A skeleton infused with Sleater-Kinney

Since I was 17, Sleater-Kinney has been the definitive band of my life. My late-teen years and early 20’s were dominated by the shadow of these three ladies, and they color countless memories, giving context to both the songs and myself at various points in my life.

How did I get into Sleater-Kinney? Not directly.

Back in the days of dial-up modems, AOL had a feature where each user could create a member profile—not terribly far off from what a Facebook profile would eventually become. It was an online text avatar, basically. You could search and sort by interests, location, and even band names. I used this process to discover like-minded folks with an interest in the bands I loved. While searching for folks who liked Veruca Salt or Letters to Cleo, I can vividly remember seeing the name Sleater-Kinney pop up on the screen among the tons of other bands they had listed. I can remember filing it away for later when I would invariably find myself killing time fingering through piles of CDs at a store. I had no idea what they sounded like, only a hint that maybe I could like them, based on my interests.

At this point in my life, thanks to the internet, my love of music was growing, and my access was expanded courtesy of Napster. Before I could download regularly, though, I would learn the hard way at Best Buy or Wal-Mart, taking chances on $11 CDs. I often judged albums by their covers. The game worked sometimes. Other times, I was left with one good song on an album full of duds.

One day, I took a chance on Sleater-Kinney.

The first S-K album I purchased was 2000’s All Hands on the Bad One, which was their most recent release at the time. Looking back, this was probably the best album to hear first, as it’s an easy listen and a good way to get hooked without knowing a lot of the band’s back catalog. It’s polished, yet political. Catchy, but beautifully written and intricate.

I was hooked. I had to get their other albums. I remember specially ordering The Hot Rock from Media Play, and then driving 10 miles after school to the south side of town to pick it up. I sat in my hot car for 30 minutes listening to it, my consciousness buried deep in the liner notes, trying to absorb as much as I could. I can remember a few weeks later purchasing Call the Doctor, a very different-sounding album from earlier in their career. I sat in my room, a little intimidated and scared that maybe I wouldn’t like their older catalogue.

But that wasn’t an option—I sat and listened and tried to understand it, and eventually, I got it. It clicked. The sound was abrasive, more intense, sure—but that’s what I would learn to love. Loving S-K is a little bit like learning to like black coffee or IPAs. Initially shocking, but it sinks in slowly and eventually you’re craving the very thing you once found strange and off-putting.

My love became established.

I wore my very first S-K shirt that I got from Mail Order KRS (their record label at the time) to the 2001 AP English exam. I was hopeful that someone from another school would recognize it, and we would strike up an intense friendship over our mutual love for S-K.  In a similar vein, I also made my own S-K sticker for my 1992 Honda Accord out of peel-and-stick letters from CVS.  Such a classic teenage expression of wanting so badly to express my love for the band. How I longed to find a musical confederate. Sadly, I didn’t in high school. This, despite the fact that I even had an S-K yearbook quote—that no one understood. Looking back, though, I consider that line of text ultimately printed out on a few hundred Savannah high school yearbooks as another sort of physical proof of my teenage passion.

And now that S-K are back and more popular than ever, I consider it proof that I was at least a little bit cool and ahead of the curve when I was 17. And who doesn’t want that?

By the time I got to the University of Georgia, I was deep into my love of S-K and all things screamy female-vocaled.

The first few days of college, I attended the student activities fair and discovered 90.5 FM WUOG, the campus radio station. There was a show called Odd Man Out, and it was exactly what I had been looking for. I would eventually go on host the show, my love of S-K a lighthouse that guided me as I explored the vast history of women in rock and roll, punk, blues and jazz. I would always return to them, however.

Of course, my t-shirt love continued unabated. I can vividly remember doing laundry in the basement of my sophomore year dorm at UGA and piling stacks of black band t-shirts on the dryer after folding them.

Odds are if a picture of me was taken between the years 2001 and 2004, I was most likely wearing a Show Me Your Riffs S-K shirt, my pride and joy so oft-worn that I had to order a new one every few years.

In college, I was fortunate enough to be able to catch two live S-K shows, one in Athens and one in Atlanta. Friends present at both shows can tell you to this day how I was the happiest girl alive in the hours leading up to the show, my grin unstoppable. Even now when I see shows—shows that I’m excited about—I still think each and every time, man, what if this was actually an S-K show? I wish this was an S-K show.

Having a favorite band at 19 that you are absolutely in love with, that you live for—that is something I wish for everyone.

What I wish even more for everyone, is for that band to be able to grow with you. It’s rare, but sometimes it happens. I’ve loved plenty of artists, bands, albums and singles over the years. But none can compare to the lifelong love affair I’ve had. How could they?

Every few days I remember that Sleater-Kinney is back in my life. Finding out on a Monday morning that your favorite band in the entire world that’s been essentially broken up for eight years, secretly reunited and recorded an entire album and then surprised the world with the release of a new single and announcement of a new tour. Is there anything that could make you happier? How often does this happen to music fans?

All of this to say that my love of S-K has not abated over the years, despite the fact that my obsession had waned and my listening sessions are fewer and far between in my adult life.

Nothing in life will ever change the love that I have had for this band, and I rest easy, knowing they’ll always have a huge chuck of my heart. Just like one’s love for a person always permanently resides in the atriums of the heart, so too does one’s love for a band. The immeasurable number of hours of I have spent listening to Sleater-Kinney have helped to fortify my bones like adamantium—not noticeable to the naked eye, but they have contributed more to the soundtrack of my life than I could have ever thought possible.