This was another one of the rare times I didn't go to a show to see the main band. To my surprise, Oh My Rockness lied to me, and Marnie actually wasn't at the top of the bill. Unfortunately, she wasn't in the best of health either. But with whiskey at her side to help cure her ailments, at least temporarily and pretty much artificially, she was able to pull through. This profile for Volume Magazine pretty much encapsulates my thoughts on her live performance.
Dear mother of four:
I’m afraid neither gardening nor pickling nor joining committees nor running PTA teas can save you from the omnipotence of patriarchy. Even in the grungiest of alleyways of the shittiest cities, The Man, not The Woman is going to grab you. Perhaps some music can lighten the burden of loneliness and dissatisfaction?
The you do happen to visit New York, take the 4 to the Upper East Side where you’re bound to find the most lovely/most badass of blondes sitting outside her rent-controlled apartment. All Kristen Dunsts in the wake of rehab. We will have a dinner party, we will invite Yoko Ono, Sleater-Kinney and Bikini Kill to feast on Slayer and Van Halen, and then casually regurgitate the amalgamation before nightfall.
You’ll find Marnie particularly inspiring because she’s found her own way of circumventing the trite patriarchy. Yes, she has ovaries of her very own, but she’s found yet another way. At SXSW she evaded another banal male-dominated line-up by replacing her back-up musicians with machinery. Who can a modern woman rely on for solace but her iPod (despite the hissing and moaning and dysfunction)?
She happens to belong to the rare breed of musicians that unapologetically embrace their generic indie rock roots. Not only will she admit her mistakes, but compensate in correcting them.
Don’t be fooled by lyrics about dolphins, songs about eggs and baskets, or stress-relieving mantras about diamonds and gold. Don’t get your panties in a bunch because she’s on the label Kill Rock Stars; don’t’ get super excited or get super bummed, because as much as Marnie is a Kill Rock Stars Rock Star, she’s not actually one at all.
Breathe and take a minute to learn from Marnie’s musical pyrotechnics. It’s not Van Halen shredding, Ian Williams tapping, not Dragonforce Guitar Hero shredding, nor Guitar Center Led-Zeppelin wanna-be shredding. This is straight estrogen-made-testosterone-fueled-I’m-a-bad-mama-jamma-shredding; this is guitar-virtuoso-eight-years-in-the-making-because-Karen-O-was the-only-cool-girl-back-in-the-day-*^@%!#&-shredding. The quick, high pitches she drums into her guitar and her banshee-of-Sesame Street screeching will simultaneously battle for your attention. Both will usually win, but sometimes they’ll both lose.
No matter. Just keep your fingers out of the line of fire, you soon-to-be-independent woman, you. You’ll need those hands of yours—hubby wants dinner on the table by 6:30. You can’t pass for Marnie or Rosie the Riveter quite yet.
Thanks hon,
Betty Freidan
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