By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
But when I get into New York on Wednesday night for the 19th annual CMJ marathon, it's more like Blade Runner, ominous and raining nonstop in an unfamiliar place, the dark side of Hurricane Floyd's moon. Killer mosquitos are all around, and for all I know, there might be alligators in the sewers again. From the stage of the opening party at the Roxy, club half-empty yet full of incense, come the apocalyptic beats of England's Hardknox: one Poly Styrene/Barbie girl, one b-boy brandishing "We Will Rock You" and dub samples, and a Betty Rubble/Betty Page go-go dancer in case no one knows how to dance to this stuff after all. Next up is To Rococo Rot, whose Kraftwerk-y German ambience (plus live instruments) is best enjoyed while sitting on warm leatherette. The Cut Chemist cuts his chemistry from Laurie Anderson's "O Superman" to "Iko Iko" to James Brown, like a friend playing records, which is what DJs are best at. Fela Kuti's look-alike son Femi has more colorful costumes and rhythms and choreography than most of CMJ's up-and-coming b-boys on display, but who doesn't?
The next day, Floyd is CMJ's headlining act. Mad Maxlike rumors fly about the subway being shut down, everybody hangs onto umbrellas like Mary Poppins, and the local news shows footage of Noho neighborhoods that look like Southern towns on the Weather Channel. The Scavengers, a pseudo-Avengers reunion with a purple-haired Penelope Houston and original guitarist Greg Ingraham, press on at a disco called Life, the only place they've ever played that has an ATM right next to the merchandise table. A beer is five bucks and served by the Gwyneth Paltrow Doublemint twins, and whoever does the lights seems to think the Doors are onstage. The crowd is mostly soggy punk rockers forced to wait in the rain for over an hour while a bum hawks "hurricane sunflowers." In a lot of ways, the Scavengers are like the underground version of the Blondie reunion last winter. There's a "we're desperate, get used to it" intensity in Houston's eyes and delivery when she demands over 20 years after the fact in "American in Me," "Ask not what you can do for your country, ask what your country's been doin' to you."
Dancing alongside the stage is Houston's '90s equivalent, Bratmobile's Allison Wolfe, who pogos to the Go-Go's (and "Suffragette City" and "California Über Alles") with me between sets. "I miss the Go-Go's," she says to me. "I do too," I answer, wondering if I'm cool enough to be having this conversation or trying to do the Belinda arm-wave to "Our Lips Are Sealed." One of the things that made me want to be a scenester dork in the first place was seeing the "Our Lips Are Sealed" video in my formative years and wondering if I was going to get to ride around the fountain with my friends in a convertible, wearing geometric earrings and scarves.
Now that riot grrrl has been reduced to Liz Phair and her Calvins on a Manhattan billboard, Bratmobile's Friday set at Thread Waxing Space reminds me what it's supposed to be about back to the place where your band broke up long before Sleater-Kinney got famous, back to reclaiming the moment where the Slits' Ari Upp playfully asks "Are you ready?" before launching into precise modern lovers disorder. Riot grrrl is Wolfe, shaking her butt, Faster, Pussycat, Kill! Kill!style, making you want to try it at home. It's Erin Smith's guitar part beach, part jungle gym and Molly Neuman's drums holding it all together, but just barely. It's girls reprimanding boys who don't know how to dance without crashing into people. This used to be Bratmobile's playground, and Wolfe dedicates one of the new songs to all the people who want her to go back to being a drama queen even if she thinks she's done with all that. Then Bratmobile end up doing their troublemaker anthem "Cool Schmool" anyway, a testament to gossip and image that says nyah nyah to it all.
When Ronnie Spector goes on, the crowd gently shifts from riot grrl to riot mom. Fortysomething women wearing black, from shag to boots Ronnie herself included move toward the front. Too bad indie rock never caters to this audience, but then, no rock ever does. In case anyone's wondering what Ronnie's doing recording for Kill Rock Stars, she was probably the first graduating class of cool schmool hair up to there, eyeliner out to there, double-dare-ya voice that almost 40 years later still sounds like any second it's going to break down or break you in two. Whether she's doing "Don't Worry Baby" or "You Can't Put Your Arms Around a Memory," everything else seems still and small in comparison.