I sheepishly asked my parents to pick up Pussy Whipped for me

When I was 14 I heard about the dreamworld that was the combination of punk rock and feminism. I sheepishly asked my parents to pick up Pussy Whipped for me, giving directions to Record Runner in Ottawa, and exactly where to find it in the store. Despite their distaste of the title, they purchased the album for me that Christmas.

Mind. Blow.

Up until then, I had just begun discovering punk rock, but mostly listened to singer-songwriter, “alternative” (but still, you know, on-the-radio mainstream) music. What I heard listening to Pussy Whipped threw all I “knew” about music out the window. I didn’t know lyrics didn’t have to rhyme. I didn’t know that each chorus didn’t have to sound the same. In short: the visceral, delicious music that Bikini Kill has made opened up a whole world of musical and political possibilities to me.

Lyrics that were unabashedly feminist politicized me in ways I can’t even explain. The words gave a voice to issues I noticed, and to those I had not yet thought about. They validated my feelings, my rage, my frustration. They hit me in that particular gut spot where only the most profound, badass music has a shot.

Until the day I die, you better believe that I, too, will resist with every inch and every breath.

Fucking life-changing.

Sophie

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