By Freya Wilcox
When I was a little demi-girl, I’m sure that my compulsions for cutting t-shirts down the front, asking people to call me Hercules, or forcing boys to sword fight me tinkled some alarm bells at family get-togethers and small town supermarkets. These bells aren’t strictly PC, but I think they’re kinda like a straight person’s version of a gaydar.
Regardless, I don’t think that my parents would have dared imagine that I’d grow up to stand on New York’s stickiest stages, screaming songs about human fault lines and cigarette addiction.
When their two year-old started singing "Wonderwall" from her car seat, or destroying the pretty little outfits lovingly chosen for her (sorry ma), or even when she begged to venture into the seedy windowless guitar store week after week, it was probably a good time for my parents to start putting money in the "Children with Poor Career Choices Fund."
I might have guessed that I’d fall into rock ’n’ roll, or at least something that aligned with my obsession for ripping clothes and playing air guitar, but I could never have guessed that the baby demi-girl would grow to take the stage as a straight-backed and snarling woman, empowered and inspired by rocking hips and sweaty tits as much as any man can be by a dick-flavored ego.
Don’t get me wrong, I love men, and even still I’m far from a traditional representation of femininity, but in a male-dominated and directed industry, the impact of gender on every aspect of my fourteen year journey as a female rock musician has been deeply felt.
While I’m quite sure that my experiences are heavily shaped by my own peculiar personality – and truly, the accent has saved me more than one punch in the head – I do feel that many of the challenges I face are really overarching issues that women find in every industry, with or without baring heart or soul or legs or pain or whatever’s going that night to a room full of people... Okay, maybe like, half full of people.
In feeding my desire to educate you all about misogynistic hand job offers, bizarre backhanded compliments, assholes at Guitar Center, and the fine line between hard-won pride and explosive self-doubt, I will be writing about the perks and pitfalls of being a vagina-wielding punk rock machine (or whatever) each month. I expect it’ll get weird, but welcome to my world.
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