A Thousand Words on the Violent Femmes

Photo by Paul Natkin

It was June or July, I’m not sure which. I can remember walking downstairs from my room into the living room, wearing my new Violent Femmes t-shirt. Of course, I was prepared to have to explain myself–that had become an all too common occurrence these days, needing to relay the more important details and, occasionally, brief histories of bands whose merchandise I donned in the presence of my parents, to explain their relevancy and how exactly I first stumbled upon them like I was being interrogated. 

As I walked through the house, my father took notice of my shirt. “Violent Femmes?” He exclaimed. I rolled my eyes, assuming I was prepared for the barrage of questions that were to follow. “The band that did ‘Blister in the Sun’?” 

“Yeah,” I said. 

“You know what that song’s about?” He asked, then, before I could get the chance to answer, he said through grit teeth, as if trying to prevent my mother from overhearing: “masturbation!” 

He revealed this information as if I, at the age of seventeen, one: didn’t already know that, two: hadn’t heard songs detailing much worse, and three: needed that fact reiterated to me. The conversation must’ve concluded rather uneventfully, however, because I don’t remember how it concluded. The lyrical contents of Violent Femmes songs has not been brought up since. 

As do most of my stories regarding music, this one begins when I was in eighth grade. My father was driving me either to or from a bass lesson I had at the School of Rock in Columbia, Maryland (my tenure here is a whole other story entirely). Of course, we were listening to the old staple–Siriusxm. This time, it was their Road Trip Radio channel, one I didn’t particularly care for but, on occasion, played some damn good music. 

It was on this station that I first heard “Blister in the Sun”. Whatever made this song a road trip song, I still have no idea. I hadn’t heard of the Violent Femmes before, automatically categorized them in my mind with the Psychedelic Furs, and, going off Gordon Gano’s vocal performance in the second half of the song, assumed a woman was amongst their ranks–a common misconception, I’ve come to find. 

Another thing I immediately assumed upon hearing “Blister in the Sun” for the first time was that it was about homosexuality–more specifically, about a man who had been repressing his homosexuality and had only recently realized what he was. Though I hadn’t yet delved into all the complexities of my identity, I certainly wasn’t repressing anything, so it remains a mystery what exactly drew me to this conclusion. 

I forgot about the Violent Femmes not long after, only rediscovering them on accident while sifting through old playlists towards the end of my junior year. Of course, I went on believing they were a gay band, having not forgotten the story I was convinced was being told through “Blister in the Sun”. 

Listening to their debut album in its entirety on a whim while cleaning around the house only reinforced my beliefs. “Kiss Off”, “Add It Up”, “Prove My Love”, all these songs seemed to have been written to deal with problems not dissimilar to those I had seen depicted in movies and songs detailing the difficulties inherent to being queer, especially in an unaccepting society. So I accepted that as the truth and went about my day. 

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little disappointed to find out that none of the members of the Violent Femmes, nor the songs they were singing, were gay. How was I able to so easily relate my own experiences to those being relayed to me in the aforementioned songs, and several others, if that wasn’t what they were singing about? 

Of course, the beauty in music is that many songs can be interpreted a plethora of different ways by a plethora of different people. And while the interpretation that the Violent Femmes are, on occasion, singing about homosexuality isn’t necessarily accurate, there are still little inklings in the lyrics that make it seem like somebody isn’t telling the truth. 

It seems almost deliberate, as if Gordon Gano is masquerading. Playing a part to appeal to a wider audience. Maybe it was just something about the seamless blending of punk’s characteristic disillusionment, its desperation, with folk’s sensitivity that tripped me up. But what the lyrics described seem too specific, too applicable to things I had experienced and felt, for it to be merely a coincidence. 

Not long after I had acquired the aforementioned Violent Femmes t-shirt, I went to the closest city’s pride month events with four friends behind my mother’s back. My reasoning for donning a mostly black t-shirt while braving 90 degree weather was that the Violent Femmes were “the gayest band I listen to”. 

By then, I had already known for about a month that the Femmes weren’t gay, and I have little idea why I had convinced myself my community would appreciate or understand what I saw in the Femmes when the only other band shirt I saw that day was, predictably one for Chappell Roan. The only person who even complimented me on it was someone’s straight mother. 

No matter how I look at it, though, there will always be something distinctly “off” about the Violent Femmes. It is most easily observed when watching their early live performances: They carry that generic, over-the-counter rage that many alternative bands do, but they also seemed to be weighed down by the knowledge that teenage rage is, often, all for nought. 

Even listening to the Femmes now, there is something so undeniably idiosyncratic about their work that it was only inevitable they would appeal to outsider groups. Gangly men who conduct themselves in such unsure manners are bound to see some modicum of cult success, one way or another. And though they reached a particularly unfortunate stalemate in the years since, and most of their songs ended up being wholly inapplicable to my life, there’s always going to be that little part of me that hears “Blister in the Sun” and feels seen.