Even the essential knowledge that this was a group of three women – Janet Weiss, Corin Tucker and Carrie Brownstein – appealed to me in my isolation as the only girl at my school who played in a band.ĭig Me Out continued to lead me at 22, when I got the opportunity to turn over my favourite records in search of producers who I hoped might work on my music. Instead, they were alchemic – cool and hard one moment, hot and molten the next. The songs felt truly punk, but never formulaic. Everything the album contained appealed to me. Each record by the bands cited on the flyer was a new release to me, causing reverberation that crested as it reached me, despite the distance of space and time.īefore the advent of shuffling playlists, these kind of tip-offs enabled felt like an exciting network of whispers guiding me to bolstering volume. Teenage social anxiety meant that I only went to one show with that group, but I pored exhaustively through the list they distributed.
Rather, their name was nestled among a list of bands aimed at attracting girls like myself to join a gig-going group organised by a local feminist collective. One day I picked up a flyer with the name Sleater-Kinney on it. I would dig through the crates after school, eagerly searching for sounds that lit up my brain more than the readily available, jockish nu metal and the grim post-Britpop material which would soon be dubbed ‘landfill indie’. In fact, I didn’t discover Sleater-Kinney’s music until I was a teenager, among the clacking CD racks of a Leeds city centre record shop.
It’s unlikely I would’ve heard it back then – even if it had been playing on Yorkshire’s radio stations. I was busy finishing my last year of primary school when Dig Me Out originally came out.
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