they all secretly admit that girls are pussies and that no girl can ever play a real mean PUNK RAWK guitar. (There was no Avril Lavigne back in those days, you un­derstand). Anyway, it's not as if Billy himself were all that great — he has mastered the Ramones and the Dead Kennedys bag of guitar tricks all right, but there is really nothing here, musically, that you wouldn't find on a bunch of classic punk and hardcore punk records from the previous decade and a half.

The vocalist is a whole other thing, but enjoying her vocals is certainly an acquired taste if there ever was one — Kathleen Hanna has one of those battle cries you'd expect to hear from a parti­cularly nasty old harpy: sharp, high-pitched, nasal, nails-on-chalkboard type that rips the living flesh right out of your ears. Her real voice, as you hear it in interviews, is kind of grating, too, but she intentionally makes it sound even nastier on record, so that it resonates with extreme «bratty» nastiness. Not a bawl or a banshee wail or a masculine epic-warrior thing, just this really ugly «nyah-nyah-nyah» soundwave to which you have to get yourself attuned real quick, or you will be climbing up the wall in no time. But Hanna's voice is the essence of Bikini Kill — in a way, that voice is the message, not to mention that you will most likely not be able to get the verbal message anyway, not without a lyrics sheet.

The album in question, true to the name, puts together some of the first samples of Bikini Kill's recorded output — the EP Bikini Kill and the first side of a split LP that they shared with Huggy Bear (a «para-riot-grrrl» band from the UK), both originally released in 1992. The sound, as is easy to guess, is delightfully / disgustingly lo-fi, with one exception: ʽRebel Girlʼ, the loudest, «cleanest», and arguably best-known Bikini Kill song of all time, not just because it is so easily identifiable as an anthem, but also because it is their catchiest and poppiest, where their female-Neanderthal approach takes a little grooming and the whole thing sounds like a tribute to The Troggs. As crude as the lyrics are ("they say she's a dyke, but I know she is my best friend" —what's that «but» supposed to mean???), the tune is a fun one, and at least the guitars are raw enough to count it as «the real thing». It may be silly-punk, but it ain't faux-punk.

As for everything else, well, if you are big on recycled, but honest, punk aesthetics, you might like most of this — Billy has a good grip on that old legacy, pilfering from punk greats for all they're worth on tracks like ʽLiarʼ and ʽResist Psychic Deathʼ, but much of the time he's just pro­viding an information-free wall of chainsaw buzz (ʽSuck My Left Oneʼ, ʽDon't Need Youʼ), which leaves us with little to do other than concentrate on Hanna and her little fits of girl-power rage. Sometimes she really goes over the top ("eat meat, hate blacks, beat your fuckin' wife — it's all connected" — not a highly scientific viewpoint, if you ask me), but at least the sincerity of her actions cannot be denied, even if the crudeness and banality of her denouncements can be a turn­off (ʽWhite Boyʼ — a point-blank range hit at sexism that, for some reason, also implicates the race issue, but how is raping a «slut rocker bitch walking down the street» an offense particularly typical of a «white boy»? Isn't that confusing the issues a little? Then again, there has rarely been a band on Earth more confused than Bikini Kill. Maybe they are musicians after all).

A few of the tracks are just sonic hooliganry with a sneer, such as ʽThurston Hearts The Whoʼ, where the already mentioned spoken overdub is superimposed over a noisy, mock-avantgarde track — the primary message here being: "if you think Sonic Youth is cool and you think that they think that you're not that cool, does that mean everything to you?" Ridiculing Sonic Youth is a respectable position, the problem being that it's not as if they were offering a hell of a lot in exchange. But at least it is good to know that aggressive feminism is not the only thing that Hanna and her sisters are interested in.

If only at least a couple more songs here were like ʽRebel Girlʼ, I might even have gone ahead with a thumbs up. As it is, the compilation is an important cultural artefact, and an acknowledged influence on «rebel girls» around the world, but too much of it is boring, and too much of it is grating on the nerves, to call it a consistently «fun» listening experience. If you find yourself in need of a spiritual awakening, be their guest. If, however, you are not one of those «white boys» casually referring to «slut rocker bitches» in your everyday life, you might want to listen to something more musically oriented instead.