A Letter to Sarah McLachlan

Dear Sarah,

Here’s a little backstory as to why I'm writing to you:

“Maybe I should just leave the band, then. You obviously don’t value my input,” said Veronica.

I was trying to be as understanding as possible, but what she was asking was ridiculous.

“We’re opening for Fornicator next week. We’ve released three demos. We are going to be doing an album soon. Do you think our fanbase is going to stick with us if we change the name to…to…what did you want to change the name to?”

“Daughter’s Tears.”

“Jesus Christ, do you know what it would do to us if we changed our name to Daughter’s Tears. We don’t have much, but we have a reputation as the nastiest band in central Illinois.”

“It’s a reputation based on hating women.”

“We don’t hate women. We’re just putting a mirror up to society.”

“Do you just not understand how offensive it is to name a band Rapehammer?” Veronica snapped.

I knew it was offensive. That was the point. You can’t name your band after a scented candle from William Sonoma if you’re playing pornogrind. Veronica understood this, or at least she did when she was Chuck.

“Chuck,” I said.

Veronica’s eyes flashed with anger. “It’ s Veronica, “she said icily.

“I’m sorry. I’m still trying to get used to this bullshit story that my friend was tuned into a woman by Satan. Are you wearing a wire? Is he listening to me now? Chuck, get your ass out here! This is not funny!”

“I keep telling you, I’m no longer Chuck. I’m Veronica. The ritual worked!”

“Yeah, sure. You know Anton LaVey was an atheist, right? You really expect me to believe you actually summoned the devil and he turned you into a woman?”

“Well, explain it then!”

I had to admit, I didn’t have a better explanation.

“Ok, fine. I just didn’t know you wanted to be a girl.”

“I didn’t ask for this. I asked for great power. And Satan, praise be unto him, turned me into a woman overnight.”

“OK, you’re a woman now. Do we have to break the band up because of it?”

“It’s just not who I am anymore.”

“You might have boobs now, but you’re still the person who wrote “Pre-Teen Semen Queen’ and ‘Cervix Crusher’. You can still play the songs.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Why not. You were really proud when you came up with that riff for ‘Pregnant Whore in a Dumpster’. You’re telling me you’re embarrassed now just because you have a vagina?”

“Sex worker,” she said quietly.

“What?”

“They’re called sex workers. Whore is a cisnormative patriarchal term designed to shame women about expressing their sexuality.”

“You know how many songs we’ve written with the word ‘whore’ in the title? Fifteen on the last demo alone. Even more on the album. Remember the album? The one we’re recording next month.”

“I don't think I should be working on that album.”

“You have a pair of ovaries for less than 24 hours, and now you’re too good for me?”

Veronica looked sad.

“I don’t want us to fight.”

“You don’t want to fight? You’re trying to destroy everything we’ve worked for, and you don’t want to fight?”

“I just don’t see why we can’t play some of the new songs I put together.

“What new songs?”

She opened her guitar case, pulled out an acoustic guitar, and began playing. The acoustic guitar was bad enough, but the song was even worse. After about 30 seconds, I made her stop.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“There’s no way in hell we can do a song like that. We can’t play ‘Napalm Tampon’ and then some ballad about women in the third world not having menstrual products. We don’t even play ballads.”

“Well it’s an important topic.”

“What next, we stop throwing bloody tampons at the audience?”

“There’s girls in Yemen who could use those tampons.”

I was feeling like I had to throw up. Normally, I would have used it for inspiration for some riffs, my musical career was getting flushed down the toilet, just like our song “Flushing Severed Penises Down the Toilet”.

“Can’t we just…can’t we just keep doing what we’re doing?”

Veronica shook her head.

“I don’t think we can. Satan promised me power, and the songs I’ve got bouncing around in my head are good. They’re really good. The kind of songs that will make a difference in the world. Not just songs about semen covered infants and amputee orgies.”

I was angry.

“But ‘Amputee Orgy’ is our best song!”

“It was. I want to make better songs. You can too.”

“Look, I’m not the world’s best songwriter, but I’m proud of ‘Amputee Orgy’. I’m proud of ‘Hydrocephalic Gangbang’. And I’m proud of ‘Mongoloid Donkey Punch’. They’re not much, but they’re mine. And you made great songs too.”

She looked like she wanted to cry.

“Can’t we just try recording one of my new songs. I think our fans might…”

“Our fans would crucify us. Literally. You saw what they did to that stray cat Midwest MILF Torturefest 7?”

“Then I guess I have to go. I’m sorry, I just can’t do this anymore.”

She left, and Rapehammer died with her. I was heartbroken. I put my drums in storage and spent much of my friend time drinking and doing whippets behind an abandoned gas station with some high school kids. And that’s how my life would have stayed if not for one night, in the middle of an absinthe bender, I performed a Satanic ritual of my own.

My name’s Gretchen now. It wasn’t my intention, but the devil apparently has a real hard-on for changing people’s genders. I’m not bitter though. I’ve grown in many ways, I am literally bursting with new musical ideas, and lyrics that would speak to women everywhere. Which is why I’m writing to you to merely ask that for your revival of Lilith Fair, that you keep my one-woman band in mind. Please enjoy the enclosed Menstrual Blood Igloo demo tape.