Dream Wife & Our Anger


I think that if we could  harness the anger in girls we could power a city.

Anger. It’s always there, in women. It’s bubbling beneath the surface, pooling lower and lower in our bellies to prevent it spewing forth out of our mouths. If we dredged all of the anger up from inside women and girls it would fill the oceans.

I think that if we could harness the anger in girls at a Dream Wife gig we could power the whole fucking world.

Dream Wife. When I saw them perform at Flying Vinyl Festival I was transformed. I stood rooted to the spot, their music an incendiary call to arms that lit up the anger in me like a cum stain under a UV light.

I want more music like this. I want more fury. I want the wild abandon of Bella Podpadec, the thunder of Alice Go and the coyness of Rakel Mjöll that melts, suddenly and with no warning, into blistering lividity.

Riffs that white men with their weekend guitars could only dream of. A frontwoman with a honeyed voice; her every word an overripe nectarine. A chorus of girlish backing vocals. A catalogue of lyrics that tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

“I am not my body. I am somebody.”

A sweet suggestion that, with the help of Go and Podpadec’s strings, shoots an accusatory, defiant stare into the face of sexual violence.

“I spy with my little eye, bad bitches.”

They chanted it into the crowd. We chanted it back. It was soft and it was coarse. It was angelic and it was punk. It made me look inside myself and realise: I am a bad bitch. The anger that we carry makes us bad bitches. The anger that we carry could power a city. Dream Wife are the station.