The day punk died — for girls.

Losing Jennifer Precious Finch feels shit for us. Not because of a parasocial celebrity obsession, nor from a false sense of closeness to a stranger, but because of what she means to us. By ‘us’ I mean all the girls who became who they are now because of women like Jennifer Finch, which includes me.

When I was a teenager I started getting into alternative music. I was always a bit behind with trying to keep up with the coolest bands, I never had money to buy CDs myself or go to festivals. I’d find music by listening to stuff at my friends’ houses, some of them were even fancy enough to have satellite TV so we could watch Kerrang and Scuzz. I inherited burnt CDs. I always loved guitar and wished I could play wailing solos like all the cool boys did.

I got my first guitar at around 8 years old. I remember expressing an interest and my mum said she had one in the loft, which I believe was a relic from a failed attempt at learning by my brother. I was so excited until the fated moment we found the guitar, the box reduced to mush and the axe a rotten apparition of what was once an instrument. I cried because I wanted to play so badly. That Christmas we were at my auntie and uncle’s for the celebrations and I will never forget seeing the distinctive triangular box in the corner behind the tree. My own first guitar. A 3/4 size spanish acoustic because to-Hell was my mother going to buy me a racket-maker of an electric. I was so happy, and spent hours learning all the chords in the only music book we had — my mum’s Beatles song book. She played a little so could show me the basics. The enthusiasm waned eventually when I reached the inevitable plateau, and the guitar laid dormant until I got a second wind as a young teen.

I went down the usual character arc of grotty teenager discovering Nirvana and 90s bands, and eventually convinced mum that getting an electric guitar was not only a fantastic idea, but also one that my entire happiness depended on. I got some lessons, learned power chords and I knew I’d made it. I had completed guitar.

All my scruffy boy mates played instruments and played them well. Some of the girls made half-arsed attempts or pretended they could play something for the kudos of it. I felt too embarrassed to play in front of anyone, so lived vicariously through my friends’ bands and boyfriends who were much more talented than me.

When Grunge came along it changed me. It was attainable, it didn’t get a fuck, and it wasn’t beautiful. It was poetic and warm, but sad and angry in all the right ways, and so goddamn perfect for me as a little drippy teen twerp. My boyfriend at the time was in what was essentially a Nirvana copycat band. We’d all sit around together like flannel-clad goobers, listening to Nirvana and this led me to become familiar with she who is known amongst music enthusiasts as the anti-christ. Her most royal gobshite, Courtney Love. Who was this animal? Babydoll dress, red lipstick, smudged mascara, guitar in hand growling lyrics that spoke to me so profoundly I thought I’d encountered the musical love of my life. She was everything to me as an awkward teenager who had tried and failed to keep up with every trend and didn’t have a fucking clue who I was. She was powerful, vulnerable, and had no filter. She was so connected to her femininity without surrendering any of her power. My teen years were during a time where Paris Hilton and Britney Spears were the women in the spotlight, so seeing a different kinda blonde just Hit So Hard (see what I did there?).

Courtney was the gateway drug to so much kickass girl music. I liked loads of music, but seeing girls play just filled my cup with something else, and no one else filled it quite as high as L7. I don’t want to overstate the point on gender, but having some angry music from the perspective of a woman just speaks to you differently. When L7 came along I was home. As much as I love Courtney, she was of another world…ethereal but in a mental, drug-addled, hurricane of hot-garbage kind of way. L7 were hardcore. Real. They could play and had stuff to say. Like Courtney, they didn’t give a fuck but in a different way. They didn’t play up or create chaos, they were bonafide art freaks who showed ‘us’ that women can be strong without being crazy, or overtly aggressive, or subversively sexy. They showed us strength by being talented. They seemingly gave zero shits about being beautiful but also didn’t feel the need to make a point of being un-beautiful either. They just turned up and took names.

L7 being badasses gave me musical self belief. I started a band. I played in front of people when I wasn’t good. I worked on my craft and wanted to be better. I felt inspired to play and the possibilities of what I could achieve on my instrument opened up to me for the first time. 15 years later I started learning Buckethead tunes (albeit badly). Without L7 my guitar would’ve sat covered in dust, or have been doomed to see 3 chords for the rest of its existence.

I could write about this forever, bore you with every story where L7’s music and attitude influenced my friendships, my fashion, my outlook on life, but instead I will wrap this up with my thoughts on L7 bassist Jennifer Finch.

Jennifer Finch was an integral part of the band. Barefooted and determined, she was the youngest and forced her way in at the beginning. She could barely play in those days so she bridged that gap by being so fucking fierce that she couldn’t be expended of. Her spirit was indomitable, and her influence felt by so many including myself. She had many talents and interests that she pursued and made into a well-revered and multi-faceted career. She was respected by the music industry, and more importantly she taught teenage freak girls to keep being a fucking freak and live your life as yourself, for yourself.

She will be missed.

H.