The first thought I had after locating the curved ramp serving as a photo pit for the night was that I was the only female-presenting photographer there. Another female-presenting photographer showed up closer to Bikini Kill’s set time, but as the lights dimmed and the crowd screamed in anticipation, it was just the two of us amidst (mostly) old male geezers. A weird mix of dread and irony settled into a pit in my stomach as I snapped my photos, and then as I watched the show afterwards. Of all shows to notice the subtle reflection of the music industry’s gender disparity at, of course I would notice this in a pseudo-photo-pit while covering the riot grrrl band of all bands Bikini Kill. It’s been over 30 years since their first proclamations of “revolution, grrrl style now” and it looks like it still needs repeating. To clarify, none of this is meant as a read or a drag against Bikini Kill—I appreciated that they were continuously advocating for CHIRLA (The Coalition for Humane Immigrant Rights) throughout the night. Their calls to action raised $40,000 for CHIRLA by the end of the show. In an industry town like Los Angeles, where so many corporations call the shots, and where executives and major musical names continue to lean into the generative AI boom, it was kind of a relief to see a band advocate for real, human beings and give out press passes to real, human artists.
Bikini Kill’s music gave a younger version of me a voice to that mix of dread and irony I mentioned above, that continuous frustration of showing up somewhere and feeling like you’re the only you in the room. From teenagehood to now being in my late twenties, I’ve unlocked new layers and deeper meanings to their songs. It felt like such a warm hug to my inner teenager to have finally seen a band play whose music and energy helped me through hard times. And of course, there were songs that were well-known and well-loved, songs I knew like the back of my hand. I damn near shed a tear during “Carnival,” I gasped when I heard the opening riff of “Sugar,” and I cheered through “Double Dare Ya.” They played a handful of songs I didn’t expect, but that had me giddy to witness in live form. “Hamster Baby” took the cake, with the audience losing their minds just as much as me to hear that one. I know that previous generations of women had to ensure much worse. I’m not even a woman, despite being raised and socialized to be one, so I might not have much right to complain in the way I did when starting this piece. Despite all of that, I’m still frustrated with the doom and gloom overshadowing our daily lives in this age. Witnessing a show like Bikini Kill’s is a fraction of hope, a glimmer among gray skies. It’s a moment to feel that you’re not alone in how you wish the world would look. It’s parents taking their alternative children to a show that might or might not be up their musical alley. It’s a band onstage utilizing their platform and privilege to raise funds for immigrants. It’s a merch manager handing you a bottle of water to tamp down your coughing fit while purchasing vinyl. It’s an “old geezer” photographer politely moving out of your way, sharing the space rather than hogging the shot.
- Joslin Keim
Photos Courtesy of Joslin Keim (For Bell Music Magazine)
