by HELEN RAZER
Back in the mid to late nineties, I was relatively famous. Oh. I know. I know. That’s a petty, unbecoming claim and one I would not dare to make were it not for the fact that it is both (a) true and (b) information necessary to the unfolding of this story. A story, by-the-bye, that ends with me not being famous at all. Obviously.
Stay with me, here. I promise this story has a point which is neither me nor my yawning lack of fame! This story is about another girl. We’ll get there.
When I was twenty-one, I landed the kind of job that exists more in teenage imaginations than it does in the actual world. I became a broadcaster on the ABC’s FM music station, Triple J. A fan, a show-off and a chatterbox, I couldn’t have dreamt of a job more suited to my otherwise useless talents. I talked non-stop about rock for a living.
Every life has its moment of perfect combustion; that white-hot time where you find yourself ideally suited to your environment and your era. This was mine. “Indie rock”, as we called it then, became immensely popular and so did the people associated with its dissemination. So it was that a loud, frequently unpleasant and elitist young feminist who dressed EXACTLY like Courtney Love ended up in all the women’s mags and frequently drunk on television panel shows calling people “sexist” and “racist” for no good reason.