Alongside Bikini Kill and Bratmobile, Corin Tucker and Tracy Sawyer created a feminist punk vernacular that’s still inspiring the likes of Olivia Rodrigo. They recall the clarity and conviction of their historic teenage exploits

Back in June, a cut-and-paste photocopied flyer began appearing on telegraph poles around Portland, Oregon, promoting a DIY show by an apparently defunct band at an intimate community space. The band hadn’t mentioned it online, but hopeful fans bought every ticket anyway. Their bet paid off: the gig really was the first in 32 years for Heavens to Betsy, the pioneering feminist punk duo of drummer Tracy Sawyer and singer-guitarist Corin Tucker – the latter’s band before Sleater-Kinney unleashed her visceral vibrato unto the world. Tucker proudly made the flyer herself.

Heavens to Betsy were barely out of high school when they played their very first show, 35 years ago this week, in Olympia, Washington, a two-song set as part of a now-mythical indie fest dubbed the International Pop Underground Convention. The festival also featured the likes of Fugazi, Bikini Kill and Melvins; meanwhile Heavens to Betsy had practised only a couple times. Before an audience of about 100, Sawyer was so terrified that all she could think was, “This has to be over soon.”

The maverick former Public Image Ltd bassist takes us on a typically picaresque journey through his ‘Kafka-esque’ days at Transport for London, being named by Sid Vicious and his spiritual learnings

Sometimes, on the top deck of a London bus, pension-age punks will politely disturb the concentration of a man on his iPad. “They’ll say: ‘Are you Jah Wobble?’” recounts the musician born John Wardle, his upbeat cockney accent ringing with delight. They will ask if he’s working on anything. “And I like to say: ‘Yes, I’m recording an album. I’m doing it right now.’”

In the 2020s, the 68-year-old bassist and bandleader has been revisiting the city of his birth and youth, composing and producing albums including the cosmic dub of The Bus Routes of South London, or the celestial electronica of Thames Symphony, while traversing London on public transport.

Koller, who co-founded the celebrated band in 1986, had been battling cancer of the esophagus

Lou Koller, the singer and co-founder of New York hardcore band Sick of It All, has died after a battle with cancer, his bandmates announced. Koller was 59.

In a social media post on the band’s Instagram page, a statement paid tribute to Koller and his work and said: “The level of loss that we feel at this time is overwhelming.”

Five decades since punk bible Sniffin’ Glue, DIY magazines are in rude, rich health. Their creators talk fandom, community-building and resisting the algorithm

‘The most important part of the word ‘fanzine’ is ‘fan’,” says London-based zine-maker Jon Marsh. Existing outside mainstream media, free from the demands of release cycles and search engine optimisation, music fanzines are obsessions turned into tangible objects; self-published primarily for the maker’s own enjoyment, but with the potential of forging connections with like-minded people.

In the 1970s, punk zines such as Sniffin’ Glue, Alternative Ulster and Ripped & Torn allowed fans to share news and enthusiasm quickly and cheaply. Half a century on, music fanzines are enjoying a resurgence as a form of resistance to algorithm fatigue and the hyper-capitalist music industry. “Digital attention span is at an all-time low,” says hip-hop musician ExP, creator of the West Yorkshire Hip-Hop zine. “You’re almost definitely going to spend more time looking at a zine than anything you see scrolling. It’s more interesting and more real.” In the words of Stephen McRobbie, from indie-pop icons and fanzine regulars the Pastels: “It’s the long way round compared to other media, but the scenery is always better.”

In this week’s newsletter: After a slow burn for many years, the football shirt has crossed over into the world of music fandom in a big way

Something sartorially strange is happening at gigs across the country. Where once there might have been a sea of (often black) cotton T-shirts across the audience, now a note of heavy polyester has been added to the mix. Last month at Outbreak, the UK’s biggest hardcore punk festival, a sizeable minority of attendees were wearing football shirts – though often not in support of any particular team. Instead, in place of club crests and sponsor logos were names of bands at the festival – Fiddlehead, Alexisonfire, Love is Noise – or for the festival itself.

This isn’t a phenomenon restricted to the hardcore scene. On the tube in London, a day after returning from Outbreak, I saw a gaggle of Harry Styles fans returning from one of his Wembley shows, all sporting bright pink football kits with the One Direction man’s name in place of the shirt number. Practically every band or musical subgenre going is represented with a football shirt. Dua Lipa has one. Deftones have one. Gorillaz have one. OutKast, despite not being a going concern for at least a decade, have one, in collaboration with football mag Mundial. Future Islands have two, including an absolutely gorgeous Napoli-inspired number. Oasis – naturally – have one. (And that’s not to forget the host of bands, from Kneecap to Bring Me the Horizon, with their logos emblazoned on actual football kits, a trend that stretches back to the 90s when Wet Wet Wet were sponsoring Clydebank and the Super Furry Animals were lending their name to Cardiff City’s fetching Welsh cup kit.)

Matthias Ziller wuchs im Oberallgäu auf. Mit seiner Nürnberger Punkband „Akne Kid Joe“ wurde er deutschlandweit bekannt. Jetzt hat er Lieder in seinem Heimatdialekt veröffentlicht. Wieso?

At Menopunkapalooza, riot grrrls sang and rallied around a topic still taboo today: women’s health during midlife

The music festival Menopunkapalooza began with the ceremonial application of an estrogen patch to the backside of Built to Spill and Prism Bitch drummer Teresa Esguerra. It ended with riot grrrl pioneers Calamity Jane tearing the roof off Portland’s Crystal Ballroom as they performed for the first time in 35 years.

What happened in between was 750 festivalgoers, a dozen pillars of the Pacific north-west’s punk rock scene, and a team of medical professionals singing, laughing and occasionally raging about a topic still taboo in 2026: women’s sexual health during menopause and perimenopause, and the promise of hormone replacement therapy (HRT).

What’s it like to catch a gig so great it goes down in history? Our writers relive incredible performances by everyone from Amy Winehouse at the North Sea jazz festival to Kanye West at Glastonbury

Talking Heads, the Rock Garden, London, 13 May 1977

(Sub Pop)
The Rhode Island five-piece return with a ferocious rallying call to fight for your beliefs, with bouncing basslines, muted house chords and stomping drums

Optimism might feel outdated, but Downtown Boys are proud outliers. On Public Luxury, the Rhode Island band’s third and best album, they wear their politics proudly – while bringing new ambiguity, strangeness and shadow to their passionate, sax-blasted bilingual punk. Opener No Me Jodas (Don’t Fuck With Me) comes out roaring, fists up, but gives way to a bouncing, joyous bassline: a brutal, big-hearted reminder that there’s beauty in fighting for what you believe in.

In the nine years since the band’s last record, they’ve served as public defenders and co-founded the United Musicians and Allied Workers union, and the five-piece sound muscled-up, reinvigorated, by this work. Viva La Rosa kicks off like dive-bar punk, before transforming into something grander, with soaring electric guitar and darkly beautiful lyrics: “Todavía creo en un future / Todavía veo nuestros muertos” (I still believe in a future / I still see our dead).

To mark 50 years since the punk DIY publishing explosion, we want to compile a map of the UK’s contemporary zine scene

This year marks what is officially considered the 50th anniversary of punk: five decades since the Sex Pistols played Manchester Lesser Free Hall and allegedly inspired everyone present to start a band; and since the Ramones acted as a similar catalyst at London’s Roundhouse.

Although zines – self-made magazines – had existed for at least a decade prior to that, punk’s DIY spirit manifested in an explosion of homemade publications documenting the scene, its mores, norms and beefs – most famously Sniffin’ Glue.

Dave Grohl spread the word about the ferociously funny quartet and now they’re supporting Foo Fighters in stadiums. Just make sure you switch off your phone’s flash if you go to their gigs …

They say brevity is the soul of wit and few bands have as much of both as Otoboke Beaver. Playing short, sharp songs packed with equal parts ferocity and black humour, next week the Japanese quartet will play easily their biggest UK gig yet, at Liverpool’s Anfield stadium supporting Foo Fighters.

“We met Foo Fighters at an overseas festival, and again in Japan,” says vocalist Accorinrin as we chat in a music bar in Tokyo’s Shibuya district, a couple of hours before Otoboke Beaver go on stage and eviscerate an audience at the nearby O-Nest. “Dave Grohl told so many people about us, which helped us a lot. He didn’t have to introduce a nobody band like us, but Dave is always looking for newcomers and he wanted to hook us up within the music industry.”

The Teenage Jesus and the Jerks frontwoman shares her hatred of sandwiches and pop culture, plus her wish to evaporate and return to ‘the ether’

What’s the most chaotic thing that’s ever happened to you on stage?

I’m still waiting for that. Maybe it’s the most chaotic thing I’ve ever put forth from the stage. Once a quite drunken man called out a rather rude remark for me to suck his you-can-imagine-what, so I invited him up to the stage and cracked him in the neck with a blackjack [club]. He fell to his knees and I told him to suck it himself. I’m always prepared!

(Pussy Riot)
On a disappointing record helmed by co-founder Nadya Tolokonnikova, corny guitars and generically moody synths undermine the activist group’s political acuity

Great music rarely makes for great activism, and the reverse is true on Pussy Riot’s official debut album. A scattergun mix of icy electronics, pumping EDM and whispered rap, CYKA (“bitch” in Russian) follows a decade of musical protest performances from the activist collective. Made by co-founder Nadya Tolokonnikova (she and Maria Alyokhina were imprisoned in separate penal colonies between 2012 and 2013), CYKA’s powerful point of view is diluted by weak delivery.

Lead single Candy Dopamine, with metal band Avenged Sevenfold, disguises its critique of big pharma with cutesy lyrics, corny electric guitar and inconsequential key changes. Generically moody synths and cliched siren sounds run through much of the record, as does blunt-force EDM: Nothing to Lose is both a cluttered trance track, and about being hated by Russia’s “liberal intelligentsia” for supporting Ukraine.

Fifty years ago this week, the Sex Pistols played their first Manchester gig – and upended pop culture. But what was 1976 really like before punk arrived? From swing bands to ‘spaghetti rock’, we discover a lost history

In January 1976, the cover of the NME didn’t feature an artist, but a photo of a room damaged by an IRA bomb: there had been a string of terrorist attacks in London the previous year. The headline: “Is rock’n’roll ready for 1976 … Is 1976 ready for rock’n’roll?”

In the accompanying feature, writer Mick Farren was to be found complaining vociferously about the state of music. Audiences are “prepared to tolerate just about anything”. Rock has “lost its guts” and “is on an unalterable course to a neo-Las Vegas”, because artists are “totally insulated from the real world” and thus making music that “seems so damned irrelevant to real life”. Farren reiterated these points in June in a piece titled The Titanic Sails at Dawn, by which point it was obvious that some new artists completely agreed with him.

(Mexican Summer)
The quintet add shoegaze, country and 50s rock’n’roll to their core indie-punk sound, resulting in songs that offset lyrical bleakness with gleeful, uplifting music

Iceage have always seemed like a band in a state of constant development. You might say that’s understandable, given the Danish musicians were in their teens when their debut album New Brigade was released in 2011: if you don’t change between the age of 18 and your early 30s, you’re probably in trouble. But rock music isn’t real life, and a less adventurous band might have been minded to stick with a good thing, given the reception New Brigade was afforded. Twenty-four minutes of hardcore blended with noisy Birthday Party-esque post-punk and a sizeable pinch of gothic gloom, it was praised so vociferously that the praise itself provoked heated debate, as claims any one band are the “saviours” of an entire genre are wont to do, particularly when said genre is punk.

Iceage seemed entirely unbothered about any ensuing weight of expectation. If they didn’t exactly sound like a completely different band on 2014’s Plowing Into the Field of Love, they were still doing things you would never have imagined the authors of New Brigade doing: piano ballads, country-rock and, on Abundant Living, attempting to join the dots between Howlin’ Wolf’s Smokestack Lightning and the ramshackle sound of frontman Elias Rønnenfelt’s favourites the Pogues. In 2018, Beyondless offered Dexys-style horns, New Orleans jazz and a track that sounded like mid-80s U2 equipped with a string section. By 2021’s Seek Shelter, they had a gospel choir on board and mixed anthemic songs – imagine Oasis mired in angst, gloom and distortion – with tracks that interpolated the Carter Family’s Can the Circle Be Unbroken? or bore the influence of French chanson.

‘It’s about loneliness, really. It was the total opposite of that “It’s Friday night, let’s have sex” macho mentality that was in most rock music at the time’

Most of the people who started the Mekons and Gang of Four were on the same fine art course at Leeds University. In December 1976 we went to see the Anarchy tour at the nearby polytechnic. I liked the Sex Pistols but the Clash, in their paint-spattered clothes, sounded particularly great. It was the first time I saw a band and thought: “That could be me up there.”

Before music, these women had worked as nurses, foster carers and ice-cream van drivers. Now, they’re booked solid at clubs and festivals. How did they become the real-life Riot Women?

When Sally Wainwright’s series Riot Women burst on to screens last autumn, the overwhelming critical acclaim was punctured by a few questions about authenticity. “There is a fascinating TV series to be made about a menopausal rock band – Riot Women isn’t it,” opined Tiff Bakker in the Guardian, denigrating the fictional group as a “bunch of middle-aged punk rockers who, until now, seem to have heard of only Abba”.

If Wainwright needs inspiration for the second series, she could do worse than head to south Wales to meet the real life version of the Riot Women. The NaNaz are a six-piece punk band formed last year by a group of women in their 50s and 60s. Their repertoire of songs tackles everything from unaffordable care home fees, to male attitudes towards older women, to the frustrations of recycling. And they are possibly the only band to have ever been featured on both the homepage of guitar.com and a poster campaign for Age Cymru.

Rudolf Proske war immer ein wilder Haudegen, Schiffschaukelbremser, Fernfahrer, Firmengründer – und Autor. Nun erscheinen erstmals nach vielen Jahren neue Gedichte von ihm. Besuch bei einem außergewöhnlichen Schriftsteller.

Yihwen Chen’s warm and galvanising documentary follows queer punk band Shh…Diam! as they battle discrimination with humour and raw energy

For queer Malaysian punk band Shh … Diam!, every live gig is a small miracle. Their name translates as “Shut up!”, a powerful and defiant cry in a country rife with homophobia. Favouring distorted riffs, heavy drums and swaggering lyrics, the band’s powerful sound seeks to drown out the noise of prejudice and discrimination. Their courage, as well as their simple joie de vivre, thrum through Yihwen Chen’s documentary portrait. Shot over six years, the film charts the monumental changes undergone by the band members and their home nation.

Always ready with a joke, lead singer and guitarist Faris is a proud trans man. Rejected by his own family, the charismatic performer finds a safe haven with his bandmates Yon and Yoyo, and their audience. Their songs turn up the volume on issues faced by the queer community, and also bristle with an anarchic sense of humour. One particularly tongue-in-cheek tune is titled Lonely Lesbian; a title taken from a hostile rightwing article citing ways to spot a lesbian, its playful and defiant lyrics reconfigure homophobic ideology into satire, an act of rebellious subversion cloaked in irony.

The emo kings on growing up in Arizona, making it big, and Jim’s annoying wake-up calls

Jimmy Eat World are an alternative rock band from Mesa, east of Phoenix, Arizona. Formed by vocalist and guitarist Jim Adkins, guitarist Tom Linton, bassist Rick Burch and drummer Zach Lind in 1993, they have released 10 albums – including their 2001 breakthrough record, Bleed American. Its hit single, The Middle, peaked at No 5 in the US Hot 100 chart; it has now had more than 1bn streams. The band mark the 25th anniversary of the album with a series of shows this summer including UK appearances in August in Halifax, Cardiff and Crystal Palace Bowl, London.