CW: verbal and sexual assault
Part of a series exploring women and genderqueer identities within the DIY Punk and Arts scenes. In this installment, Sara Harrington depicts scenes from her own experience playing in a touring ska punk band.
‘Ticket please.’
Trumpet case in hand, I try to enter the venue as my bandmates breeze on by.
‘I’m playing actually.’
This is uttered with an embarrassed air, the knock to my ego glances across my face. Fair enough, I’ve not been in the band long.
‘Oh, who are you with? There’s no guest list.’
‘Sorry, I play trumpet in the band.’
Lifting my trumpet case, I point at it awkwardly. A nod as it’s decided that I pass all requirements necessary to gain free entry to a show I’m playing. I go to join my bandmates as we pile our gear into the backroom and start setting up for sound check.
As I pull off my jumper, a pint is raised and a leer spills forth:
‘Oi oi, ready for the naked party?’
A guy and his mate stumble over themselves, each trying to wink harder than the other.
‘Get fucked.’ The short answer,
‘Alright darlin’, take a joke will ya?’
‘Cor, it’s not like I want to fuck you.’
The rest of the band set up their gear unperturbed. They check mics whilst I check my resolve to enjoy the show we’re about to play at a venue they tried to stop me from entering.
They check mics whilst I check my resolve to enjoy the show
A grope in the crowd as the brass section stomp through the audience at the beginning of the set. The trombone player is unmolested and people make room for him. I am forced to make my own space as sweaty hands scrabble to pat me wherever they see fit.
A sweaty miasma fills the air, it’s hot and close and I struggle to grip the sweat-greased trumpet that slips out of my hand. We have just finished the set and we’re packing our equipment down. We’ve played ok, I definitely played a fair share of bum notes, but no one notices with brass so they congratulate us anyway. The van has been pulled around to the front of the venue, so we start loading out. A security guard holds the door open for me as I trundle towards him; flight cases, a merch box and whatever pedal board I can fit in the crook of my arm balance precariously. The rest of the band follow suit, equally occupied.
‘Sure you’re ok with that? Looks heavy.’
Combining an ‘I’m fine thanks,’ with a throwaway joke and a smile to appease his politeness, I straighten my back to try and appear strong and capable as I make the rest of the way to the van. The security guard is pleased that he is a good citizen and I grumble in the back seat of the van and wonder whether to start weight training.
( Sara and Faintest Idea via Keri-Ann Heritage-Merlo )
His hand slides under my shorts. I freeze as he drunkenly slathers a kiss on the back of my neck. The sleeping spot I found on the floor was meant for one but an uninvited guest has forced their space. I pull his hand away. A friend who secured the sweet spot on the sofa stirs from a Guinness stained stupor, raises an eyebrow and falls back to sleep. I spend the night on the bathroom floor with the door locked. Years and many bands later, we play the same line-up. He has forgotten me and I pretend I am fine.
The room is smoky and the air only got closer as we blasted through the set. We’re in Holland in a tiny venue occupied by regular gig-goers. Ecstatic faces electrify as more beer is drunk. Releasing the accumulated spit from my hard worn valves somewhere semi-discrete, a young girl approaches. She’s been going to shows here for 15 years and I am the only woman she’s seen on this stage. The tension lifts from heavy shoulders.
She’s been going to shows here for 15 years and I am the only woman she’s seen on this stage. The tension lifts from heavy shoulders.
An argument as a man buying merch asks the woman selling it to him who she’s sleeping with. He shakes my hand for playing a great set.
‘You’re that Faintest Idea bird!’
A gaggle of people laugh and spill from the bench in the beer garden we’re loading our gear through.
My chipped smile drops.
‘I’m not a bird, I’m a human.’
Later, my bandmates laugh at the stupidity of my retort. Jokes are had, a set is played, we drive home.
Later, a Facebook message request reveals a half apology and the mortification of a man fearing my derision as anger.
I’m not a misogynist.
I like women.
My female friends call each other ‘bird’ all the time.
They don’t have a problem with it.
I was drunk.
I like your band.
Will your band play our charity all dayer next month?
Featured image by Sara Harrington
