Following their 1991 debut at the International Pop Underground Festival, Bratmobile joined Bikini Kill as one of the preeminent voices of the riot grrl movement. A firmly bicoastal band, with singer Allison Wolfe and guitarist Erin Smith in the D.C./Maryland vicinity, and drummer Molly Neumann in the Bay Area, it took almost two years of coast-hopping to produce Pottymouth, their first LP for Kill Rock Stars.
Their sound—a kitschy, catchy, simple arrangement of spare three-note punk rock ineptitude and smokin’-in-the-grrl’s-room wit separated them from their snarling peers. Where Bikini Kill, Heavens to Betsy and others delivered their message in a sneering clamor, Bratmobile were funny and goofy. Attending one of their slumber parties may have also required knowledge of contemporary feminist rhetoric, but you got the sense they weren’t above shoplifting their source material. It was an awesome combination that captivated critics and fans, and won the band vicarious recognition through the mainstream’s fixation on riot grrls as newsworthy and—I say this with no small measure of disgust—photogenic material.
Bratmobile broke up in 1994, after the follow-up The Real Janelle and a Peel session. It would be a gross overstatement to say that fans grieved. By 1994, the riot grrl phenom had been fully integrated into mainstream consciousness through misappropriation by bigger acts like Hole and Babes in Toyland. Girl power was only a few short years away from being co-opted by a slew of British sex kitten pop stars, whose only real connection to punk rock was through the glittery slogans on their cropped T-shirts. And it didn’t help that Bratmobile were a bit of a one-trick pony, whose ultimate message (that girls, even musically untrained girls, can rock) would be effectively underscored by newer, better bands.
So, I had some reservations when Bratmobile reunited for touring in 1998/99. I assumed it was all part of some premature riot grrl nostalgia business, sparked, perhaps, by the success of the decidedly “nicer” Sleater-Kinney. I was even more uncomfortable with the 2000 release of a new LP, Ladies, Women and Girls. Maybe this had something to do with the fact that, due to Molly’s day job, it was released on Lookout! (We could have lived without the Donnas. They’re at least partially to blame for the antipathy toward women in rock.) And maybe this had to do with the fact that the snotty young grrls of Bratmobile were now older, and presumably wiser. The snarky in-jokes and playground chants sounded a little awkward coming from women approaching 30. And truth be told, the whole thing was somewhat embarrassing—three women trying to recapture their moment in the sun, which had already been confined to the pop culture graveyard by its own practitioners.
Which brings us to Girls Get Busy. And what can I say, really? Outside of the sadness I feel at having to give this album a 4.9 (for a whole wide variety of reasons I didn’t want to), I can only say that the incorporation of big crunchy power chords and anthemic hey-hey’s into “I’m With the Band” and “That’s Happening” only confirmed my worst fears. I’m inclined to believe Bratmobile were better when they couldn’t play. Lyrics like, “Girls make music/We’re here to stay,” though certainly a laudable sentiment, strike me as completely obvious. Does anyone—and especially anyone who would listen to a new album by Bratmobile—still question that?
What’s worse, the more overt politics of Girls Get Busy tarnish my cherished image of Bratmobile. “Shop for America,” with sentiments such as, “We won’t fight your fucking war,” and “Shut Your Face,” with its repetition of “girls are dying” are tough to digest when you’re secretly hoping for “Girl Germs, Part II.” And while Neuman and Smith’s musicianship has clearly improved from a technical standpoint, Wolfe’s once idiosyncratic and instantly recognizable voice has matured into a flat, generic punk-rock-girl monotone.
I have two theories. One, that Bratmobile figures that with slicker production, bigger sounding songs, new vocals, and less humorous lyrics, they will be taken more seriously. But at what cost? “Sounds like Bratmobile” was a phrase I used to positively describe music. Bratmobile no longer sounds like Bratmobile—they sound like the pedantic would-be riot grrls whose presence at punk rock shows circa 1993 required your unilateral support and, of course, no laughing. What was once a breath of fresh air now feels like back-breaking labor.
Second theory is trickier: Trying to stay in the business once your 15 minutes have come to an end requires either branching out into new directions or trying to conform to what the kids like today. The current batch of 16-year-old girls (who, incidentally, were in kindergarten at the time of the first Bratmobile show), are a harder sell. The wider public fascination with the indies has long since faded, and Kathleen Hanna no longer makes MTV News. Staying relevant is a bitch, and letting go is even harder.
Is it enough to know that your band positively influenced a bunch of wide-eyed girls 10 years ago, and that we’re still talking about it long after the fact? I’d count myself fortunate to have influenced even one. But then, maybe that’s why Bratmobile are putting out the records, and I’m just writing about them.
