For whatever reason, I was listening to a playlist of patriotic folk tunes last week, and a song caught my ear: “That’s the Rebel Girl, the Rebel Girl / To the working class, she’s a precious pearl / She brings courage, pride and joy / To the fighting Rebel Boy.”
In 1915, labor activist Joe Hill penned “The Rebel Girl,” dedicating it to fellow activist Elizabeth Flynn. The song embraces women who fight in support of the Industrial Workers of the World. At that time, I was more focused on the title rather than its history. Hill’s song reminded me of Bikini Kill’s 1993 track of a similar name, “Rebel Girl.”
Written as a response to the sexist, male-dominated punk scene, lead singer Kathleen Hanna distills her rebel girl into the very essence of coolness and confidence. The girl won’t take heat from anybody, most definitely not from those who look down on her. “When she walks, the revolution’s coming / In her hips, there’s revolution.” Hanna is in love with how boldly this woman presents herself: Her very existence is a political statement.
The song sees Hanna wanting to be this girl’s best friend, wanting to try her clothes and wanting to be her. Luckily, Hanna doesn’t need to yearn so much. With her singing, Hanna embodies the spirit of this rebel girl. She defiantly screams over a fuzzy, stomping guitar, and she overpowers the wild drums. Rage coats the record, but so does the band’s admiration for rebellion. Bikini Kill is angry, sure, but they are directing it at the world for not embracing forward-thinking women.
Both songs are dedicated to transgressive women, and they’re fantastic. I love Joe Hill’s admiration, and I love Hanna’s infatuation. Most of all, I love how overtly political both songs are. Out of curiosity, I decided to look into other songs about rebel women to see if there was a common thread. The results were … interesting.
“Rebel” by Wicked Lady is a bare track of steamy tension. The guitar is just as fuzzy as in Bikini Kill’s “Rebel Girl,” but there’s a looseness in Martin Weaver’s hard riffs and spontaneous jamming. Weaver’s playing floats, encased in the carefree spirit of cigarette smoke. The lyrics, though, are rigid. The song concerns a woman who, upon nightfall, does things she shouldn’t do: “Every evening when the sun goes down / You do the things you shouldn’t do.” She’s like a vampire with a fire inside of her, but all we really know about her is that she tells Weaver that “everything is alright,” and Weaver thinks she’s lying. Big whoop. Worse, Weaver sings the verse twice, and nothing about his description makes the girl a rebel, except that she’s edging close to danger: “Driving on empty through the streets of life / But your wheels are catching fire.” But hey, the guitar solo is sick.
“Rebel Girl” by Survivor seems to pick up the woman-at-night narrative that Wicked Lady started, but in a sexist way. “Out on the edge of night / In any city you can name / There rides a rebel girl / The wild one no one dared to tame / And the light in her eyes is a fire.” The three tracks I’d listened to so far had been political and/or erotic; even the worst description so far (Wicked Lady) had instrumentation that embodied a certain mystique, an elusive, sensuous spirit. Survivor’s song is just plain boring. Lead singer Jimi Jamison has no charisma on the track, sleep-singing through uninspiring ’70s-’80s dad-rock. The girl in question is worse than non-descript: She’s some lonely animal who rides alone and needs taming, apparently. It’s no wonder that Jamison can’t even feign lust. Worse, the lyrics make no sense. The second chorus ends with “It’s a lonely world / For a rebel girl / So far from home, she’s all alone / In a rebel world.” How can one be a rebel in an already rebel world?
Despite the lackluster descriptions, the two songs strangely complement each other in the big picture. Both songs describe the girls with a “fire,” emphasizing night scenery about roads. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that the songs are trying to conjure biker imagery. For Survivor, they use the word “ride”; as for Wicked Lady, the connection is more sonic and aesthetic than it is descriptive, given rock ’n roll’s (specifically metal music’s) footing in biker culture.
In this context, it makes more sense why the girls are rebels. Being a biker is inherently rebellious, embodying non-conformity, independence and embracing the thrill of the road. Being a female biker doubles those qualities. It is expected, however unfairly, that men are explorers and women are homemakers. To ride a Harley-Davidson as a woman is both symbolically and literally an act of defiance, especially in the male-dominated biker culture.
As such, a female biker is a powerful image. Unfortunately, the two songs fail to match the concept. For Wicked Lady, there’s an built-in excuse: The band is, above all else, focused on the groove of the track. They are so focused on the sound that it’s admittedly unclear whether the girl is a biker. However, I can’t imagine what other archetypes would fit their bare description. Survivor’s song, though, is more egregious given the context. Aside from calling the biker girl an animal, the band stoops as low as to sing “A rebel’s heart is made of stone / And the light in her eyes is desire.” Indeed, they have dehumanized her once again and sexualized her on top of that. Instead of admiring a girl’s defiance in a male world (like Bikini Kill), the band has reduced her rebellion to coldness, to loneliness, to the unattainable manifestation of sex appeal.
Survivor’s gaze is all too common. If one were to search up images of a “biker girl,” it’s clear that sex has stripped the rebel. In biker culture, sexism is rampant, and the sexualization of biker women seems like a natural consequence. The issue is so prevalent that one blog site even showcases a series of parody photos emphasizing the issue. In this context, Survivor not only fundamentally misunderstands the rebellious biker girl, but also feeds into her objectification.
Green Day doesn’t make the same mistake with “She’s a Rebel.” The track is a head-banging two-minute thrill. Backed by some frenetic drums, frontman Billie Joe Armstrong has a fun stop-and-go rhythm, singing lyrics that commend a rebel girl’s intelligence: “She sings the revolution / The dawning of our lives / She brings this liberation / That I just can’t define / Well, nothin’ comes to mind.” When Billy calls this girl “dangerous,” it comes from respect, as though Billy wishes that he could be the same threat to the boring, normal world, that he could be as cool as her. The track is a heart-warming, sweet little tune in the same spirit of admiration as Joe Hill’s song.
“Rebel Girl” by Angels & Airwaves is an ear sore. Lead singer Tom DeLonge sounds constipated while the band seems to be doing their best impression of Coldplay meets the Chainsmokers. The way DeLonge delivers the opening live — “If you want to dance my love / My little rebel girl” — does him no favors: He sounds like a douchebag and a creep, especially with how he drags out the “girl” in that line. Worse, he has no idea what rebel even means. The premise of the song is that his ex should go against reason and get back with him. But the rebel girl is also his princess — “I gotta tell ya / The shoe fits / My little Cinderella.” It’s a slipper first of all, and unless she’s got the revolution in her hips, no princess is a rebel.
“Rebel Girl” by the alternative and electronic Swedish band Endless Shame is surprisingly fun. Bluntly repetitive and pummeling synths define the groove, but it’s extremely danceable. “Black shirt and blue-ripped jeans / In style, so clean / You’re fine, sign of the times.” In a cheeky move, the band decided to sing about a normal girl. Endless Shame aren’t taking themselves seriously, and that makes them infinitely more listenable than Angels & Airwaves.
Lastly, “The Rebel Girl” by Liliac is a nothing-burger. The song positions the narrator as someone who will “rule your world.” As such, lead singer Melody Cristea calls herself a queen, but also some boyfriend’s dream. Here, Cristea defines her rebellion in relation to royalty and a man’s ideation, which feels inherently oxymoronic. Isn’t non-conformity the most crucial aspect of rebellion? It gets more grating: The track sounds like it was recorded in a different room where the producer was blending a smoothie. Everything sounds flat and muffled. There’s no personality here.
After Liliac, I decided to look up songs with “Rebel Woman” since all the other “Rebel Girl” tracks were covers of Bikini Kill’s song.
“Rebel Woman” by Chiwoniso is inspired by a poem about the role of women in Zimbabwe’s war for independence. A slow marimba, plucky as wind chimes, grounds her measured, chanting voice — pulling us into a spiritual and uplifting soundscape. Halfway through, a sparse guitar comes in, creating a warm, folksy atmosphere. The track conveys the somber tragedy of war with a great amount of pride. Chiwoniso’s voice is soft but strong. “Remember that you fought for your people / I know freedom’s been so hard won, it’s been so hard won.”
Then there’s Anne Wilson’s “REBEL.” Anne Wilson is a Christian country artist, and she really wants you to know that: “Who talks to a man that they can’t see? / Call me crazy, call me a fool / I ain’t scared ‘cause I know the truth.” Like Liliac, in attempting to prop herself up, Wilson sounds lame, and the music is mind-numbingly derivative. Hilariously, Wilson attempts to take a subversive stance in this song, claiming that her being a Jesus girl is not the norm. She seems dismayed by our supposedly progressive world, so she sings, rather proudly: “When the crowd goes one way, I go the other.” I wonder what she will do when she learns that 62% of all Americans go the Christian way. Will she go the other way and make a Buddhist country album?
Even though we have a sample size of four, it’s hard to ignore that the tracks sung by women don’t reduce rebel girls into romantic fodder or alluring eye candy. Bikini Kill and Chiwoniso use their songs to convey something larger about the world — the former about sexuality and punk women in a sexist world and the latter about brave soldiers in war. Liliac’s track, while confused and bland, can be viewed as empowering, and Wilson at least tries to say something about Christianity (even though it’s all reactionary, unsubstantiated and self-serving).
An extensive search of songs with the title “Rebel Women” only uncovered three other tracks. Reggae tracks “Rebel Woman” by Vivian Jones and Gene Rondo essentially use “rebel” as code for a really hot lady. Both are groovy, and I am rather fond of Vivian Jones’ sensual and desirous voice. But neither track stands out.
However, Erik’s “Rebel Woman” is an engrossing proto-metal delight. The drums lack some punchiness, but they smooth the rough, unpredictable rhythms of a roaring electric guitar — one that glides, that scratches, that riffs, that solos, seemingly of its own free will. Frontman Sid Bradley’s voice is haunting, sounding like a shadow of itself, hovering over a consumerist world he wants no part of. “I’m trying, not buying, everything I chance to see / It’s tiring to be things other people would have you be.” Some vaguely psychedelic noises bookend the track, creating an air of mystery. As for the woman, she’s a muse for Bradley. Like him, she doesn’t want to do what “they” want her to do, and he wants to show her what it’s like to live this life: “You’re just a rebel woman / Still got lots of the world to see.” Bradley doesn’t glorify this lifestyle though, singing that he doesn’t know whether the good life will come, but until then, he will live “all (he) can today.” From start to finish, “Rebel Woman” pulled me in and left me wanting for more riffs and mystical lyrics.
Who is she?
For the four songs led by women, she’s an image of strength, courage and beauty. Given these coveted features, it’s no wonder that the most popular, most covered and most acclaimed song of the 12 is Bikini Kill’s, which manages to epitomize all three. The song is as anthemic and uplifting as it is symbolic of female power. Yet, despite all the songs depicting this image, only Bikini Kill and Chiwoniso fundamentally understand what “rebel” means. Liliac confuses might and beauty with rebellion while Wilson doesn’t realize she’s rebelling against nothing; both, however, call themselves a “rebel” as a term of empowerment.
For the nine tracks led by men, the concept of a rebel girl is more complicated. Joe Hill, Green Day and Erik genuinely describe a rebel, someone who cares about a revolution or who opposes the conventional world. Wicked Lady conjures that image but only uses it to fuel the track sonically. The other four artists, deliberate or not, don’t describe a rebel, using the term to encompass a sexual, unattainable quality about a woman. Survivor falls into that camp, except its description is deeply gross and dehumanizing.
Sadly, this summary doesn’t reveal much. When we look at the songs that both depict and attempt to depict a rebel girl — excluding tracks by Liliac, Wicked Lady, Endless Shame, Angel & Airwaves, Gene Rondo and Vivian Jones — the picture of a rebel girl isn’t much clearer. Based on Joe Hill’s union girl, Bikini Kill’s riot grrrl, Survivor’s biker girl, Green Day’s punk girl, Wilson’s Christian self, Chowoniso’s war hero and Erik’s anti-consumerist woman, a rebel girl is no different than a rebel: an individual who stands against the perceived norms of the time.
So, we still don’t know who she is. Instead, we just know that everyone loves her.
Maybe that’s the point. The fact that all the included songs express love, lust and/or admiration toward a rebel girl is revealing in and of itself. No one cares about people who are just like everyone else (unless you’re cheeky like Endless Shame). What’s cooler than being different? Better yet, what epitomizes difference more than defiance?
Being a rebel is desirable and seductive. The inverse of that, however, isn’t true. It seems like every artist here writes about what they find desirable — with the main difference being whether they understand the fallacy of this inversion.
Some of the songs do a great disservice to the women they describe, and the ones that don’t contribute anything negative or positive to the discourse feed into a larger cycle of reducing rebellion to a sexy aesthetic. The greatest shame is that only five tracks (Joe Hill, Bikini Kill, Green Day, Chowoniso and Erik) grant the rebel girl what she’s been fighting for: an identity. The rest only care about her husk.
So, when the next rebel girl song comes out, I won’t be asking who she is. I won’t try to tie its depiction with its peers. Instead, I’ll ask, “Why do they love her?”
Summer Managing Arts Editor Ben Luu can be reached at benllv@umich.edu.
