“Every woman knows that, regardless of all her other achievements, she is a failure if she is not beautiful.”—Germaine Greer
New Orleans nightlife is a kind of theater, a kabuki dance of exhibitionists and voyeurs. The “tradition” of women flashing their breasts for beads during Mardis Gras took off in the 1970s. It is a phenomena that is baked into the lore of NOLA nightlife and for better or worse, sets a hypersexualized tone onto the peak tourist grounds of the Crescent City.
There is a large Swinger community in New Orleans, complete with a yearly convention, unironically titled Naughty Nawlins. NOLA’s undercurrent of sexual promiscuity paired with excess drinking does sometimes elevate the frequency to a fever pitch likened to Sodom and Gomorrah. Were it not for the concurrent, equally resonant flourishing of creativity, Church life, culinary richness, architecture and music in this town, one wonders if it wouldn’t all just sink into the molten core of the Earth.
I relish living in this chaos perched safetly in my nest, praying the rosary at midnight. However, I can’t help but notice how much of the spirit of “sexual freedom” that’s lauded in this town exists in the service of men (straight and gay alike). Heteronormative sexuality on a grand scale tends to yield to the adolescent fantasies of men, that’s a surprise to exactly no one. Thirty years ago there was a flicker of hope that the playing field would level, that young women’s imagination, erotic and otherwise, was carving a strong footing in American culture (All hail Madonna!). However as soon as that door cracked open, it was quickly shut.
I came of age in that singular time the 1990’s when gritty, ill-tempered and confrontational women were leading the currents of pop culture. Viking warrior queens were at the head of mainstream bands, alternative music was in the zeitgeist and things seems to be shifting in a direction of real empowerment for young people.
The Scottish chanteuse Shirley Manson of Garbage purrs, “pour your misery down on me” in the 1995 hit song Only Happy When It Rains. That lyric took aim at the plague of people pleasing that stifles young women. The song is a goth kid’s wet dream and made claim that young women are resilient enough to relish in discontent. That they can befriend the demons in their heads and hold space for cynicism. The spirit of the song encourage us to tame the chaos of our hearts and make art, fashion, writing, cultivate personal style or simply transfigure puberty into an interesting adult life. As a pre-teen in the 90s, one felt comfortably contrarian.
I don’t want to overstate the importance of rock and pop stars, they are at their core entertainers —- it’s show business, whitewashed and slick. That said, media shapes young minds, and in the 90s, playing on the radio for the first time was a platter of female rage with reverb. Before you can get to Audre Lorde, Virginia Woolf, Bell Hooks, Emily Dickinson and Anne Sexton - you encounter L7, Hole, The Fugees and Alanis Morissette. Angst filled women were gaining airplay on mainstream radio, not as much as their male counterparts, but it was something! They were balking at entering a world where we are objectified to a crippling degree while simultaneously precluded from owning our sexuality. It’s an impossible proposition.
If you’re born beautiful, you understand that you have a strong currency with a firm expiration date. If you’re born homely, you’re spared lurid gazes but are reminded every day that you’ve lost the game before even playing it. And then came Daria…
Daria (1997) was an MTV animated series, a spinoff off Beavis & Butthead. In contrast to Beavis & Butthead’s boob-obsessed buffoonery, Daria was acerbic, whip smart — unapologetically off putting. Daria and her best friend Jane roamed the earth like two goth hipster-prototypes, they were cynical teen zombies and it was enormously gratifying to join them as they navigated the absurdities of their suburban High School. One can’t overstate the influence of Daria as an antidote to a time where Girls Gone Wild commercials played at nauseum late night.
In recent years, the wave of the teen girl revolution has been stunted— in part because of the mercurial shifts of pop culture, in part because of consumerism exploding onto American life like an Orwellian nightmare, and in part because of our low threshold for women presenting themselves as anything other than sexual or maternal. This is a long fought and continually evolving push, there have been significant strides, no question. However, we once again find ourselves in a place where female “empowerment” has fallen prey to a pornification of women coupled with “girl boss” money lust. We’re conditioned to craft identities around our personal brands, whatever the f*** that means. Social media has been catastrophic for teen girls, with incidents of self harm and suicidal ideation skyrocketing for frequent users.
Netflix’s Woodstock 1999 Documentary (2022) highlights the apocalyptic outcome of frat culture run amuck amid the backdrop of an ill conceived music festival resulting in young women raped, fires lit and heads cracked open. A journalist in the film notes that the two most successful movies at the time were American Pie & Fight Club —- sex and violence were in the zeitgeist, that paired with concentration camp like conditions in an event gone to shit, led to an animalistic scene of primal destruction. The 90s ended with a festival that was meant to evoke the 1960s spirit of “peace and brotherhood” and instead ended in young girls brutalized by a swarm of rabid men, amping each other into their worst instincts.
A New Orleans local recently shared that most of the festivities and events that take place in the city today are fairly new, marketing pushes to encourage tourism. This city depends a lot on tourist dollars, as does New York City. In fostering these day-drinking events, there is an element of unrestrained partying that sometimes leans into a Woodstock 99-lite atmosphere, with young men hoping to get laid and women eager to shake off their worries with phallic daquiris in the French Quarter. Truly a recipe for disaster.
The dwindling of the female rock star has meant the loss of a critical message that encourages women to be intimidating. Women should be trepidatious around unchecked testosterone, to be clear eyed and guarded. Brody Dalle, Joan Jett and the like embody a healthy skepticism that checks machismo. Casual sex does not exist (sorry) — the AIDS crisis of the 1980s lives in the forefront of memory for those who were in New York City and San Francisco when vibrant, creative gay men were dropping like flies. To delude ourselves that hedonism is equitable among the sexes is to pretend that 1 in 4 women aren’t physically assaulted by their partners — alcohol plays a big role in domestic and sexual violence.
And yet, New Orleans is nothing if not self-redeeming when she brinks on implosion. Joan of Arc is the patron saint of NOLA, and she fights for her city persistently and with gusto. While bursting at the seams with un-checked decadence, NOLA also fosters a robust metal and punk scene reminiscent of the alternative-as-king era of the 1990s. When I go to those shows, I see comradery in the mosh pit and savvy, street smart women primed for the battle of every day life. They’re Amazonian, pretty in a jarring way, tough and ready to take on the exploits of the night. With them I feel hopeful, with them I see the spark of a new sisterhood ignited on the potholed streets of this illustrious city.
I love your writing. Nat. You are a powerful woman with a powerful voice. Dont ever stop singing and shouting from the rooftops! <3
It’s amazing to think about how pop feminism, via “alternative” music and culture, was popularized, monetized, and neutered within a decade. And any womxn from that era still making music has to tour constantly to survive. Thank god it still exists on the margins where the true freaks know to look for it 💜