The Cool Girl Was a Trojan Horse

choosing art over integrity works. until it doesn't.

When I entered the music business, I chose being an artist over being a feminist. You couldn't truly be both. Not then. Probably still not now. I didn't weigh the ethics. And I didn't hesitate. That's the worst part: it wasn't even a hard choice for me to make.

My guidelines were: Don't be the wife (whoops). Don't be the girlfriend. Don't be the groupie. The people who filled those roles were easily replaceable. I didn't want to be replaceable. I didn't want to be anyone's muse. I wanted to be the one writing the songs.

I believed being The Cool Girl in the boys' club would make me their peer. I told myself it was strategy. To carve out space in an industry that wanted to use me up, stamp someone else's name on my work, and replace me with a younger, more obliging version before I hit 30. I wasn't trying to please men; I was trying to outlast them. But by doing this, I was still playing by their rules. And the house always wins.

I first started playing music in coffee shops in Denver. Think: acoustic guitars, Ani DiFranco acolytes, and the best case scenario was becoming "the next Jewel" (no joke, I was given this title in a school poll). But all I really wanted to do was set amps on fire. I wanted to make a lot of very loud noise. I didn't want to aim for Lilith Fair. I was cooler than that.

And cool worked. It got me tours. It got me VIP "friends" and cred. It also got me used, muted, and dejected. But we'll get to that later.

Rosamund Pike’s Cool Girl from Gone Girl

The Cool Girl in music isn't Amy Dunne in Gone Girl. My Cool Girl doesn't do football or beer pong. Instead, she quotes French poets. Her favorite movie is The Holy Mountain. She loves Johnny Thunders and Alan Vega. Her guitar hero is Rowland S. Howard.

She's talented, too—just enough to be impressive without being threatening. She's not the hottest girl in the room, but she's the most interesting. She's accessible yet never quite within reach. She’s real. She’s raw. She’s exciting. She's a challenge.

I didn't have to fake her. I genuinely was her. But she was erasing me more than she was protecting me. And that's where the problems arose. Artist first. Cool Girl second. Woman? Feminist? Person with a conscience? Someone who acts with integrity? No, those aspects of me didn't fit The Cool Girl brief. So I buried them deep down. Where they stewed in a quiet rage.

this cool girl is exhausted. photo: Cris Watkins

There's a thing on tour called The Lobster Pot. It's where hand picked groupies are corralled after a show. It’s like a backstage buffet of free booze and girls too young or dumb to know better. I watched it unfold every night on my first big tour. The dudes would stroll in—coke in one pocket, Viagra in the other—choose their lobster(s) for the night and take the party back to their hotel rooms. The next morning, we'd climb on the bus and watch the girls do their walk of shame, still wearing their backstage passes like badges of honor and carrying their heels in their hands. Of course, the Lobster Pot was put on hold when the wives and girlfriends showed up. The men hid all remnants of the debauchery and pretended to be entirely different people. I was still a teenager, but even then I knew: speak up, you're a liability. Stay quiet, you're a team player.

I wasn't in the lobster pot, per se. But I was close enough to get burned. I was slowly being cooked alive, from the inside out. I didn't cry. I didn't make a scene. I still played every set. Even when audiences hurled bottles and called me a slut. Even when that bassist assaulted me when nobody was looking. Even when I was thrown to the wolves, discarded, and quite literally left on the side of an Arizona highway for bruising a rockstar's ego. After all, what happens on the road, stays on the road. You know your professional life is a joke when it shares its motto with Las Vegas.

Being the Cool Girl wasn't about being liked. It was about being allowed to exist.

I didn't speak up during #MeToo. Not because I didn't have stories. I have enough to start my own franchise. But I'd spent years fine-tuning a version of myself who wasn't that kind of girl. The one who complains. The one who ruins the vibe. The Victim. Instead, I funneled my rage into songs. I made my art razor-sharp and let the lyrics do the cutting. It's hilarious that my ex-husband tried to sue me for that. He was so preoccupied with the little I said, he never stopped to wonder about everything I refrained from saying. Instead of taking me to court, he should've thanked me. Ah hem...I could've named names. I didn't. I could've burned it all down. I didn't. I could've canceled everyone. Nope, I didn't. Not because I was so noble. Not because I believed in redemption. But because my ambition overcame my integrity. I wanted to be remembered for what I created, not for who I destroyed. I didn't want my art overshadowed by the tale of a man's fall from grace. Even if he really deserved to take that fall.

Now, I'm older. Just as ambitious but not about the same things. I’m also tired and happily uncool. I don't want to be on the list. I don't want to meet so and so. I don't care. I just want to stay home and eat spaghetti.

And I want to be honest: The Cool Girl is a myth. A seductive one. But a myth. She'll get you in the room. But you'll never own it. And the longer you stay, the more of yourself you'll lose.

The Cool Girl also doesn't age well. She lingers in green rooms until she fades out, or she finally lets the resentment boil over and gets written off as "difficult."

Either way, she doesn't get a legacy.

She can get good at lighting matches, though. Maybe that's how she finally grows up: by burning the bridges that were never going to take her anywhere worth going. Personally, I've found it to be one of my favorite pastimes.

Sincerely,

a former cool girl.

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c u next tuesday.

XX CARRÉ

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