A KICK IN THE HEAD FROM CHICK ROCK

lessons from Le Tigre on just what rock 'n roll means

m a t t g r e e n e

Shortly before his rise to rock 'n roll messiah status, a young Kurt Cobain walked into his Seattle abode one afternoon to discover he had been pranked--"Kurt Cobain Smells Like Teen Spirit" was scrawled messily on his living room wall. Little did the prankster know this phrase was to be the inspiration for the inspiration that was the grunge rock crossover success of the 90s. The culprit, Kathleen Hanna, couldn't have possibly imagined the irony of Cobain turning her commodity-slamming joke into the cash cow of alternative rock mainstreaming. Furthermore, the quip itself was quite gender-loaded--Smells Like Teen Spirit was a deodorant marketed at young female teens--and its appropriation by a male rock star bespeaks of an irony that still resonates today.

Kathleen Hanna's first band, Bikini Kill, is credited with being the primary starting point for the feminist rock movement known as the riot grrrl revolution. Female rock bands such as Bratmobile, Sleater-Kinney, Team Dresch, the Butchies, and Hanna's latest act, Le Tigre, can all be traced back to Bikini Kill's explosion onto the Olympia, Washington rock scene in the early 90s. Bikini Kill, in short, was significant for the way that Hanna appropriated the traditionally male-dominated aesthetic of hard rock to promote her radically explicit feminist politics. Bikini Kill's legendary performances of songs such as "Suck My Left One" have already been recorded in the history books as literally resetting the standards for levels of raging rock performativity. These were not girls but grrrls, intent on reclaiming their belittling modifiers and spitting it back in the face of rock audiences everywhere.

Le Tigre, on the other hand, as I discovered all too acutely this past Thursday night, has somewhat of a different approach. Employing primarily synthesized instrumentation such as beat machines and electronic sampling to accompany minimalist garage guitar riffs, Le Tigre's sound falls somewhere between Devo and the Shangri-La's--new wave spazzing with hooks catchy enough to snag a whale of a Big Bopper. The sound is no less bombastic than Bikini Kill but certainly connotes new commentary on Hanna's part. In fact, Mr. Lady Records, Le Tigre's label, describes their sound as such: "Catchy and danceable moments are complicated by repetition in which flaws become apparent and/or political content challenges 'the groove'." Indeed, it didn't really dawn on me until their performance at Cat's Cradle last week how Le Tigre is just as much exploiting and enjoying the predictability of their sterilized garage rock as they are mocking it and emptying it of its meaning. In standard postmodern fashion, Le Tigre seems to be getting away with the best of both tactics (see also: Beck). However, the manner with which they seek to forefront their very earnest political content into this complicated stylization made for a frustrating/enlightening concert experience last Thursday.

Having readied myself for a raucous evening drenched with good ol' blood, sweat, and tears, I left Thursday's concert feeling a good deal disappointed. And can I be blamed? I had read of Bikini Kill concerts of yore and had simply geared up for a slightly synthesized serving of the same dish. Le Tigre's performance just felt flat to me--nay, tame. However, tellingly, my concert companion, Jenny, enjoyed the show immensely as did all of her female roommates in attendance. My complaints to Jenny were threefold: 1) Not loud enough, 2) Not wild enough, and 3) Not enough "real" musicianship displayed to warrant my "Good Rock Show" stamp of approval. Indeed, Hanna et al, for the large part (other than some sparse live guitar and keyboard playing), simply clicked on the samples and started dancing and singing away--it felt like Le Tigre karaoke. They even had choreographed dance moves. If I stuck to the "rock-and-roll-as-quest-for-authenticity" definition, then Le Tigre surely fell short. However, as Jenny pointed out, the band never made promise to such pretensions. In fact, the band's rejection of prototypical rock guitar virtuosity (read: masturbation Šthanks Ara!) was clearly intentional. In fact, much of the rock concert ritual I was familiar with was subverted that night. Hanna's politically charged spiels, providing information on women's organizations with which the band was affiliated, seemed to me to kill the momentum of the show--however, these were clearly as vital a part of Le Tigre's message as was the music, if not more so. These women were clear-headed and articulate (compared to the "I-just-swallowed-a-fistful-of-Vicadin" Breeders I saw earlier in the month). Coupling the gravity of these moments in between songs with the melodramatic Le Tigre screen-saver backdrop and the cheesy dance moves, it became clear that the band had their tongues quite firmly planted in cheek. "Well," I thought to myself the next day, "They were just doing a sort of performance art thing...not rock 'n roll...I'm still right--that wasn't a good 'rock show' per se, but a sort of theater outing...Isn't that a tidy way to clear up that confusion."

"No." said Jenny.

And, in retrospect (damn being proven wrong!), Jenny was right. Le Tigre was out to prove just how much of the rock ritual is performance--that is, a spectacle far from my hopelessly simplified notions of "authenticity" (i.e. screaming + spitting = sincerity). By standing on stage essentially dancing to their own CD, Le Tigre gave all of male rock posturing a quick backslap to the grill...from the grrrls.

So, as it turns out, Le Tigre were one step ahead of me. And, as Jenny also pointed out (damn it all!), I am clearly not Le Tigre's target market--their latest record begins: "For the ladies and the fags/ Yeah! We're the band with the roller-skate jams!" However, now that I think about it, maybe I was the one "targeted" that night. With my well-prepared rock 'n roll checklist, I am accustomed to entering a concert with very narrow expectations, many of which are imbued with typically masculine forms of expression. But, as Kathleen Hanna sings on Le Tigre's self-titled debut: "Yr just a parrot when yr screaming and yr shouting 'More crackers please, more crackers please' / You want what you want but you don't wanna be on yr knees." She's right--I was on the out at that concert, and Jenny was on the in. It made me rethink all those times I dragged Jenny out for a great night of being kicked in the head in a mosh pit full of meatheads and saying "Hey, Jenny, that's just rock 'n roll." I bet that sounded a lot like "More crackers please" to her.