Belltown Messenger

During a blustery weekend in November a gaggle of girls strummed into Seattle for the ROCKRGRL Conference. I joined the fray as a volunteer. They were from all over the world and professional as all heck slinging promotional CD's, lighters, stickers and postcards.

The conference took place in the Madison Renaissance Hotel. The Madison management, scared that unruly girls singing folk songs about periods and unrequited love would besiege the hotel, made the ladies sign promises that they would not sit on the lobby floor.

The trade show pushed girly guitars in pink and purple. There was a collective swoon over the likes of the diva Patti Smith, who told tales of Jimi Hendrix (a dude, and a dead one at that). But while the hotel business was just that, the real story was at the 20 venues around town that showcased the immense talents of the women who performed. My job was to be stage manager at the Mars Bar for four bands. I had a laminate, a book of stage plots, and no idea whatsoever of what I was supposed to do.

The first band, the Jolenes from Portland, disappeared promptly after their sound check. Right before 8 p.m. they came on wearing short black miniskirts trimmed in gold sequins, sheer tights, short tops, gold wrist cuffs, and high heels. The guitarist and bassist were coordinated waifs guitars slung low, punk-rock style, blasting a furious cacophony. The drummer kicked ass, while a rowdy Puck of a boy percussionist jumped and flipped in gold sequin hot pants. Fur Cups For Teeth, all the way from Brooklyn, are loud, obnoxious girls (and one drummer boy) who like to rock out and scream in immense fur hats and black strapless dresses and gold gloves, with lyrics of syllables and voices like maniacal children. The three girls traded instruments on each song, and at one point took out an array of kitchen equipment and beat on them, while the boy drummer danced to an electronic beat.

Mind Your Pig, Latoya, from Olympia, had sad news. Their guitarist had ditched them for NYC and their guitarist in for the night had an amp that buzzed so hard I thought there might be a Spinal Tap moment with her guitar exploding and going up in flames. The set was short. It was loud and the girls were ballsy to go ahead with the gig.

The Flairs, from Vancouver BC, put on a great show for an almost-empty room. The lead singer was slick and pretty in a tiny black skirt with thigh high fishnets grabbing her skinny legs, wailing into her scarf-festooned microphone. The left-handed guitarist thrashed, red hair flying, black leather pants shinning, stuck out her tongue, and flashed the devil sign. Her tall brother on bass crouched real low, head whipping as the petite drummer whomped on her kit. The Flairs ended the night with a Billy Idol anthem which left everyone satisfied knowing that rock n' roll is alive and well (and not the same tired white-boy alt-country crap we hear every day on KEXP).