RIOT GRRRL

Por Victor C Drax

 

Like you might guess, from my previous articles, I’m a fan of rock bios. That is, biographies or auto-biographies done by rock musicians. Dave Mustaine told me about the way he was, without warning, expelled from Metallica; Steven Tyler went into detail about his terrible relationship with Cyrinda Foxe, the groupie he turned into his wife; Marilyn Manson took a full part of his book to explain the terrible months on which he recorded Antichrist Superstar, the album that proved that “when all of your wishes are granted, many of your dreams will be destroyed.”

 

Recently, I’ve started another bio: Neon Angel, by Cherie Currie. In case you don’t know who is her, go to YouTube and watch any live video by The Runaways. Right now, we see Shirley Manson in Garbage, or Gwen Stefani from No Doubt and it’s barely a side comment that the singer is a woman. The Donnas are known for being that “all girls” band, but what very few people know is that the pioneers were Joan Jett, Lita Ford, Sandy West, Jackie Fox and, of course, Mrs. Currie.

 

Rock is a sport for boys, a blood sport. You could take any song by Mötley Crüe and thirty seconds into it, you know what it is they think about women. Making a band is no easy task —and standing in front of an audience takes real guts. Now think of doing all of that while having the prejudice against you, like two guys from Rush said to Joan and Sandy, one night before a show.

 

“What are you two doing here?” the guys said.

 

They explained. They’re in The Runaways, the opening act.

 

“No, you’re not” one of the men said. “Go home. Play dollies.”

 

Guess what happened next: The Runaways went onstage, they rocked that shit. They were, literally, used to play in front of kids throwing them beer cans. They could deal with whatever the crowd attacked them with, and them some more.

 

I guess it’s the same thing that faced Margaret Thatcher, on the much bloodier, filthy field of politics. While we, guys, know that society has our backs whatever the role it is that we decide to perform (except for child-bearing and breast feeding), women have to prove they can. Fight twice as hard —and fools still get surprised when they achieve. The idea seems to be, “Don’t trust in them because they’re mellow. When push comes to shove, they will let their feelings get the best of them and, like, cry or do whatever it is that women do.”

 

Wrong.

 

If you think women lack the guts to have some guys hunted down and killed, then research the life of Golda Meir, the woman who answered the Munich Olympics attacks with an operation called “Wrath of God.”

 

Remember, The Runaways were before Courtney Love, before fucking Madonna. A full girl band was unheard of in the seventies, and while, for many reasons, they were never a big act in the United States, the mold had been broken. May female performers in the coming years would be influenced by what the “jail-bait” girls started, through the hand of producer Kim Fowley.

 

Still not convinced about how much women can accomplish, in the face of impossible odds? Then have a kid. When the kid is barely a year old, have your partner dropping out of the marriage and raise the child yourself, alone. Break your back to make sure the child never goes one night hungry and provide him with all the tools so he can explore his passions and interests. That’s what the majority of the women in Venezuela have done, including my own mother.

 

Much, much harder than being a rockstar, if you ask me.