“All girls to the front!” In the middle of a dirty, dimly-lit punk show, the music has crashed to a stop, allowing the band’s spritely singer to command the audience. She paces the stage, microphone in hand. Her black hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, and she stares out into the crowd unapologetically in a plaid bra and black mini skirt. The room buzzes with uncertainty, but her demeanor makes it clear that disobeying is not an option. She waves her arms wildly, all at once beckoning and threatening her audience. “I’m not kidding.” As the band explodes into their next song, a row of teenage girls lines the stage, gazing up in wonder at this feminine force of nature. They move in unison, some even throwing flowers onto the tiny stage, in a bubble of safety from the punk boys violently dancing behind them. Thrashing across the platform, she shrieks over the pounding bass. “We are Bikini Kill, and we want revolution… GIRL! STYLE! NOW!”

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