Rocky - The Rebel Hindi Video Song Full Hd 1080p
Linda Berens
Activist, musician and punk pioneer Kathleen Hanna has always been a force. With her band Bikini Kill, she pioneered the "riot grrrl" movement in the 1990s, challenging the misogyny of both the punk scene and society at large.
"When I moved to Olympia, [Wash.], there were all these kids who were making music and putting out records on small indie labels," Hanna says. "And they sort of defined punk not as a genre or a ... loud, angry, aggressive sound, but as an idea ... that we don't have to wait for corporations to tell us what is good music or art or writing. We can make it ourselves."
And so she did. Along with Tobi Vail, Billy Karren and Kathi Wilcox, Hanna formed the feminist punk band Bikini Kill. The band urged women and girls in the audience to move up to the front of the stage, write political zines and talk openly about sexual violence. Emboldened by the music, fans would come to Hanna to talk about their own experiences.
On tour, Hanna and her bandmates faced abuse and disrespect from male fans and club workers. A one point, a sound man threatened to stab her when she was touring with another one of her bands, Le Tigre.
"This was our workplace, and every single night was a different set of threatened angry men ... who would treat us with such utter disrespect," she says. "One of the things that has been getting me by is this phrase: 'In punk rock, there is no HR.' "
In her new memoir, Rebel Girl, Hanna looks back on her childhood and her experiences in the punk scene. She also writes about finding out that an undiagnosed case of Lyme disease was the reason she couldn't physically perform anymore.
Since her diagnosis and treatment, Hanna's back to to performing again with Bikini Kill and her other bands, Le Tigre and The Julie Ruin. She says there's still a lot of anger in the shows, but there's also "so much more joy."
[There were] girls in the riot grrrl meetings who were just crying because it was the first time they'd been in an all-female atmosphere, and they were just like, "Whoa, this feels really weird. I'm confused." And then like, "Wait, why have I never made this a priority before?" And just that feeling of a room changing. Just sitting at a crappy plastic Office Max table with a bunch of young women who have been relegated to the back of the room at punk shows for so long, finally saying, "I've always wanted to start a band," or "Hey, does anybody know how to play guitar? I'd like to learn." That's an amazing feeling. That really kind of changes the room into this beautiful place of possibilities.
We wrote that one in the basement of this house called The Embassy. It was a punk house, and punk houses a lot of times have names. And this one was called The Embassy because it was pretty close to Embassy Row in D.C. And I just remember how sweaty it was and it was very small. And I'll always remember writing that song because it was one of those times where I was writing it as we were playing it. So they started coming up with the music, and as it became more full-formed, I started hearing the first couple lines in my head and I just stepped to the mic, and then they just kind of fell out. I stepped back and started thinking, OK, what's the chorus going to be? ... And then I walked back to the mic and I just sang and "Rebel girl, rebel girl, you are the queen of my world" came out. And it just kind of happened. It felt like the scene of punk women that I was hanging out with, and that I was becoming friends with, really wrote that song and I just like grabbed it from the air, or something.
We did stuff like hand out lyric sheets that had the lyrics on them so that other girls and women would know these are the lyrics and what the subject matter was, because a lot of times you couldn't understand what I was saying through the crappy PAs I was singing through, and sometimes even talking in between songs, you couldn't understand what I was saying. And so that was one way that [we] gave them a souvenir to take home, to read through and think about and maybe disagree with so that they start their own bands or it encourages them to write their own poetry or write their own zines.
We also had zines that talked about a lot of different political issues of the day that we sold at our shows. We prioritized having girls and women come up to the front, because a lot of the shows we were playing back then, it was straight, cisgender white guys predominating and taking up all the space of the room. And we really selfishly wanted to build the community so we had more girl bands to play with. And how is that going to happen if they're all stuck in the back? ... So I started inviting the girls to the front. "Hey, do you guys want to come to the front?" And then it kind of became a thing. ... It was like, what if we just rearrange this room a little bit? What's going to happen? And what happened was a lot of men were really mad and hated us. But it was also an interesting experiment.
"Irresponsible" is one word to have been associated with rock over the years. So is "rebel," both a noun and a verb. Much of rock 'n' roll, as a genre, has been based around the idea of going against the grain, standing out from the crowd and just plain doing things a different way.
Sometimes, it results in protest songs, written and often performed for the purpose of taking a stand against injustice or fighting for the side of the oppressed. Other times, though, the sentiment is more general. We're taking a look at the Top 30 Rebel Songs, written about rule-breaking and the overall joy of dissidence.
For most of his career, Bob Dylan has not played by the rules, consistently reshaping his sound and hardly ever bending to the wishes of his fans, record label or any others. "I ain't gonna work on Maggie's Farm no more," he defiantly declares at the top of this song. It wasn't an unreasonable statement, given that he's being made to scrub the floor and has cigars being put out in his face. "I try my best to be just like I am," he laments, "but everybody wants you to be just like them." Dylan recorded "Maggie's Farm" in one take, then included it on his half-electrified Bringing It All Back Home album. Along the way, he offers a litany of absurdities, but the main message is entirely clear: Think for yourself. (Rapp)
The narrator of Bruce Springsteen's "Growin' Up" is like a bratty child who antagonizes just to see how far he can push someone: "When they said sit down, I stood up," "when they said come down, I threw up," "when they said pull down, I pulled up." This isn't rebellion; this is just being a dick. Springsteen has often framed the song in concert with a lengthy narrative about his teen years in New Jersey and how his music dreams were often a source of conflict between himself and his dad. "Growin' Up" is a key early song in Springsteen's development as a writer, though he'd soon trade empty rebellion for bigger goals. (Michael Gallucci)
David Crosby was not necessarily the first person to talk about letting his freak flag fly. (Jimi Hendrix did so, for example, in his 1967 song "If 6 Was 9.") Still, Crosby's "Almost Cut My Hair" represented a sense of independence and non-conformity that a wide population of young Americans identified in the late '60s and early '70s. From the moment the Beatles debuted their mop tops to the world at the beginning of the '60s, having long hair was an instant symbol of resistance to the establishment for men of a certain age. "It was the most juvenile set of lyrics I've ever written," Crosby would later admit, "but it has a certain emotional impact, there's no question about that." (Rapp)
John Mellencamp's relationship with authority and the powers that be is long and complicated. "Authority Song" appeared on the first LP credited to his real surname instead of simply "John Cougar," the moniker that had been thrust upon him. "I did what I had to do. I did what people told me," Mellencamp explained to the Chicago Sun-Times in 2010. "There was no way those folk songs were ever going to get anywhere unless I had hit records." In time, he grew brave enough to follow the message found inside this modern update of "I Fought the Law": There is a might in standing up for oneself, even if you don't always succeed. (Rapp)
Alice Cooper's 1972 summertime anthem comes with little of the baggage of Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall Part 2," another song about how much school sucks. The latter hit points to the education system as having a scarring effect on The Wall's protagonist, leading to a lifetime of social and personal problems. Cooper's Top 10 hit "School's Out," on the other hand, is more about celebrating the start of three months without pencils, books and glaring teachers. Sure, the school gets "blown to pieces" at one point, but it's all in good fun (and probably metaphorical). And is there a more casually rebellious line in all of rock 'n' roll than "We can't even think of a word that rhymes"? (Gallucci)
"Another Brick in the Wall, Part 2," one of three cornerstone songs sharing that title on Pink Floyd's epic 1979 concept LP, comes at a pivotal point in the young protagonist's life. He'd later be chewed up and spit out by duplicitous record companies, misunderstanding fans and smothering loved ones, but it's here where many childhood traumas shaped his troubled adult life. "We don't need no education," school kids chime in unison before zeroing in on their real point: "We don't need no thought control." Somehow this slice of anti-authoritarian rebellion resulted in Pink Floyd's only No. 1 single. (Gallucci)
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