The re-imagination of the riot grrrl

It’s a Saturday night at the Petersham Bowling Club. Anticipation lingers in the air as the crowd, clad in leather jackets, indie band t-shirts, and laced Doc Martens, wait for Itchy and the Nits to perform. The venue is dark, cramped and quite literally underground — obscured from the view of the everyday patron.

As the band takes the stage, there’s a roar of approval and a sea of women push to the front of the mosh. The band launches into their opener — a fun, garage-punk tune that evokes the opening theme to an early 2000s coming of age indie flick. Heads bop, feet stomp, and before we know it, we’re ensconced in a sweaty ocean of spilt drinks, wet floors, and bustling, bruised bodies.

For Jacinta (bass), Eva (drums) and Bethany (guitar), playing music is not about being the best, despite the pressure placed on women to “prove themselves” due to decades of continuing sexism in the punk scene.

“When we do shows, there’s usually a male sound guy, and some have been very condescending,” Bethany says.

“If the amps aren’t working, they’re like ‘Are you sure your guitar’s on?’”

From their DIY sound to ‘Kinderwhore’ aesthetic, Itchy and the Nits embody the energy of the riot grrrl: a movement that emerged in the early 90s in response to the sentiment among women that punk was becoming a ‘boy’s club’; anyone that was not a white cis man experienced discrimination at punk shows. The movement created a space for women to re-assert their place in music history. Distorted guitars, thrashing drums and a raging voice emulated the triple ‘r’ of grrrl, together with raw and visceral lyrics.

The riot grrrl movement was an intellectual one as much as musical: characterised by political meetings, protests, and circulated through zine culture, it was a space for discourse on topics from female sexuality to classism, sexism, racism, and homophobia. Bands like Bikini Kill and Bratmobile fronted the movement at gigs, calling all girls to the front of the mosh and inviting people on stage to share experiences of sexual assault and harassment.

“It shouldn’t be a surprise that women can shred…the riot grrrl movement said, ‘we’ve always been here and we’re not going anywhere’,” says lead singer and rhythm guitarist Zoe Catterall from Sydney-based punk rock band The Buoys. They are making their mark in Australia’s indie rock scene, empowering female and gender-diverse voices through their music.

The gender discrimination in the music industry that riot grrrl aimed to deconstruct continues to pervade the experiences of female and gender-diverse musicians in punk rock today.

“We actually had a critique of our set once, where it was said — and we quote — ‘They could actually play their instruments,’” Zoe says.

Despite its attempts at inclusivity, the riot grrrl movement largely focused on the experiences of white women and failed to empower intersectional voices. In her 2013 article ‘Why I Was Never a Riot Grrrl’, Laina Dawes discusses how white women created a movement with “little to no concern as to how ethnicity made my experiences as a woman different,” failing to address the systemic discrimination facing women of colour, and racism within the feminist movement.

Where riot grrrl muffled the voices of women of colour and LGBTQIA+ people, the Sista Grrrl Riots magnified them. Forming in New York City in the late-90s, Sista Grrrl — Tamar-kali Brown, Simi Stone, Honeychild Coleman and Maya Sokora — played a plethora of sold-out shows and provided a safe space to talk about injustices in the music industry whilst simultaneously calling attention to rock’s Black origins and challenging racist notions that punk rock was for white people.

Reflecting on Sydney’s female indie-rock scene today, Courtney, the bassist of The Buoys, acknowledges that whilst it is “strong and welcoming”, it is “predominantly driven by white voices.”

“There is a lot of room for improvement in this space for POC and LGBTQIA+ voices not only in the Sydney indie-rock scene but Australia wide,” she says.

“I had a Black woman come up to me after a show and explain how refreshing it was to see another woman of colour playing a guitar and be loud and proud about it. I would be happy to be a BLAK voice for others like myself to pick up guitar, bass, or drums and start a rock band.”

In a politically unstable world, riot grrrl’s anarchist mindset resonates with a disillusioned Gen Z. Thus, riot grrrl has been gaining popularity on TikTok, amassing over 144 million views. Rather than passively engaging in pseudo-nostalgia, creators are actively re-imagining what riot grrrl is, critically deconstructing the movement and redefining it to embrace diversity. From digital zine-making to supporting neo-riot grrrl bands like VIAL and The Linda Lindas, the spirit of the riot grrrl lives on.

“The only requirement to be a riot grrrl is to be an intersectional feminist,” says TikTok creator @riotmoms.

Creator @zazieinthemetro makes TikToks on “punk’s lost BIPOC history”, discussing the influential nature of artists like Poly Styrene from X-Ray Spex on the riot grrrl sound. Riot ghoul has been adopted by gender-diverse creators who identify with the movement’s critique of misogyny but not with the label grrrl.

From the virtual shores of TikTok to the underground spaces of Sydney, riot grrrl has evolved into something new. Courtney discusses the importance of representation and empowerment in this transformation process.

“Hopefully the next generation of POC and LGBTQIA+ female identifying musicians can look at us and say, ‘Yeah The Buoys are the band that helped changed what an Australian female band should look like.’”