ANOTHER MUSIC IN A DIFFERENT KITCHEN: WOMEN SHOULD BE SEEN AND HEARD

ANOTHER MUSIC IN A DIFFERENT KITCHEN: WOMEN SHOULD BE SEEN AND HEARD

Iman Lababedi

The cover was a stark functional photograph: black and white with a lightly tinted grayish line. In the background was a wall, in the foreground was Patti Smith, chin slightly tilted with an indifferent, knowing look, her plain face flanked by dank dark hair. With one hand she held a black jacket over her shoulder, with the other she twisted the suspenders holding her trousers, her sleeves rolled nearly to her elbows.

Despite the cover’s androgynous effect, this wasn’t the picture of defiance, but of a strong personality projecting itself with no excuses and no explanations. For rock circles, it was another way to play: women had used the genre to rebel in a very fe/male manner before, and if that was Patti’s reason it came across as something other. This quasi-bohemian Manhattanbased poet, explicating the power of rock to her own soul, social not political, and through her sheer subjectiveness past the feminists’ ideals, seemed witheringly wary of the normal games.

The year was 1975, the album was Horses, and the music was NYC guitar/ bass/drums rolling from MC5, the Velvet Underground, the New York Dolls. The songs went from experimental poems/ word association/lyrics like the title track's male homosexual rape, to lilting reggae as calypso —“Redondo Beach’”s lesbian suicide with a purely compulsive extended coda/hook “I went looking for you-o-o/ but you were gone-gone”—to a love song about her sister “Kimberley,” to a cover of Them’s “Gloria," flying from musical conventions to a tense showdown between her sexual obsession with a rock star.

In this post-feminist age it might seem quaint to call Patti Smith’s Horses a traumatic coming of age for women in rock, but remember the period. All women had was the Runaways’ gender blenders, Heart’s heartless acoustic, metal, folkies who were too one-dimensional and only interested in what, never why, and disco still struggling through the R&B wastelands to the mainstream: exemplified not by Donna Summer’s aggressive sexuality but Love Unlimited going “oooh” and “aaah” behind Barry White. Although feminism as a movement (rather than a call for emancipation, which has been going longer than the 20th Century) entered society’s consciousness with the ’60s radicalism, it wasn’t reflected in rock. One firm reason was that rock culture was based around mass success, and that meant the Presley/Beatles screaming girls syndrome. But even with the ever loving hippies, things didn’t change. Hippies perceived women as “Earth Mothers,” with an aesthetic closer to folk than the ’50s new bohemians’ attitude. And though by then artists in other fields were developing a real female vision, it tended to be too radical, anti-male, and anti-commercial. It took the more general acceptance of “gay lib” in the early ’70s—Bowie admitting his bisexuality—to disturb the rock hierarchy and for rock to take its usual place as culture modulator. It took Patti Smith’s acceptance to make that leap of ideals.

Patti was the star for the start of the whole CBGB’s punk era, a blueprint for what was to come. On one side there was a musical acceptance that women could play as well as men (sounds ridiculous today, doesn’t it), the integration of bass player Tina Weymouth in Talking Heads, Barbara Ess in the Statics, Ikue Mori in DNA, Pat Place and Adele Bertei in the Contortions (who would later form the Bush Tetras and the Bloods respectively). The look was post-Patti, an elusive asexuality (as opposed to the militant male visage of radical lesbians), defiantly sloppy, functional and anti-fashion.

On the other hand there was Lydia Lunch’s Teenage Jesus and the Jerks’ wailing, moaning, disturbing rock decomposition in self-contempt and self-destruction which—by the time of her next band, 8-Eyed Spy—would reach redemption and self-acceptance. There was Blondie, featuring Debbie Harry who (initially at least) straddled the lines between sex symbol star appeal of her looks (good) and her music (Blondie is a group? Fake-girlierock-pop as shown by their debut single “X Offender”), and a subtle but certain piss-take on both sex and symbols (“X Offender” trapped the pick-up situation and played with it till the scene was perfectly degenerate and weird). Blondie were a musical variation on Garry Trudeau’s Boobsy (from his cartoon strip Doonesbury) saying “Oh! That sounds like fun! How can I get myself exploited?’ ”

For all the enormity of these changes, it was still an insulated Lower Manhattan weirdness, with little or no effect on the world at large. It took punk rock and Britain for the next step to be taken. A phenomenon in Britain, because of its size, can take the shape of a tidal wave while really being—in American terms—miniscule; this is what happened with punk, the most important youth movement since the hippies. Women were integrated into the London punk scene from day one; the punk do-it-yourself/anyone-can-do-it attitude meant that members of the first punk surge’s audience were part of a group themselves almost immediately.

The fashion itself was far from the Runaways’ leather and strides, or the Manhattan asexuality. The first meeting place was Malcolm McLaren’s (the Sex Pistols manager) Chelsea shop Sex, and the girls took that as a starting place, sex appeal as something to be blown into a million pieces, the object/desire passivity of high fashion and pornography recontextualized: black stockings (with obligatory runs), garter belts, mini-skirts, ripped or bondage-zipped t-shirts, purple nail polish, black ^ lipstick, short self-cut (uneven, greased to stick out) dyed green hair, and safety pin through parts of the face, clothes or body. Like punk itself, the look was a finger up society’s nostrils. The war cry was “oh bondage up yours,” and it was anti-racist, anti-sexist, pre-proletariat (Joe Strummer notwithstanding, these kids were working class), pro-anarchy.

And out came the girls: Poly Styrene, Lora Logic, Siouxsie Sioux, Gaye Advert, Pauline Murray. If they were attractive— Gaye was fresh from a girlie mag centerspread—they downplayed it to nonexistence. If they weren’t—Poly was a roly poly girl with braces on her teeth—it didn’t matter. The lyrics didn’t as a matter of course mention sex(ism); the accent was closer to general political awareness, the music was speed-rock.

Of all the girls that came out of punk, the worthiest were Poly Styrene and Lora Logic’s X-Ray Spex. Poly was concerned with the consumer society as the proper starting point for the downfall of western civilization: “I wanna be instamatic/I wanna be a frozen pea/I wanna be dehydrated/in a consumer society.” She saw women’s bondage as a'need to be advocated and accepted by the norm, and the dictates of the norm formed by the method of government called free enterprise. It’s a short jump from condemning the norm to condemning the way in which it is projected—and from there to the ideals of consumerism. The music itself was Lora’s (a classically-taught saxophonist) tonal, nearly jazzy blowing, and Poly’s screeching voice was a fast step away from the three chord simplicity of punk proper (if you don’t believe me, listen to Live At The Roxy—an otherwise dire album).

However, Pauline Murray’s Penetration is closer to the average punk use of women. Pauline had a superb voice she seldom used properly, and all of Penetration’s songs were written collectively: punk thrash with a hard edge, interesting, fun at the time, but nothing spectacular. But it was Siouxsie Sioux who was the quintessential punk girl. Attractively tough, and different in a way that turns (me) off, she initially came to fame when Bill Grundy tried to pick her up on the Sex Pistols Are On London TV News Programme shock horror, where she was part of the Pistol entourage. She formed the Banshees on the spur of the moment, at punk’s coming out party at the 100 Club. Sid Vicious played drums, and Siouxsie hasn’t looked back since. Would things ever be the same?

The album and artist to crack New Wave through the remaining barriers was Linda Ronstadt’s Living In The U.S.A. It took a singer of Linda's popularity to tacitly accept the change for America.

Yes. Although punk woke the American critics, the lucky few who could hear it (mostly punk bands took the Laker budget flight over, played five nights at CBGB’s, and slept on friends’ floors) had to buy the records on import as no major label would touch ’em. Also, America’s natural conser-' vatism didn’t quite jell with these young Brits wailing about dole-queue life. It took a watered-down version of punk—neatly tabbed “New Wave” as though the music was existential German Cinema—to catch America’s interest proper. The new wavers were mainly bandwagon jumpers (old pub rockers like Nick Lowe), using punk as a shield and a way in. Fortunately, much of the punk attitude rubbed off on the new wave, and among them was a fresher, keener respect for women. In a real sense, it only took three women to change the status quo. (This is not to suggest that American Pop had treated women as badly as American rock; country stars like Loretta Lynn and Dolly Parton—partially because of their tough upbringing, partially because of the music’s soap opera real life lyrics—were always treated well.)

Chrissie Hynde came from Akron, Ohio, but left for England long before punk. She spent time as a quasi-groupie, moved on to rock criticism for New Musical Express, a tempestuous affair with popular critic Nick Kent, and was a very early fan of punk, reportedly giving Chris Spedding the early Sex Pistols tapes. She had been trying to form a band for years, but needed the push from punk to get the Pretenders together. The Pretenders themselves were a plodding pub-pop band, distinguished by the fact that Chrissie was writing some great songs at the time: the gracefully melancholy "Kid,” the aggressively neutral “Private Life,” and the splendidly selfdetermined “Brass In Pocket.” Chrissie had been round the emotional merry-goround enough times in her life for her lyrics to be cutting observations on sexual relationships. Chris was less radical and more direct, she knew what she wanted and she knew how to get it: “Got brass in pocket/got a mind/Tm going to use it;’1 “Your private life trauma baby/leave me out.” The songs were released on an album called The Pretenders and flew up the Yank charts, leaving everybody breathless.

More breathtaking still was the surprise success of Blondie’s Parallel Lines. Deborah Harry was a face only in Britain at the time (where they instinctively realized Blondie weren’t to be taken at face value), but with “Heart Of Glass,” (“Once had a love/had a heart of glass/soon turned out to be/a pain in the ass”), a tongue-in-hipdisco-pop-pastiche of the first order, the v. serious Yanks took to Debbie directly.

The move from punk to new wave was more evolutionary than could be perceived at the time (for instance funk today is mainly disco-rock, but it took new wave, not punk, to make disco at all fashionable). And coming from punk, it had to mean a fairer deal for women. In this sense the album and artist to crack New Wave through the remaining barriers was Linda Ronstadt’s Living In The U S A. It took a singer of Linda’s popularity to tacitly accept the change for America, to realize new wave wasn’t really after their sons’ balls. Linda, L.A.’s own coke scene nightingale, was changing from country, to countryrock, to rock, and with a (to be quite honest) marvelous cover of Elvis Costello’s “Alison,” all the various strands of thoughts came to a head. Despite the question of gender, “Alison” wasn’t performed as a lesbian swan song—but it was still a swan song of sorts, even if only a deep love between members of the same sex. American record companies would answer by giving us Pat Benatar a year later; however, the increasing presence of women on the American charts today can be attributed in no small part to Linda.

Meanwhile, back in London, both punk and new wave were about finished. It was the period of Independent Labels; Rough Trade and Factory rose to prominence, setting up some of the more radical punk bands and having them fly the nest when the big companies came sniffing about. Then the Independents simply found some more. This lot were better musicians— more physical, less meta—and the term “agit-rock” was coined, for boys like Stiff Little Fingers and the Gang Of Four. But rather than furthering the politics these bands were (by this time) propogating, it tended to be more generalized. Though popular in some quarters (notably among rock crits still catching up), the youth were getting bored with the pat replies to troubling times. It was similar for women. “Rock Against Sexism,” a badly organized continuation of punk’s “Rock Against Racism,” was gaining some ground, but were going too far; a band like Jam Today (a reference to the menstrual cycle) were militant lesbians, refusing to play concerts with men in the audience (what if women believed they were equal but went to concerts to score guys?). Although even then some fine bands were waiting in the wings (the Au Pairs started playing around this period), the only two of real interest were the Slits and the Raincoats. There would soon be a backlash, but for then the Slits ruled, with their dubby, stringy, reggae and an odd variation on the punk look (with children’s dresses and rasta locks). They recorded Cut, put their hands on the pulse of the time by appearing half-nude on the cover (playing in mud) and got. in trouble with the righteous. The Raincoats were better. Around since punk’s earliest days (the Gang Of Four initially sounded much like them), they kept on getting better—the lyrics more oblique, less certain, the rock defiant and positive, and the look casually untidy.

Blondie were a musical variation on Garry Trudeau’s Boobsy saying “Oh! That sounds like fun! How can I get myself exploited”

But even as these two bands were breaking ups a massive change was occuring in Britain, on two fronts. In London, the New Romantics were fusing funk, disco, and the newly-enjoyed synth, for a sound this side of dreadful. Women involved with the New Romantics at this time were basically outside looking in, part of the fashion side and part of the audience. This was a strange setback, one still being sorted out. At the time I felt it was terrible, but now believe—if the lessons of the previous five-odd years were learned— it might be cool to have a direct movement where women weren’t real participants. In Scotland, what would be termed “New Pop” was occuring—a hard pop-rock sound with a touch of flair, and a direct but uncompromising (the New Romantics were compromised from day one) pop. It took off from the Buzzcocks’ lack of youand-us-isms, expressed most perfectly by the boy band Fire Engines’ call to unarm "GET UP AND USE ME.” But again, with a few notable exceptions (Altered Images’ Clare Grogan mainly), women had retreated again.

Things today in Britain aren’t quite as bad as I’m making it sound; the New Romantics and the New Pop have fused to a degree (the perfect example of that are the new Human League—synth pop with an emotionless vocalist). Rock itself was on its last legs. And as rock diffused its own ubiquity, all the different parts set up different camps. Now you have New Order’s female musicians accepted, whereas earlier the acceptance would have been necessary to point out, and you have Kim Wilde’s certain sensuality and Dollar’s double honeys (male and female) taken as a given. It isn’t upsetting having Joanne Catherall and Susanne Sulley being pretty, hardly used for anything but visual effect, because the scene is moist itself. The passing years of culture have been assimilated. Clare Grogan is another fine example, with a child-woman’s ageless appeal. Clare and her music (discovered by Siouxsie and the Banshees) are tight, sparkling, and so full of cleverness they don’t need an excuse.

That doesn’t mean the fight is over, either. The sudden conservative swing in America, for instance, made it certain that the Equal Rights Amendment wasn’t ratified by the necessary number of states. Since all the amendment stated was that women are equal to men in every way, the stupidity of this is self-evident (and as a man working for CREEM, which has a woman publisher and a woman editor, I find it simply disgusting). But even women who are discussing these elements of life in their music are going for a more immediately commercial sound. The Au Pairs, led by the wonderful Lesley Woods, are an obvious example but not the only one. The Bloods, the Bush Tetras, the Y-Pants and Romeo Void all deal with elements of feminism, but seldom to the exclusion of all else. Multi-media artists like Laurie Anderson and Jill Krosen also include these points in the music (Laurie you know about, Jill is startlingly attractive and, to name just one song, once wrote about an affair of equality using men as women as substitutes for the world powers).

Whereas the ’70s were a time for accepting the restructured and refamiliarized family unit, today we*re past the acceptance and dealing with the reality.

I’ve left the best for the last: take a look at the American charts for some definite equality. Olivia Newton-John’s Physical couldn’t have been made five years ago. Olivia herself was still a wimp then. The Go-Go’s surprised and delighted everybody with their success (and you could hardly call Belinda Carlisle a beauty— she’s been going since the Germs’ earliest days back in 77), all girl players, all superb. Joan Jett is the success story of the year and you can’t get any more arrogantly equal than her; besides which, have you seen her video for “1 Love Rock And Roll"? In case you were wondering, she does get the guy in the end! Exene and John Doe have released the third X album on a major label, and considering the success of Wild Gift, it’s nearly certain to be a hit, nobody writes quite as well from a feminine perspective than Exene. Marianne Faithfull’s survival from the junkie ex-girlfriend scrap heap was heralded in Broken English, a more feminine and willfully shocking album by a major (if largely forgotten) star I can’t think of.

These women —and many many others — are coming to terms with their real position in both pop music and society. Whereas the 70s was a time for accepting the restructured and refamiliarized family unit, today we’re past the acceptance and are dealing with the reality. Finally, with the ’80s, these breaks are being felt in America proper. Girls looking for roles and heroes are still turning to pop. Pop is finally replying, aiding these girls in the change from youth to adulthood, in their search for their own equality. And this is not to ignore men. The set-up: sexual equality puts the pressure off boys, as everybody is forced to re-examine their roles in society. This is something rhetoricians from the Moral Majority to the President himself cannot change. The ugly misogyny that has charged pop will start dying out, and the idea of sex-as-conquest that fuels this misogyny (for the most part) will die as well, as the question of conquest becomes ridicubus.

In the context of this story, the ending is happier still. Finally we can discover how much we missed in the male-dominated periods of pop music’s history: we can bask in a different sex’s perceptions of life. It’s playtime, boys and girls! PEOPLE RULE OK!