Sister Outsider Headbanger
On Being a Black Feminist Metalhead
Article by Keidra Chaney, published in 2000
I’m not sure exactly when or how it happened, but at some point in my childhood I began to think I was a white guy trapped in the body of a black girl. And not just any white guy, either-a guitar player in a heavy-metal band.
Ok, stop laughing. It’s no joke. I’m a black female metalhead. Like I said, I can’t really tell you how it happened. Maybe it was growing up in the ’80s, being fed a steady diet of Ratt videos on Chicago’s quasi-MTV uhf station. Or maybe it was coming of age at the same time heavy metal reached public consciousness as the Voice of the Disgruntled Adolescent White Male. Sure, I wasn’t white, male, or even particularly angry as a 10-year-old-but I recognized the force of those electric guitars, relentlessly pounding drums, and growling vocals. Even then, I knew that heavy metal was power, and power was irresistible.
...
By the time I entered college I’d started to reconcile my identity and beliefs with my love for metal, but it was hard to leave my ambivalence behind. If saying that I’m a metalhead and a feminist sounds like a contradiction, then saying that I’m a feminist because of heavy metal probably sounds even more so-especially considering that Feminist Theory 101 often implies that the only inclusive, empowering space for women in music is among other women playing “women’s music.”
But metal did empower me. Because the music was so far away from my experience, it didn’t place definitions on who I was or could be as a black female. When I listened to Metallica or Corrosion of Conformity, I wasn’t a “bitch,” a “ho,” or some anonymous jiggling booty in a rap video; I wasn’t a woman who needed rescuing by some dream-date pop star. I was someone who felt weird in high school, who wanted a place to belong.
...
Even now, we sistas who rock don’t have a high-profile role model to identify with or emulate. The act of participation in rock music as musicians and as fans is still pretty subversive for black women-for black folks in general, really. I hope at some point the music industry will have the guts and good sense to support black rock, and young black women who want a harder sound than Tracy Chapman will be able to find the emotional connection I did, plus something more-a sense of being represented musically, culturally, and politically.
Read more at Bitch Magazine
This was written in 2000, but I still think that what she's writing about is timeless. I don't like how she reduced rap music videos to being about "bitches and hos" (especially when metal has its fair share of racism and misogyny), but I can definitely relate to this piece because I also grew up as a black female metalhead and I dealt with the same issues that the author did.
Article by Keidra Chaney, published in 2000
I’m not sure exactly when or how it happened, but at some point in my childhood I began to think I was a white guy trapped in the body of a black girl. And not just any white guy, either-a guitar player in a heavy-metal band.
Ok, stop laughing. It’s no joke. I’m a black female metalhead. Like I said, I can’t really tell you how it happened. Maybe it was growing up in the ’80s, being fed a steady diet of Ratt videos on Chicago’s quasi-MTV uhf station. Or maybe it was coming of age at the same time heavy metal reached public consciousness as the Voice of the Disgruntled Adolescent White Male. Sure, I wasn’t white, male, or even particularly angry as a 10-year-old-but I recognized the force of those electric guitars, relentlessly pounding drums, and growling vocals. Even then, I knew that heavy metal was power, and power was irresistible.
...
By the time I entered college I’d started to reconcile my identity and beliefs with my love for metal, but it was hard to leave my ambivalence behind. If saying that I’m a metalhead and a feminist sounds like a contradiction, then saying that I’m a feminist because of heavy metal probably sounds even more so-especially considering that Feminist Theory 101 often implies that the only inclusive, empowering space for women in music is among other women playing “women’s music.”
But metal did empower me. Because the music was so far away from my experience, it didn’t place definitions on who I was or could be as a black female. When I listened to Metallica or Corrosion of Conformity, I wasn’t a “bitch,” a “ho,” or some anonymous jiggling booty in a rap video; I wasn’t a woman who needed rescuing by some dream-date pop star. I was someone who felt weird in high school, who wanted a place to belong.
...
Even now, we sistas who rock don’t have a high-profile role model to identify with or emulate. The act of participation in rock music as musicians and as fans is still pretty subversive for black women-for black folks in general, really. I hope at some point the music industry will have the guts and good sense to support black rock, and young black women who want a harder sound than Tracy Chapman will be able to find the emotional connection I did, plus something more-a sense of being represented musically, culturally, and politically.
Read more at Bitch Magazine
This was written in 2000, but I still think that what she's writing about is timeless. I don't like how she reduced rap music videos to being about "bitches and hos" (especially when metal has its fair share of racism and misogyny), but I can definitely relate to this piece because I also grew up as a black female metalhead and I dealt with the same issues that the author did.