Billy Boredom) played guitar and Kathi Wilcox played bass. Kathleen Hanna sang, Tobi Vail played drums, Billy Karren (a.k.a. > SEND tickets to another fan, friend or family memberīikini Kill is a feminist punk band that was based in Olympia, WA and Washington, DC, forming in 1990 and breaking up in 1997. > REQUEST tickets to this sold out show by joining Higher Ground’s wait-list The OFFICIAL TICKET EXCHANGE for Bikini Kill at Higher Ground is open. All previously issued tickets will be honored at the Jshow. “I think that’s taken care of.” Thousands swarmed in front of her, dancing wildly in a space that was, once again, ours.The Bikini Kill performance originally scheduled for has been postponed to July 16, 2022. “We don’t need ‘girls to the front,’” Hanna said. Bikini Kill didn’t try to police the Palladium pit. Opening night it was the Los Angeles punk legend Alice Bag, with special guests Allison Wolfe (of Bratmobile), Teri Gender Bender (Le Butcherettes), Francisca Valenzuela and Lysa Flores. Like-minded acts are again sharing the dais with Bikini Kill. “We’re still changing and they can’t take that away from us,” she said, then tore into “Resist Psychic Death.” Words of wisdom indeed. Hanna directly spoke to the current political context, telling the audience to stay strong. Its songs address sexual violence, harassment and exclusion in ways that are both cathartic and emboldening. But the return of Bikini Kill feels less like a blast from the past and more like a superhero’s intervention. Reunion shows are often just showcases for nostalgia. The pounding of Vail’s toms doubled by Kathi Wilcox’s bass pushes Hanna’s voice into a roar that is primal and undeniable she makes you listen. At the Palladium, Hanna wore a cheerleader outfit as she led 5,000 fans in a singalong retort to a molesting father: “Suck my left one.” Hanna is one of the great frontpeople of all time, but she is best with this band behind her. Time has not tamed Bikini Kill, but its ferocious response to assault and inequity has found a much bigger audience today than it enjoyed a quarter-century ago. For a handful of green, we got to see three great bands: Bikini Kill, Tribe 8 and Pansy Division.
Charging more would have been capitalistic. In 1992, admission was probably five or six dollars. In a decade-plus of attending shows, I’d been mashed in one too many mosh pits and resigned myself to straining to see bands from the safe confines of the back of the room.ĩ24 Gilman Street is a collectively run, all-ages, nonprofit performance space in Berkeley that has been the home of East Bay punk since the mid-80s. I was a 28-year-old punk fan and journalist who had pretty much given up on the pit when I walked into 924 Gilman Street in Berkeley, Calif., on a Saturday night in 1992 - or so I thought. Time accordioned, and I realized: Bikini Kill is as vital as I remembered. For others, including myself, it was a jolt back to a defining moment in our lives. For much of the audience, the show was a first chance to see the band they had discovered through books, or movies, or maybe even their mom’s record collection. When Bikini Kill took the stage at a packed Palladium in Hollywood on April 25, the band reclaimed a podium it had left 22 years earlier.
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