Punk that's punk

When people complain that punk-rock bands like Green Day and Rancid don't have the same stuff that made punk so incendiary in the old days, they're often at a loss to put their finger on exactly what's missing. It's not as if today's punks looked, acted, or sounded so radically different from the class of '77. But something's changed, and it has to do with the difference between what was heard (if only for a brief period of time) as a furious call for revolt and what conjures up nostalgia for that brief period of time, which is what punk has been doing for the past 15 years.

We all know what the latter feels like. But there's no better way to gauge the unmistakable distance between nostalgia and the real thing than by experiencing a show like the one that took place last Saturday night at T.T. the Bear's Place: an all-ages blowout that featured two girl-punk bands from the Northwest -- the lesbian-powered Team Dresch and the riot-grrrl-associated group Bikini Kill.

Like the (mostly) boys that raged against a reality that the Sex Pistols boiled down to "no future" 20 years ago, the girls (and one boy) in Bikini Kill and Team Dresch have a very real context for an angry, aggressive reaction that slices like a razor through hypocrisy and complacency. They're living in a world of backlash against feminism, a society in which a woman's freedom of choice is being eroded, a rock scene that can be accused of repackaging the same old corporate boy rock as alternative. And they're responding with bold, hard-hitting music that carries the promise of a grass-roots revolution, holding up punk as more than just another genre.

Team Dresch, a foursome from Portland who released the excellent debut Personal Best (Chainsaw) in '94, help promote that communal spirit by offering self-defense classes for women before shows. Jody Bleyle, who splits bass and guitar duties with Donna Dresch, also put together Free To Fight!, a music/spoken-word/fanzine compilation aimed at teaching women to protect themselves against physical and psychological repression. She released it last year on her own Candy-Ass label.

At the T.T.'s show, Bleyle -- a lean bundle of energy with close-cropped hair -- initiated a cross between a group hug and a huddle just before the band kicked into an explosive set. There's something corny about displays like that. But like Fugazi today or the Clash of '77, Team Dresch radiate sincere, utopian passion that overrides cynicism. And they back it up with something more sophisticated than run-of-the-mill punk: songs that fuse churning guitars and furious drumming with rich, emotionally compelling melodies. Guitarist Kaia Wilson, who handles most of the singing, has a sweet voice that translates well to the folkier solo material she's releasing later this year on a disc distributed by Revolver. It also lends a wistful, introspective edge to Team Dresch. But Wilson's not afraid to rage on the band's rousing, lesbian-punk manifestos, communicating convictions that don't discriminate on the basis of gender or sexual preference. As she and Bleyle sang on one anthemic tune that will appear on the band's upcoming sophomore release, Captain My Captain (Chainsaw/Candy-Ass), "Don't tell us we only care about the dykes and fags/Don't try and find fake reasons to hate us/Some people get it/Lots more people need it/Freedom."

Bikini Kill's politically charged punk attack is less refined and inclusive on the surface. They're more like Minor Threat or the Sex Pistols to Team Dresch's Fugazi/Clash, lashing out with us-against-them rhetoric and lacerating guitar chords. Although they remain rooted in the stripped-down aesthetic of unpolished punk, in a live setting Bikini Kill prove capable of sounding a hell of a lot tighter and more focused than they do on either of their CDs, Pussy Whipped and The C.D. Version of the First Two Records (both Kill Rock Stars).

But it's singer Kathleen Hanna, who was singled out by rock critic Emily White as one of riot grrrl's leaders in 1992, who puts Bikini Kill over the top. She's a charismatic figure, a riveting presence with a gleam in her eye and a monstrous voice that twists around taunting lyrics like "You're such a big man/You've got such a huge cock" ("Sugar"). For all the venom that Hanna packs into her punchy delivery, there's still a sense that she's raging against one system as a first step toward building a better one.

In a 1979 essay titled "The White Noise Supremacists," Lester Bangs referred to the "Rock Against Sexism" movement in England. "It could never happen in New York," he wrote, "which is deeply saddening, not because you want to think that rock 'n' roll can save the world but because since rock 'n' roll is bound to stay in your life you would hope to see it reach some point where it might not add to the cruelty and exploitation already in the world." If Bangs were around today, Bikini Kill and Team Dresch might just change his mind. They're that good.