I heard Bikini Kill’s music for the first time at a sleepover when I was twelve. A friend’s older sister played a CD at full volume in the kitchen, and their fiery lyricism and unapologetic noise subsequently became synonymous with my adolescence. Eleven years later - and twenty-three after their last UK date - the band returned to London. Bikini Kill’s pioneering message of feminism, of revolution and of girl power was born in 1990 amidst a climate of urgency and necessity; two decades later, the evening should have been a victory march. At times it felt like a rallying cry; at others, a consolation prize. They did not need to rely on nostalgia for value; the sold out venue indicated that their sustained absence had only added to their cultural currency. The music was everything I could have hoped for; loud, relentless and urgent, each track typically short, allowing them to fully indulge in their extensive back catalogue. They periodically swapped instruments, rotating around the stage, sharing stories in the spaces between songs. 

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Halfway through the set, I confronted the fact that I just wanted to go home. It felt a bit like finally getting to see a friend for the first time in real life, having met online a long time ago, only to realise that there was a uncomfortable absence of chemistry or commonality. I could feel the music heavy in my chest, but was otherwise devoid of emotion. I wasn’t having fun. I wondered if the tumult that is teenage-hood had served to mythicise the significance of Bikini Kill in my mind.

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I texted a friend; “feels a bit like watching a high school band that made it into a big venue and charged a lot for the ticket”. The people around me seemed to be having fun, and I felt like I’d missed a punchline, like everyone else was hearing something that I couldn’t, and I wondered if it was how my Dad used to feel when my bothers and I insisted on listening to Radio One on every car journey; not not enjoying it, but not really understanding the appeal either. Except that I like this band, I’ve spent years listening to this band, and I was very excited to see this band. I considered that perhaps engaging for so long in comparative insolation - in the confines of my childhood bedroom or through tinny headphones on the bus home from school - had guaranteed an inevitable difficulty in adapting to a different form of digestion. It occurred to me that I had listened to their music for over a decade, but they had not stepped on a UK stage in my lifetime; I was not prepared for the weight of such heavy expectation.

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Bikini Kill’s famous motto of “girls to the front” once sought to create a sanctuary space for women, distinct from the aggression of typically male-dominated punk shows. This evening, the crowd pushed forwards in anticipation, but the call never came. “It looks like there are a lot of girls to the front,” front-woman Kathleen Hanna stated, “… but honestly I can’t say what someone’s gender is by standing on stage and pointing them out.”. A throwaway comment, but a welcome reminder; some things, small things, have changed.