I recently finished reading a biography on famed 90’s “foxcore” band Babes in Toyland by Neal Karlen. In mid-January, while browsing the nonfiction section of the library, I stumbled across this book propped up on a round platform as part of a monthly thematic display of suggested reading. The theme of this particular platform was “Rock & Roll” and was comprised largely of classic schlock, er, rock “behind-the-music”- type tomes. Spying this gem of a book among the rest made me first giggle, then thumb though, and finally check it out and spend night after night pouring over the details of the making (and disintegration) of a smaller-time major label act.

While I was never a Babes fan, this book drew me in deeply as it chronicled the inner-workings of both the music industry and the indie rock “scene” – the fans, musicians, alternative press, critics, club owners, and other characters that enter into the Big Picture. While offering an incredibly intimate portrait of the band, Karlen is also careful to be non-judgemental and is more than fair in his treatment of the “suits” who give the Babes their break into the Big Time.

While the so-called grunge “movement” was my era, I never fully identified myself with it (i.e. – I never wore flannel or doc martens.) Nonetheless I did adore many of the Sub-Pop-esque tunesmiths of the time (Mudhoney, The Fluid, etc.)  along with myriad other hipster bands, especially those generating a lot of positive energy in Chicago during those years (Jesus Lizard, Urge Overkill, Eleventh Dream Day, Poster Children.)

In my high school and early college years, I had a soft spot for so-called “garage punk”, as well as late 80’s “paisley underground”. In my mind, the sugary L.A. pop I adored by Three O’Clock, The Pandoras and the early Bangles was nicely balanced out in my record collection by the Dead Kennedys, Black Flag, Circle Jerks and anyone else who was part of the Repo Man soundtrack. Toss in there some Brit and Aussie gloom-miesters (Nick Cave, Jesus & Mary Chain, Spaceman 3) and my collection could be summed up as “poppy/punky/purgatory.”

Working at a college radio station I spent way more time at the types of dive-y clubs mentioned in Karlen’s book, than in the library! Thus my wardrobe priority was not comfy sweats for studying but fun and foxy vintage polyester minidresses – the louder the print, the better – for wearing to the sweat-and-beer-soaked nightclubs that gave me my real education. Since I so loved those “retro” Mod-look garage bands, I opted for acid-colored prints, short boots, colored tights and a hairdo that would make Marlo Thomas smile – the quintessential flip, straight bangs and all. Essentially I looked like a time-warped extra off the set of The Monkees’ tv show.

One of many themes that ran through Karlen’s book was the media-designated War of the Shmatte – a phrased attributed to Courtney Love to describe her falling out with former high school best friend Kat Bjelland (of Babes in Toyland.) Apparently each accused the other of stealing the babydoll dress and little girl barettes look. (Shmatte being Yiddish for “rag” – the raggedy old thrift store dresses favored by grunge goddeses at the time.)

I found this hype and anguish utterly ridiculous, as I recall gals in Chicago (myself included) sporting the altered 1960’s housedresses (I used to hem mine with Stich Witchery iron-on tape) in bars and clubs before I had ever heard of the aforementioned Ms. Love or Bjelland.

Not to mention that my “sisters” in the vibrant rockabilly revival scene in Chicago also favored little bangs, and tiny barettes or headscarves to accompany their goin’-out gear.

I loved this look because I felt cool and yet girly all at once. I didn’t grunge-up (or should that be grunge DOWN?) myself with frazzled hair or other signs of deliberate sloppiness. If the venue was crusty enough, I certainly had no issue popping on some combat boots with my daisy-print minidress, but only for the sheer practicality of the matter. Let’s face it: Robert Clergerie pancake heel go-go boots and puddles of beer and god-knows-what just don’t mix!

Of all of my old clothes, the few I have saved are the thrift store-purchased and home-altered shmattes that embarrassed the hell out of my parents, raised a few eyebrows on campus, and made me feel like Queen of the Scene in the early 90’s.

(me and best friend, "B", circa 1991, Rainbo Club, Chicago, housedresses in full effect.)