Anna Chandler on Hole’s Live Through This (1994)
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In high school, my backpack was a shrine to Kurt Cobain, covered in patches and iron-on transfers of his face staring up at me during math class. I buzzed my long, thick hair, paired flannel with fatigues, spent my hours after school locked in my room with my electric guitar and baby Marshall amp, and religiously ran, lifted weights, and played every sport possible to prepare for military college. It was a time of attempting to find personal power, of living in a Bob Jones University-dominated neighborhood and trying to discover an identity somewhere between the Abercrombie-clad cheerleaders I was supposed to be and the boys in punk bands that I had more in common with.
From what I’d heard and what I’d been taught, feminism was the enemy, attempting to kill any of the “masculine” traits I enjoyed trying on. Meanwhile, being constantly mistaken for a boy and being told that I should be more “girly” in habit and appearance weighed down on me and I pushed harder and harder against it, unaware of a spectrum or of the power I could find within a movement. As a way of countering the pressure to resemble and behave more like the ideal teenaged girl, I became a staunch male chauvinist. In a world that makes it shameful to be a woman—particularly a woman engaging in male-dominated activities—I joined in instead of striking back, hating women and having to “be a woman.” I didn’t know that the movement I so detested existed to break gender roles the way I so desperately needed.
Naturally, I hated Courtney Love. Despite being able to follow Angus Young solos note for note myself, I disliked female musicians and didn’t feel Courtney had a place in such an influential time in rock music. I believed she piggybacked off Kurt’s success and stole his sound. She was a bad widow, a bad mother with implants, a slut, an addict, a disgrace to 90’s grunge. Had I listened to her music? No, I didn’t need to. I bought the lie that Kurt wrote all her music and often agreed that she was responsible for his death, either by supposedly introducing him to heroin or killing him with her own hands. She was the reason the band I adored, whose music was the only thing that could make me lift my angst-laden shoulders off the mattress some mornings, didn’t exist anymore.
Toward the end of high school, I learned a little more about third-wave feminism and discovered that I could wear a barely-there skirt and an Army jacket and that anyone who said otherwise could go to hell. I read Jessica Valenti and Jill Filipolvic and slowly digested a feminism that was younger and more accessible than I had ever imagined. I found all the answers to the questions I had struggled with and found I was able to break the binary and discover true happiness and confidence.
Somewhere in the last few years while reading more about ties between feminism and music, I listened to Celebrity Skin. And on a trip home this summer, I fished a dollar copy of Live Through This out of a CD bargain bin in a record shop. It was exactly what I needed in that moment. I love the way music finds you when you most need it, and at the time, I needed raw power, vocals dripping with fury, thick four-chord progressions and fuck you’s spit and wailed and harmonized. I remember passing a rest stop somewhere near Clinton, S.C. when “Violet” hit and the encompassing comfort that took me in, the understanding as I reached for the volume dial and turned it up to max. In a time in which I felt overwhelmingly alone and weak, I was ushered into this gushing, driving thirty-eight minutes that would change my life. I was suddenly sobbing, clutching the wheel, turning off the cruise control and letting my foot lean into the gas pedal. I kept the album on repeat until I reached my destination, and it hasn’t left my CD player since July.
I’ve listened to it a little at least once a day in the car since. Hundreds of times. The desperation of “I Think That I Would Die,” the surly snarkiness of “Rockstar” (“Olympia”), the way Courtney married politics, feminism, media portrayal, advertising, presumptions, was unlike anything I had ever heard and resonated so deeply. And by looking at it without separating art from artist—the album was released four days after Kurt died, Frances Bean was in the custody of his mother—I found an example of how to create from a dark place and pour yourself into something truthful. I began to feel strong again, a kind of strength that I hadn’t felt since I learned that no one could dictate what I do with my body and how I conduct myself except for me. And with that, I felt a new kind of drive, an unstoppable need to create. The inner voice telling me that anything I tried to make would be a waste, not good enough, “done,” was told to shut the hell up, pick up the guitar and pen and get to work trying, to push until it happened.
The profound effect Live Through This has had on me is hard to vocalize, particularly to friends whose eyes understandably roll when they get in the car and it’s playing again. Writing alone for the first time in recent memory and cracking open the guitar case that had been stashed under my bed for three years was terrifying. But the simplicity of “Miss World,” “Jennifer’s Body” and “Gutless” empowered me to keep trying—these were songs that I could figure out immediately and wail along to over the grit of that little Marshall amp up in my cluttered apartment. I pushed myself to write more openly, to break out of my standard of cryptic, hiding lyrics and be blunt. I didn’t want to sing quietly, I wanted to wail, to howl and seethe, and suddenly I could. And I did.
Anna Chandler is a Savannah, Ga.-based musician. She writes for The Music File and works with the Savannah Stopover Music Festival.