Crazy Kat Lady

When I hear that one of my favorite bands from my youth is dappling with the idea of reuniting, my first thought is hell, why wouldn't they? I have this idea in my head that they  would have nothing but fun and glory if they got the band back together. I mean, that's what a rock band has on tour, right? Fun and glory? 

I also have this compulsion to start writing/tweeting/stalking them pleading, "Please get back together we're here to support you we love you and want you to succeed you're my heroes sweet jesus pleeeeeease!" 

So when one of my favorite bands reunited to play in their hometown (also mine), and I hadn't seen them since 1996, I lost my shit.

***

I'm a farmer girl originally. The real kind of farmer girl, where my dad raised cattle and planted acres of stuff you eat. My high school was comprised of roughly 65ish kids. Total. In the whole goddamn school. That means that at every class, from kindergarten until the honey-sweet release of graduation, you are with roughly the same kids. 

So if you're stuck with a class full of the most sexist, racist, homophobic, and cruel assholes on the planet, you are truly screwed because they are there every day, in every class, no matter where you turn.

I was screwed.

The problem with not belonging is that as obvious as it is to you, it's more obvious to everyone else. The problem with the boys in my class is that they were not only sexist, but stupid, and that's a tough combination. (Ever heard the saying, "Sometimes you can win an argument with a smart person, but you'll never win an argument with a stupid person."?) Being achingly chauvinist, they set out to break every female they knew and they did so with bravado. Most girls played the meek card, which meant they wouldn't kiss their ass, but they wouldn't call them out on their bullshit, either. They just tried to fly under the radar. That was their survival code, and it's not a bad one to play in junior high and high school. 

But I had a burning hatred for these guys and everything they loved (sports, Garth Brooks, rape jokes). And they knew it. So they focused all of their below-average-intelligence-fueled emotional dysfunction on me. 

The taunting was relentless. It rarely got physical, although it did a couple times. They would prank call the house, chase me with their cars, trip me in the lunch room, etc. I was their entertainment. 

I had girlfriends, but they couldn't help me. And I lived on a farm, with gravel roads, without internet (it wasn't around yet) and no access to good radio. I was really alone. 

But I did have one weapon: older sisters.

My sister went to college in 1989 and it's weird, but her experience opened up a world for me, a world that held some possibility that I might belong somewhere, where things made more sense. 

And in this world, my sister introduced me to a band called Babes In Toyland.

The lead singer, Kat Bjelland, wore babydoll dresses but looked like she had crawled out of a litter box. And she screamed and swore. A lot. Drummer Lori Barbero, a veteran of the music scene, had long dreadlocks and smiled all the time. And Maureen Herman*, the bassist who oozed cool with her blank stare.

Three women who played dirty. I was in love. 

I always bristle whenever I hear people talk about the Go-Go's as some of the first women of rock. I simply can't put "Vacation" and "Ace of Spades" in the same category. The Go-Go's are pop.

And Babes In Toyland were rock. There was no mistaking these women for ladies. They were loud, raw, unapologetic, and Kat's angry rants were like a transcript of my thoughts. I had comrades! It didn't matter that they had no idea who I was or that they weren't going to walk into my school and rescue me (although I had that fantasy about 20,000 times). They existed. They were real. 

***

As as adult, I still have a low-burning hatred for my old bullies and a powerful affection for Babes In Toyland. So when I heard they were getting together for a concert, there was no hesitation. I didn't care if tickets were a million dollars and I had to run over a pile of children. I had to go. 

Before the concert, an article was written that touched on some of the trauma these women have been through since I last saw them in 1996. Addiction, violent assaults,  and mental illness are just a few of the things they've had to deal with in their years out of the spotlight. I was dismayed to read that life had dragged them through such a pile of shit. I actually felt defensive. How dare bad things happen to my heroes! And they were still my heroes. And I couldn't wait to see them. 

In a recent article, drummer Lori Barbero said she was going to try not to cry at their homecoming concert. Tears at a Babes In Toyland concert? What? That's like getting choked up at porn. Silly.

But the night came. And there they were. Crazy eyes. Wild hair. Screaming. Snarling. Filth and fury.

And I cried. Just a little and only at the beginning. But I did. Because there we all were, having come through to the other side where we belonged. 

And we did. We belonged. 

*After the concert, I bought the very last Babes In Toyland poster and turned around to see Maureen Herman standing there. She signed my poster and was just as cool as I imagined. In an attempt to be cool myself, I refrained from telling her I had named my cat after her in high school.