Dear A,
It’s been over a week since I last saw you. As you know, with spring break and all, I decided to ditch town and made my way to Chicago to visit family. It was a sweet and miserable time, but mostly I missed being around you. When my flight was delayed, I knew that it would be at least another few days before we saw each other. I feel a bit guilty about that because last night we could have gone out on a date. Or I could have made dinner. I could have stuck a candle on the mouth of an empty wine bottle and let its flame melt the wax all down the sides and obscure the label. I could have plucked a handful of flowers and dropped them in a jug half full of water. In other words, I could have been a perfect romantic. In fact, I could have just been a standard partner and waited on the couch with my nose in a book until you walked into the apartment, just so we could kiss like normal couples do when they see each other for the first time in a long time.
Instead, you walked through the door last night around six and immediately messaged me, “I’m home! Where are you?”
I was too embarrassed to admit it, so I didn’t respond. To be honest, I’d been feeling a bit bad about the whole thing for a few months, but I had tickets to the Sleater-Kinney concert at the Wiltern. Your annoyed voice echoes clearly in my head: “Sleater-Kinney?!” This is what you would say to me, confused but mainly because you’ve been snubbed. They’re your band. You are the riot grrrl with your Bikini Kill and Le Tigre records. I, on the other hand, first knew of Carrie Brownstein from Portlandia. It took me years to discover that she was in a band, a legendary band. Probably the best American band of my generation.
In fact, it was through you that I learned about Sleater-Kinney. When we first started dating, I listened to the playlists you made for yourself just so I could get a better idea of what kinds of things you enjoy and maybe even get to know you a bit more. The songs you saved and liked are often led by women, and these songs are confident, powerful, creative, and energetic. Sleater-Kinney is the consummate example of your taste in music. They are hardcore, they are progressive, and they can make you jump around and dance.
At this point in the letter, you’re probably starting to wonder why I didn’t simply just ask you to come with me to the concert. Especially since I sound so remorseful. It’s a great question, by the way. I don’t have a clear or sensible answer. The thing is, I hinted at the show in late January and you already knew immediately that you couldn’t make it. “I’m on call.” You said, “I’d be lucky if I get out of the OR at all that night.” When I got the tickets, I didn’t want to make it feel like you were going to miss out, so I just didn’t mention it at all. This silence metastasized into a big bulky secret. They’re your band, after all. Plus, I figured that I could have gone on to enjoy the gig and come back home without your noticing. Imagine my surprise at your message after I parked my car in an overpriced garage in Koreatown.
To make bad news worse, I have to admit that you missed out. You totally missed out on something special. There might never be another night like it.
Maybe it’s because Corin and Carrie are a couple of giants who have been at it for nearly three decades, but it was great to be surrounded by some original, seasoned punks. Gray Mohawks and saggy piercings over broken denim jackets with faded patches from the eighties, these bodies carried thousands of shows in their collective memories. I could feel the lineage from X, Minor Threat, and Bad Brains spread down to contemporary acts like Snõõper, Turnstile, and Angel Du$t. It was humbling. On top of it all, Sleater-Kinney put together one of the more accessible gatherings I’ve been to in recent memory. There was seating, for example, on the floor level for the disabled and elderly who wanted to get up close to the bands, their music, and energy. On top of it all, the night was all femme and queer-led.
The opener was Palehound, a heavy-sounding but vulnerable indie rock band that’s the brainchild of singer-songwriter El Kempner. I’ve saved some of their stuff on a playlist for us before. They are known for their intensely personal lyrics, which are mixed with savvy guitar play. I was immediately hypnotized with Kempner’s abilities on the axe, which they fingerpicked with jazzy speed all the while grunting somber notes on longing and heartbreak. This doesn’t mean, however, that watching Palehound is a downer. The incredible thing about this band is that they can mix terrific, athletic rock with intimate first-person pathos. Not to mention, their self-deprecating sense of humor is infectious. It’s impossible to listen to “Good Sex” with a straight face. Such a disarming song should only be shared among friends. Even though I was in a crowd with hundreds of other people, I felt that I was personally invited into El Kempner’s inner circle. Palehound is gregarious. The show was no frills, despite the shredding solos which accompany songs like “The Clutch,” but they invited the crowd to be a part of the band. Kempner paused the show to wish a happy thirtieth birthday to their drummer Pompy. We all sang along and everyone was in Palehound. The band rocks out so we all rock out. I haven’t been able to stop strumming my air guitar since their performance.
Something quite funny happened between sets. Literally. Sleater-Kinney’s merch manager walked up on stage after the mics, amps, and instruments were all set in place to do a quick five minutes of stand-up. It was unexpected but welcomed with enthusiasm by everyone at the Wiltern. It’s hard to summarize the act, but they joked seamlessly about gender identity, Brandon Flowers, and Hoobastank. Not only did it make us laugh, but the references made us feel like we were all in the mid-2000’s again, when Sleater-Kinney went on a decade-long hiatus after their masterpiece The Woods, at the height of their artistry. You would know the feeling since you were a fan of theirs back then. I am a late bloomer, so I imagine this disappearance is comparable to Michael Jordan’s first retirement from basketball in 1993.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, because I can’t believe I’m opening for Sleater-Kinney.” Said El Kempner sometime in the middle of Palehound’s set. “We wouldn’t be here without Sleater-Kinney.” They said. Then they pointed at their bassist Larz and said, “Look at this guy, they’re all about Sleater-Kinney.” Then Kempner turned to Pompy, the drummer, and repeated the sentiment, “Come on. They wouldn’t be here without Sleater-Kinney, either.” Not only was this a tender homage, but it was kind of a profound moment. Historically, rock music has been so suffocated by cis men, just dominated unfairly by patriarchy that the emergence of Sleater-Kinney and the rest of the riot grrrl movement from Olympia, Washington has been an essential force of resistance in the 21st century. Their influence is felt in major culture-shifting artists like Olivia Rodrigo, especially her mettle in Guts, and the self-aware songwriting of boygenius.
I imagine that Sleater-Kinney concerts have come a long way from their underground and punk days in the Pacific Northwest. Sure, their music has evolved and matured, they have explored unique genres at least since I’ve been into them. I think their roots still gently surface in songs like “Hell” and “Don’t Feel Right” from their latest album Little Rope. But last night, the stage was quite elaborate with three tall and abstract arches centered in the back accompanied by two chandeliers up high. It built up to a gothic atmosphere with ominous glows and blinking lights. Corin and Carrie walked in and, right away, commanded the crowd. A roar of admiration emanated like a storm cloud. We were in the presence of legends. Corin’s unmatched vocals exorcized souls with “One More Hour” and “Dig Me Out.” Carrie’s presence was magnetic. She glided from side to side, and kicked her legs with every guitar solo. Her croon was the heartbeat of the show, and she lit up the venue with “Modern Girl.” About a quarter of the way through their set, Carrie took a pause and just celebrated the awkward silence. Her comedy chops were on full display. Who needs Fred Armisen? Then, like a true punk, she broke the boundaries of the venue and invited everyone to dance in the pit. I rushed down from my space on the floor to toss my arms and belt with Sleater-Kinney. For “Untidy Creature,” Corin walked down to the crowd and we all parted to give her space as she sang, with a holy volume, from the heart. I was just a few feet away from her, eye level, and the power I felt was sublime. I walked out of the Wiltern in a daze, because all sensation from my body had evaporated.
Anyway, that’s what I was up to last night. There’s no real reason why I decided to answer your text with a whole letter. When I began to write this down, I thought that it would be cute or wholesome. Rather, I kind of feel like the smug speaker from William Carlos Williams’ poem, “This is Just to Say.” Instead of eating your plums, I watched your favorite band without you. Forgive me they were amazing so sweet and so cool.
Yours,
Zain
