Meeting with Philadephia's BIPOC Femmes in Punk

For the last few years, you could almost guarantee yourself a hit post on Twitter by nostalgia baiting audiences with a low-res clip of a 00s nu metal or garage band, and some caption along the lines of, "Why did the white boys stop making music like this? They need to stop rapping and making trap beats, and pick up their guitars." This reactionary position is typically rooted in the inrush of white artists and journalists who have pivoted toward hip-hop and streetwear over the last 15+ years. However, what the writers of these tweets fail to grasp is that the alternative scene does not cease to exist just because the mainstream gaze shifted. When pop punk was overshadowed by EDM in the 2010s, the alternative scene receded into the underground, where it has continued to evolve into a more inclusive space. While the Internet has become increasingly open to celebrating viral moments in Black rock, the genre discourse still backslides into centering whiteness as a way to refocus mainstream attention back onto rock and away from hip-hop. When the spotlight does return to the genre, it inevitably lands on white faces, pushing Black creators back into the margins. Therefore, by repositioning white boys to their "rightful place" within the rock scene, this makes it more difficult for Black artists to secure opportunities—especially when you consider how rare it is for the very people posting and engaging with these memes to actually support, fund, or show up for the contemporary artists in these genres.

I found myself lost in thoughts like these after months of hiding from the winter season, and while working my way through 45 hours of Spotify audiobook hours a month. High on Jersey pride after finishing Sellout: The Major-Label Feeding Frenzy That Swept Punk, Emo, and Hardcore (1994–2007), and still eagerly working my way through Subculture: The Meaning of Style, I was now overstimulated from the information and the energy it provided me with. I was also desperate for community after the hyperpop genre I had aligned myself with for the last decade had me feeling disconnected and frustrated. So when a flyer popped up on my Instagram feed of two femme punks laying into their shared microphone, I was immediately sold. One had greyish-green bantu knots, the other with a teal spiked mohawk and bang—illustrated with scrunched noses, squinted eyes, and palpable screams.

The digital flyer stated that there was to be a BIPOC Femmes in Punk meeting that Thursday night at Tattooed Mom, held by a local punk band named Soji. I wasn't familiar with the band. I, in fact, hadn't ridden the punk wave in a fairly long time. I was a former scene kid, after all, so—approaching my 30s—I found myself gravitating more towards hyperpop and the club genres I DJ. However, I allowed curiosity to lead me. So on the night of, I fed my cats early, zipped up my Sorels, and loaded up my travel pass on the way to the station. Grateful to have a reason to leave my studio apartment, I sat excitedly through the train ride and blasted Latin Hardgroove all the way there through my Koss headphones. I pretended not to be annoyed with the tangled wires and foam pads sliding past my ears and onto my jaw, on my walk to the South Street bar. "Screw an aesthetic, I should’ve brought my AirPods," I think, as the person at the door stops to ask for my ID, and I realize that everything is tangled in the faux leather handles of my very unforgiving tote bag.

Heading upstairs, I feel instantly at home. I don’t recognize the band playing on the speakers, but there are enough sonic cues to allow me to know I’m in good company (my auto-Shazam session would later introduce me to the likes of Payasa, Bussy Kween Power Trip, ShyGodwin, and King Khan & the Shrines). I arrived on-time, which I should've known was too early. However, it was only 6 PM, I realized. Let the people drink! And so I did—a whiskey soda (a mistake that was quickly realized, since I meant to ask for a whiskey Coke)—while I unpacked my camera and took a quick look around the room.

Those who knew each other gathered. The smartest of the bunch brought their food inside the meeting space and found a seat. At a comfortable spot up against the wall with my reliable T3i, I saw some items being intentionally sorted on a back table. Mini composition notebooks, pens, and an array of frosted cookies with tender reminders, such as This machine kills fascists and Punk’s not white. Behind the counter were two sights. A person with big amber curls that complemented their skin, dramatic eyeshadow, and winged liner. They spoke to someone with a chic, edgy vibe: dark hair, baby bangs, camo pants. Arriving at the table, I think I told them that I was "just looking," as if to explain my existence to them, or apologize for it. I would later learn they were DIY punk artists, Ade Ogunleye, who spoke first to kindly inform me that everything was free, and bandmate Abbey Infant of Soji. What they didn't know (and I wasn't about to explain) is that I was in the middle of Marie Kondo-ing my life, so I was really in no position to be taking extra notebooks. But I also have a serious problem with saying no to things when I could just as easily say yes, so I took one.

As I snapped a few photographs and crept my way back to the familiar spot on the wall that I made for myself, a feeling of panic started settling in. You don’t belong here. You were a scene kid in ‘08—you missed the train. Scene kids were nothing but a bastardization of something real, anyway. You are a poser. Ew, what is that? I hadn’t felt like this in a long time. Why was I suddenly passing judgment on myself, because of the room that I was standing in? Isn’t that everything that I’m against—everything that I try to combat? Surely it's me who always thinks, "To hell with guilty pleasures! I carry no guilt at all for my love of Survivor!" So why was having a multifaceted music taste suddenly a problem for me?

I shook off the thought once the talk finally began. The host, Darby Cox, was introduced as the author of a new fantasy book titled A Day of Breath. In an earth-toned 80s sweater, space buns, and black tights-and-circle skirt combo—I sought no further confirmation that the so-called “indie sleaze” era was indeed back again. On the panel were the aforementioned Ade (the drummer for Soji & KulfiGirls, and organizer for Break Free Fest), Soji bassist Abbey Infant, KulfiGirls vocalist Abi Natesh, audio engineer Nkozi Cole, and multi-band musician Nneka Aayaoku. Nkozi stopped to note feeling shocked and underqualified to speak, having been out of the punk scene for a long time. Abi also, during the panel, referenced her eclectic musical background—ranging from R&B to pop punk. Instantly, my own impostor syndrome dissipated, and I felt reaffirmed by the room I was in. Years of punk morphing and remorphing itself into the different subcultures that exist today have led me to feel insecure around those who proudly attach themselves to the original hardcore genres. Here I was scared that some invisible elitist was going to call out some unspoken hierarchy amongst us (one that places Millionaire$ fans last), forgetting the bureaucratic barriers that brought us all here in the first place.

"Don’t be afraid to be a fucking bitch."

For the next hour and a half, the panel would talk about finding their way into the alternative scene, their experience as DIY musicians and producers, and navigating the Philadelphia punk scene as people of color. One of the first key takeaways was simply putting yourself out there. Nkozi gave the specific advice of not cold calling or reaching out on social media, but rather going outside more and putting yourself in front of more people—providing personal support for how doing this was able to physically put them in front of more opportunities. Abbey talked about being a budding guitarist, and what it was like trying to fit in comfortably with local jams, which were made up of mostly white guys. They cited one unprompted instance where a guy loudly fed them chords from across the room while everyone jammed. The anecdote highlighted how they were able to find like-minded individuals by prioritizing punk groups with other femmes and people of color, which aided in their growth as an artist and paved a path for them within the scene. The audience was advised to put themselves out there, but not to the extent of ignoring personal limits and being truly uncomfortable, for the sake of fitting in or proving a point.

Computer literacy was also brought up during a question about what action new artists can take to be an active part of the scene. Audio engineer, Nkozi, had a range of digital safety suggestions for the audience, such as divesting from Google, investing in a VPN, and limiting the amount of artwork you release to large data-mining platforms, like Spotify. When the question of what "DIY" actually meant (as an active practice and lifestyle), the panel expressed the scrappiness, self-confidence, and determination it takes to figure something out yourself, due to a lack of access and resources. Values were also at the forefront of the conversation, especially when it came to navigating local alternative scenes as a person of color and not fearing being confrontational. The panel emphasized the importance of knowing your values and standing on them publicly, regardless of how unruly your actions are perceived. Ade's advice was clear and pointed: "Don’t be afraid to be a fucking bitch," noting that, while engaging within the scene, you have to be comfortable enough to "call shit out" with a quickness.

During the final Q&A with the audience, I used the opportunity to reference Afropunk’s growth during the 2010s—developing from a DIY gathering for Black punks to a major music festival that caters to a much broader scope of alternative Black people. There are arguments to be made (and people have made them) for why Afropunk’s growth isn’t all bad—allowing Black people within different scenes a chance to build connections and opportunities to see bigger acts across genres all in on one place. However, I used the festival as a reference point for wanting to know how the individuals on the panel personally coped with the landscape of an ever-changing alternative scene that often involves music scenes fading in and out of obscurity over the decades, and finding their space in different cities that have varying populations of BIPOC alternatives. The panel reiterated their stance on being clear with yourself about your values, as well as finding and holding onto those with like minds. Nneka suggested that if profit isn't your priority, then don’t align yourself with those whose goals are different. Also, while the landscape of the festival has changed, there are still memories and connections from before to be cherished in the now.

In their recorded set last year with WXPN, Soji delivers a memorable performance that's a refreshing, modern take on classic riot grrrl nostalgia. While the set features their former lead vocalist, Jessa, the band carries their own heavy instrumentals with ease. They hit the ground running on the opening track—a familiar 90s sound, with feminine vocals reminiscent of Kathleen Hanna and Allison Wolfe. Pivoting into a genre-bending second song that fuses hip-hop and punk, their vocalist takes on almost a rapper's flow. The mid-way point is an unapologetic cry for global liberation. "Land back to natives now! Free The Congo! Free Sudan! Free Hawaii! Free The Philippines! Free Palestine! Land back to natives NOW," as they erupt into a political anthem expressing ecological grief and calling for the defense of Black and trans lives. The closing track makes a mockery of unemployed landlords and "twelve," and ends on a bloodcurdling "RISE UP!"

For more to add to your media rotation, I'm giving an unsponsored shout-out to Storygraph—an independent Black-woman owned book tracking app, and alternative to Amazon's Goodreads. If you check mine out, you’ll be able to see everything I’m currently reading for the upcoming content, including the next part of our Outcasts! series on Brat Powr Video Network.