Singer-songwriter, model, and bassist Sabrina Fuentes wears many hats. She started the NYC-based new age grunge band Pretty Sick when she was only thirteen, capturing the attention of audiences all around the globe with her darkly sardonic vocal range, dirty grunge-laced basslines, and songs about being caught up in toxic relationships, with heavy instrumental accompaniment from a multitude of rotating band members. This time she is joined by Wade Oates of the Virgins on guitar and Austin Williamson from Onyx Collective on drums.
Last year, Pretty Sick released their debut EP, Deep Divine, through the UK indie label Dirty Hit. Earlier this week, they released their follow-up EP, Come Down. And if Deep Divine was meant to encapsulate being caught up in the intoxicating rapture of self-destructive youth and toxic love, then Come Down represents the dreary hangover of the aftermath.
Fuentes’ uninhibited lead vocals, Wade Oates’ crisp, feedback-heavy guitar solos and Austin Williamson’s tom-heavy drum fills are guaranteed to grab every listener by the throat. Songs like “Bet My Blood” and “Devil in Me”—with their crunchy guitar solos and vocals that sound like they’ve been run through Courtney Love’s blender—are heavily contrasted with slower cuts where Fuentes emits these soft “ooohs” over pedal-heavy distortion.
“I have a real taste for pop music, and my songwriting style has a real pop music sensibility,” Fuentes said in a recent interview with Alternative Press. This is no more apparent than in the lead single, “Dumb,” an infectious earworm with a hook that is eerily similar to “Hanging Around” by the Cardigans.
Fuentes’ vocal range alternates between the airy, mystic coos of My Bloody Valentine’s Bilinda Butcher on “Pillbug” and “Bare,” the unrestrained trills of Babes in Toyland’s Kat Bjelland on “She,” and the grating screams of Mia Zapata from the Gits on “Self Control.” “Pillbug” could easily pass for a B-side off of My Bloody Valentine’s Isn’t Anything, which is the last thing I would have expected from a grunge band. And that only adds to the EP’s allure.
Come Down as a whole is an amalgamation of reflections on love lost, and what it’s like to grow up in New York—a laborious and emotionally-draining undertaking that both prepares you for the crushing weight of heartbreak and simultaneously leaves an even nastier bruise when a relationship doesn’t work out. And it sounds magnificent.
The first year that I attended college in New York City, I had gone to a party at a nightclub in the Financial District. I remember hearing a song that blared through the speakers with these rapid, mosquito guitar licks and a woman’s playful, childlike voice shouting, “Wanna disco? Wanna see me disco?/Let me hear you depoliticize my rhyme!” That song was called “Deceptacon,” and the band was a lo-fi electronic rock outfit called Le Tigre. I later discovered that the lead singer of Le Tigre was a feminist punk pioneer from Olympia, Washington named Kathleen Hanna. And she was a leader and a torchbearer for the Riot Grrrl movement, which originated in the early nineties.
After hearing Le Tigre for the first time, I immediately fell down a Riot Grrrl rabbit hole. I read all about the punk scene in Olympia, Washington, where Kathleen Hanna, drummer Tobi Vail, and bassist Kathi Wilcox formed the band Bikini Kill. I then discovered other quintessential Riot Grrrl bands like Bratmobile, Huggy Bear, Team Dresch, Tribe 8, and Sleater-Kinney.
What made Riot Grrrl so great was the fact that it grew out of a need for young women in music—many of whom were queer—to build their own musical communities outside of male-dominated punk scenes. With their blisteringly emotional and unabashedly political songwriting that called out institutional sexism, homophobia, and sexual assault, bands like Bikini Kill and Sleater-Kinney made me realize that my feelings of resentment and anger—just aching to be seen and heard as a young queer woman—were shared by many of my queer feminist foremothers. It didn’t feel like I was shouting into the void anymore. There were others.
Unfortunately, there are still many critics and music fans who believe that Riot Grrrl died at the tail-end of the nineties, which is false. Riot Grrrl is not some miniscule niche movement from the past. The movement has spread to at least twenty-six countries. Bikini Kill reunited last year, and over the past five years, new Riot Grrrl chapters have sprung up in places like Paraguay and Argentina.
But after some of the most well-known American Riot Grrrl bands—including Bikini Kill and Bratmobile—disbanded in the late nineties, the male-dominated music press seemed determined to quash any and all evidence that Riot Grrrl ever existed. And they almost succeeded. Riot Grrrl is still rarely acknowledged as an important part of rock canon and feminist history. I have been an ardent music fan since I was fourteen, and I still didn’t find out about Riot Grrrl until I had graduated from high school.
But the spirit of Riot Grrrl is still very much alive. We now have musicians like Tamar-kali Brown, Maya Glick, Simi Stone, and Honeychild Coleman writing brilliant punk anthems and curating alternative spaces for black womxn in punk, like Sista Grrrl Riot and Decolonize Fest. We also have punk bands led by trans women like G.L.O.S.S. (now broken-up, but still fantastic), Against Me!, and Trap Girl writing queer anarchist anthems. And who could forget about Pussy Riot doing elaborate public demonstrations and risking arrest to protest Putin’s Russia?
A few weeks ago I attended an event called “Riot Grrrl’s Little Siblings,” which was curated by the June Mazer Lesbian Archives and the award-winning playwright and musician, Gina Young. Gina Young has written and directed several queer feminist stage shows and musicals including STRAIGHT PLAY, BUTCH BALLET, and This Is Why I Don’t Come Home. She is also a singer/songwriter who has released several albums and toured the country opening for artists like Le Tigre, Team Dresch, and Kimya Dawson. Gina also served as a leading organizer in the NYC chapter of Riot Grrrl in the early 2000s, while they were still a theatre student at NYU/Tisch.
I first encountered Gina’s work when I left New York and came back to Massachusetts for winter break during my sophomore year of college. I had been sitting in the back of my family’s minivan on the way to a family gathering out of state. I wore out my Riot Grrrl playlist on Spotify, blasting songs by Tribe 8 and Sleater-Kinney on a loop, and one of the first songs that popped up on Spotify’s radio algorithm was one of Gina’s most beloved songs, “So Called Str8 Grrrl,” a confrontational punk anthem that chronicles the turbulent relationship between two young women. Gina narrates the song from the perspective of a girl who is already out (“I know you see me/Over your boyfriend’s shoulder”), and sympathizes with her love interest, who is still not ready to come out because she fears that her family and her inner circle of friends will reject her.
While media that caters to queer people has certainly increased over the past couple of decades, that doesn’t change the fact that many queer people—especially trans, nonbinary, intersex, disabled, and BIPOC queer folks—still do not feel seen, heard, or adequately represented on screen or on stage; let alone behind the camera. Legions of queer people, myself included, do not even feel safe holding hands with our partners in public. Gina has always understood the necessity for queer people to create our own spaces of outside of mainstream society, which is why I was so eager to talk to her. Gina’s first two albums, Intractable and She’s So Androgynous, have been my biggest comfort records during quarantine, and they recently released a collection of previously unheard demos and bonus tracks, in a compilation album called Little Sibling.
I first reached out to Gina after attending “Riot Grrrl’s Little Sibling.” We spoke about how cleaning her house during quarantine has led to the creation of these new digital Riot Grrrl archives, being inspired by writers like Kathy Acker and Audre Lorde, and why it’s so important for queer creators to take the reins ourselves when the overwhelmingly white, cishet male gatekeepers will not let us through the door.
Who was the first artist (musician, author, filmmaker, or otherwise) who you felt like you could genuinely relate to?
Definitely Riot Grrrl bands like Bikini Kill and Sleater-Kinney. I was raised in a conservative area (13 years of Catholic school!) so it wasn’t until I found bands like that, and writers like Kathy Acker and Audre Lorde, that I was able to understand who I was and who I could be.
When did you initially discover that you had a knack for crafting these stories that you’ve transformed into plays, songs, and films? Was it something that you always enjoyed, or was it a more gradual discovery?
I grew up in a family and community full of musicians and singers, which was really inspiring. I know now how lucky I was to have that. And then I was the kind of kid who was just always—every time there was a family gathering or a dinner party or free time at school—I was like “OK! We’re making a play!” and I’d be roping my cousins and my friends into making something. We’d put together whole musicals to show our parents, or write songs, or make up dance choreography to songs on the radio. My cousin Joanna and I did a whole “lip sync concert” to Motown songs at the beach one summer, with makeup and costumes like baby drag queens or something.
I really enjoyed “Riot Grrrl’s Little Siblings.” What made you decide to get in touch with the Mazer archives, and what do you feel the current media discourse about Riot Grrrl today is still missing?
Thanks for coming to the event! What happened was that Casey Winkleman from the The June Mazer Lesbian Archives was in the audience for the last play I wrote, which was called STRAIGHT PLAY (a queer beach blanket musical). She approached me after the show and was like, “hey, the Archives would love to have a copy of the script and any incidental materials from the creation of the show, like notes and the program and stuff.” I was like, “be careful what you wish for!” Haha. A few months later I sent them a *massive* box of materials from my music career and from my theater company, SORORITY. Then I spent a large part of quarantine going through all my old things and creating a digital archive of over 500 images from my personal collection for them. It includes riot grrrl zines, flyers and photos from the late 90s and early 2000s, a lot of material from all of the plays I’ve done, and a bunch of other feminist and queer stuff from y2k to the present that I thought people might want to see. This will all be available online via the Mazer’s website.
So then, I suggested we do an event together—mainly because they mentioned that the Mazer didn’t have any riot grrrl materials yet! I think most of their audience is a little older, and most of my audience is a little bit younger, so I thought this could be a perfect opportunity to do something intergenerational and really bring people from different walks of life together. So we did an event called “Riot Grrrl’s Little Siblings” on Zoom, which took the name from Little Sibling (my new album of old demos and live material I just released), and we had performances I curated from some of my favorite SORORITY regulars, I sang a couple songs, and then the Mazer and I did a slideshow of some of my materials and a Q&A. The whole thing was recorded so I think you’ll also be able to watch that online via the Mazer’s site and eventually SORORITY’s YouTube as well.
But to answer your question about the media discourse, the biggest thing for me is that the media declared Riot Grrrl “dead” in the mid-90s, when actually, Riot Grrrl chapters and bands and activism were going strong for like another 10 years. And I think that’s important to note; they tried to erase us. So it’s twice as important to tell our own stories and preserve our own history. And now I see Riot Grrrl and queercore bands getting attention all over Spotify and TikTok, and Bikini Kill is touring again, so it’s clear that everything that was happening back then is just as vital and relevant today.
When did you first come up with the idea to start SORORITY, and what is your favorite part of getting to curate these events and performances?
SORORITY came about in 2016 because I was looking for an artistic community. I had moved to Los Angeles about 5 years prior, and while LA has so many amazing queer and feminist artists, a lot of them didn’t know each other and there wasn’t a centralized hub for our work. (LA is a really decentralized city—with traffic it can sometimes take an hour or two to get places you might want to go.) I wanted to create a community for the kind of queer and feminist work I wanted to see, and the kind of people that I wanted to hang out with. It’s a great alternative to the bar scene, too—I love queer bars, but SORORITY is a space that doesn’t hinge on alcohol, and the shows are usually salon-style, so it’s like an exchange of ideas with a room full of interesting people and sister artists (of all genders). So yeah, we’ve been doing the shows for five years now—just hit our five year anniversary! I think my favorite part of curating the events is just getting to hang out with everyone and see their amazing work. Also to know that I’m providing the kind of space for emerging artists and queer folks that was so important to me when I was finding my voice.
I also recently discovered your Team Gina raps, and I loved how they took a genre that can be (sometimes, but not always) homophobic and misogynist, and reappropriated it to cater to the queer feminine gaze. How did that project come about?
Haha Team Gina!! Well first of all, I think it’s important to note that not all hip hop is misogynist and homophobic, and the hip hop Gina Bling and I bonded over was often by women and queer artists who were underground at that time. Gina Bling and I met in Olympia Washington and both ended up living in Seattle. We were introduced by Cindy Wonderful from Scream Club and were instantly like, “Woah! We’re both named Gina!! We’re both allergic to cats! We’re both obsessed with musical theatre… and butches!” It was wild to have so much in common. Like how many people do you know that own tap shoes, know all the lyrics to Low End Theory, AND want to hang out at the Wildrose (Seattle’s lesbian bar) every weekend? So we became best friends, and we wanted to start a performance art pop project that was flipped pop culture on its head. You’re totally right about how you characterized our intention. We were like, what does pop music do? We’re going to do that, but queer it. So most of our tracks were produced by “producers,” we had costume designers and stylists, we had stage shows with a ton of synchronized dance moves, kind of like what the Spice Girls or Destiny’s Child might do, and then we tried to really flip a lot of pop culture tropes on their head, especially when it came to gender. The other Gina went by Gina Bling because she wanted to manifest glamour and luxury, I went by Gina Genius because I wanted to manifest business savvy and being the brains of the operation (that’s why my Instagram handle is @ginagenius) but above all, our guiding principle was FUN, like any time we had a “business meeting” we would watch Sex & the City and weigh all of our band decisions on how fun it would be or not. Touring to play underground queer venues in Croatia and Slovenia? Woah sounds incredibly fun! Opening for misogynist boy bands? Not so much. We made one music video that went really viral, in the early days of YouTube and Facebook when going viral wasn’t even really a thing yet. It’s called Butch/Femme and it’s all about how much we love butches; the video is a bunch of butches auditioning to be our girlfriends, haha. Team Gina’s music isn’t really available on streaming platforms, but I still have a few of the CDs left in my online shop!
How does it feel to continue to have young queer kids reach out to you about your music after all these years? I imagine it must be overwhelming and also rewarding.
It’s really cool and honestly it was so unexpected. Like after I stopped touring I kind of expected all that to stop. And it did for a few years. But then a younger generation of queers and feminists found my music on Spotify and TikTok and started messaging… and I can’t speak for everyone but I know for some of them, they appreciated that I never hid anything with pronouns or calling out politicians… it’s all pretty out there and explicit. And it’s an honor that the songs mean so much to people. “Punkrockdyke” is a song that still resonates with a lot of folks, because it’s basically about finding someone to love who is as militant and passionate as you. And “So-Called Str8 Grrrl” is another one that resonates, which is funny because it’s just about that kind of universal experience of falling in love with a “straight” girl who is clearly not straight at all, but chooses maybe a safer path because she’s not ready to be on your level yet. My music is on the streaming platforms and I love hearing from people that they’ve put it on playlists for their crushes and stuff.
When did you first come up with the idea to hold acting classes, and in addition to your students, do you feel like they’ve helped you grow in certain ways as well?
Honestly Feminist Acting Class was born out of my own frustration with actor training. As with a lot of institutions in this country, we’re taught that this is “just the way it is” and that we can’t do anything about it. But… why not? A lot of the old giants are dying. A lot of the dinosaurs are going extinct. When I studied theatre, there was so much sexism, racism and homophobia. It was normalized in the classroom, and in the work that was taught. The vast majority of plays produced in America are written and directed by straight white men. So then the quantity and quality of roles for straight white men is vastly superior to those for the rest of us. We’re relegated to stereotypes and villains and trauma porn. It’s really cool to be a small part of the movement [where] queer and trans people are ready for representation, and we demand to write the roles, play the roles, and have safe work environments. And women & other groups will no longer accept harassment, sizeism, etc. So my class, Feminist Acting Class, is an experiment to see what an acting class free of sexism and stereotypes might look like. One where we make the rules.
The most surprising part to me is how many people come to my class to heal from bad experiences they’ve had with other teachers, universities and acting studios. That challenged me to grow really quickly. I’m not a trained therapist or anything. But I think I’ve stepped up my game to better hold space for everyone. And my students have also challenged me to improve the ableist practices in my teaching. There are certain things that as a white, physically abled teacher I will always need to grow on. Holding classes on Zoom has been one way to make them more accessible to disabled and chronically ill students. And the biggest reward has been seeing students become best friends. I mean seriously, so many of them keep in touch, collaborate on projects and support each other’s performances. I LOVE TO SEE IT.
What do you feel is the most important thing that audiences should take away from your work?
I talk about this a lot… we are a community. Part of the reason that I love theatre and live music is that it puts us in the same room together and reminds us that we are accountable to each other. We don’t have to feel isolated all the time. And I hope that especially, after this pandemic, there will be a renewed interest in building queer and feminist community and supporting each other and each other’s creative work. I hope my work reminds you that you’re not alone and encourages you to connect with like-minded people. That’s it, yeah!
Combining the lighthearted satire of the Dead Milkmen with the raw, grating energy of Babes in Toyland and the Lunachicks, Philly-based hardcore riot grrrl trio Froggy deserve just as much praise as their indie contemporaries in bands like Priests and Skinny Girl Diet. With songs like “Midwest Emo Scum,” “Silverskin,” and “7/11 Nachos,” Froggy strikes the perfect balance between unrelenting rage and absurdist humor, poking fun at the music industry and dumping on society’s unhealthy expectations of young womxn.
When I hop on a zoom call with songwriter and bassist, Brooke Feenie, she is in the middle of designing a flyer for an art contest that the band will host on social media in a few days. In addition to writing songs and playing bass in Froggy, Feenie designs most of the band’s merch, promotional materials, and album art. Observing her intense DIY work ethic firsthand, it’s incredibly clear that lot of time, care, and effort goes into the band’s output.
As children of the internet, Froggy are highly aware that in order for a band to succeed in the digital world, the marketing and branding side of the hustle is just as crucial as musical talent and band practice, if not more. “We’re still learning. We’re trying new [marketing strategies] all the time… It’s very competitive,” Feenie tells me. “A lot of musicians think they’re above [promoting their music] on social media, but at the end of the day, a band who only posts once a month is not going to grow,” she adds.
Drummer Fiona Clark is the second member to join the call, enthusiastically telling Feenie that she’s just washed her brand new costume for next Halloween. “[Fiona and I] are going to dress up as the members of The Garden from their music video, ‘Call This # Now,'” Feenie tells me.
We are eventually joined by lead-singer/songwriter, Morgan McClain, who ends up getting ambushed by a large dog. “This is Callie, my partner’s dog,” McClain says as she attempts to wrestle the dog back to the floor.
As I chat with the band for an hour, we discuss a wide range of topics including their brand new EP, “Sopa de Elote,” the Philadelphia punk scene, the Riot Grrrl movement, and Nikki Sixx being a fan.
What were the first songs you learned to play on instruments?
Morgan: The first song that I ever successfully learned to play on guitar was “Brain Stew” by Green Day.
Fiona: Dude, no way! “Brain Stew” was the first song I learned on drums! I had seen [a kid from school] perform “Brainstew” at a 5th grade talent show and decided to learn it as well.
Brooke: The first song I learned on bass was “Feel Good Inc.” by Gorillaz. I was going through a serious Gorillaz phase at that point.
Fiona: I went through a phase in seventh grade where the only band I listened to was Green Day!
Morgan: Me too, I started with [Green Day] and then I got into Blink-182, My Chemical Romance, and just kept going. I think we all had that pop punk/emo phase in middle school!
Brooke: Oh yeah! In seventh grade I fell into that dark niche hole where everybody was into the emo trinity–Panic! At the Disco, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance…
Morgan: My sister is 11, and she’s just entered her hardcore emo phase. She’s listening to all the stuff I used to listen to when I was her age, which is crazy. It’s really cool to see how my taste has been passed down to her!
Walk me back to when you initially started playing together. When did the magic really start to happen?
Morgan: Well, it started with me in quarantine. I posted on my Instagram story, asking if anyone would like to start a punk band, and [Fiona and Brooke] were the first to respond. We then started sharing our ideas and piecing together what each of us had written, and those became the first couple of songs!
Fiona: Yeah, it was meant to be. We should probably make up a more interesting story, though. I can pretend Morgan sent me to the hospital and Brooke was the doctor!
Morgan: Yeah, or I could like, pretend that I hit Fiona with my car!
Brooke: Like Gorillaz? Or we could just be like Twenty One Pilots, and change the story all the time!
What initially sparked your interest in playing music, and how has your relationship with music developed over time?
Morgan: When I got older, I started to deal with really bad anxiety. I wasn’t sure how to handle that until I picked up a guitar. My parents had put me in music school, and I remember one of the administrators asking me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I probably should have said something mature, like, “I want to be a professional musician.” Instead I said, “I wanna be a rockstar!” and they just scoffed. But I’ve always maintained that mentality. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that music is the best outlet for me to express myself and get my energy out. The biggest inspiration for me was Riot Grrrl. That is what drives me to continue working on my craft, and not care about what the outcome is.
Brooke: I actually used to listen to a lot of techno music, so I didn’t really think about playing much as a kid. Then my parents took me to see a Sleater-Kinney show, and that was my [first foray] into punk. When I first heard The Dead Milkmen, I obsessed over their basslines and also realized how easy it is to write these silly lyrics that also have substance. My dad bought me a bass one Christmas, and I decided to join a music program, which was where I formed a lot of close friendships. It was mostly dudes, and I went through a brief phase of [internalized misogyny] that I definitely regret now, but that experience really helped me improve and get to where I am now.
Fiona: I was in 5th or 6th grade. One of my close friends had asked me if I wanted to join his band, but I couldn’t join because I didn’t know how to play an instrument. The following year, I decided to learn how to play instrument so that I could join a band like my friend. I enrolled in classes where I learned to play a variety of different styles, but nothing has really stuck with me until I discovered Seattle grunge and Riot Grrrl. Those scenes really spoke to me more than anything else.
It’s clear that you guys have really studied your Riot Grrrl history. Are you the type of band to wear your influences on your sleeve, or is that something you try to avoid?
Morgan: We’ve never really tried to hide what we like or what inspires us.
Fiona: Yeah, sometimes we’ll write a song and think, “Oh my god, this could totally be a Lunachicks [B-side],” but we’ll usually just go for it without thinking about it.
Morgan: People always ask us who our musical influences are, and it’s always been a little bit of everything. All of the music the three of us have listened to over the years has [melded] together. Whatever pops out of our heads sometimes ends up sounding like something else, but that is never intentional. When you think about the infinite amount of music that has been produced over time, it would be pretty difficult to write a song that doesn’t sound like anything else.
I would also like to point out how striking your song titles are (“7/11 Nachos,” “Midwest Emo Scum,” etc.). I really loved how the lyrics tackled serious topics with layers of humor, and I was wondering if you are aware of how well you are able to balance the two?
Morgan: We’re definitely aware of that, but we never go into [a session] thinking, “We’re gonna write this type of song today!” because that never works. It just happens naturally. “Midwest Emo Scum” was written by Brooke about a [weird] interaction that she had with an older musician. A lot of the sillier stuff comes from Brooke. She wrote “7/11 Nachos,” “Midwest Emo Scum,” and “Pizza Ball (An homage to Eric Andre).” Those are the heaviest Dead Milkmen influences. I usually write with a more serious tone. I wrote “Silverskin,” and Brooke and I collaborated on “Livvie Folds.” I’m more on the heavy side and I love to combine that with Brooke’s more lighthearted tone.
Fiona: Yeah, it’s crazy. I’m not a lyric writer, but whenever I come up with an idea, [Brooke and Morgan] will have written an entire song ten minutes after I tell them about it! It’s crazy and so awesome.
Brooke: I was talking to our producer the other day. I had written another song about a creepy dude that I’d encountered, and I was saying, “Dude, why am I always running into these creeps? It’s getting annoying,” and he said, “Well, at least you’ll never run out of stuff to write about!”
Morgan: Yeah, same. Whenever I get angry about these horrible situations in my life, it’s very [cathartic] to be able to transform those awful experiences into songs.
Fiona: Yeah, but at what cost?
Brooke: Yeah, Nikki Sixx told me the other day to keep up the great songwriting, but I also wondered, “at what cost?”
Morgan: Oh god! That was incredibly overwhelming too. Like, holy shit! Nikki Sixx has heard us sing and play! That was just too much to process.
Brooke: Yeah, that was really cool. He asked us to send him some merch the other day too, and we were like, “Yes, my liege!”
Were there any records that challenged how you thought about music? How have your relationships to music changed over time?
Morgan: Great question! For me it was the records that captured the essence of punk [and its subgenres]. I’m much less interested in records that try too hard to be musically advanced. My favorite album of all time is “Facelift” by Alice in Chains. A lot of people don’t consider that to be their best album, but it’s always been my favorite because of how well it channels the raw emotional energy of punk. Another favorite of mine is “Bricks Are Heavy” by L7.
Brooke: For me it was “We’re Only In It For The Money” by Frank Zappa and The Mothers of Invention. [That album] changed everything for me. The intricate sounds and vocals they produced totally blew me away. I loved the way he wrote about stuff that was culturally relevant, and used crude humor to communicate the message of each song. I know Frank Zappa wasn’t exactly the biggest feminist in the world, but he always did what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to poke fun at society. Hearing him mock religion, misogyny, and electoral politics really resonated with me, because I have my own strong opinions about all of those topics. I constantly try to channel that type of attitude in my own writing.
Fiona: The record that had changed everything for me was “Ladies, Women, & Girls,” by Bratmobile. That was the first Riot Grrrl album I ever listened to. I had never heard anything like it before, and it blew me away.
What do you value the most about being in a band?
Morgan: What I value the most is the sisterhood. You need to have chemistry with your bandmates if you want your band to last. If you are going to be putting your heart and soul into making music, you have to be each other’s support network. We spend all of our time together. We practically live at Fiona’s house. That bond is what allows us to thrive.
Brooke: We always take care of each other and take one another into account. Without that type of relationship, a band has no foundation.
Morgan: Definitely. I recently went through a nasty breakup, and I was a total wreck after that. Brooke and Fiona were the people who helped me get back on my feet, and I have no idea where I’d be if it wasn’t for the band.
Brooke: Yeah, I always say that if I didn’t have Froggy, I’d either still be getting bullied or I’d probably be dead.
Morgan: Yeah, me too! That’s why the band is so important to me. We all really believe in what we do.
What is the DIY music scene like in Philadelphia? Are most of your gigs community-driven or are they more isolated?
Brooke: There’s a lot of pop punk and post punk bands, but it’s also an eclectic mix. I would go to shows every weekend [before lockdown] and the lineups were always unique. I went to one show that blended reggae, punk, and hip hop. Philadelphia was the birthplace of the Dead Milkmen, Ween, and Bloodhound Gang. Those are three of my biggest inspirations, and they practically formed right in my backyard, which is nuts.
We haven’t gotten to play many live gigs during the pandemic. We’ve been playing a lot of outdoor, socially-distanced shows since things started opening back up. My podcast has really helped us book gigs. Bands that I’ve interviewed were gracious enough to add us to the bill on several of their shows. We’ll be playing at FDR Skate Park in a couple of weeks. We were also invited to play at Camp Punksylvania in September by two lovely ladies from Riot Squad Media. We’re very honored and fortunate to have connected with these other bands in the area. The overwhelming community support has been unreal.