By Way of Matte Black Lipstick, Transgression, and Industrial Music
An Introduction to this Substack
I’ve recently taken to matte black lipstick. I have yet to find one that fully passes the synth-night-at-the-dive-bar-smudge-test, but hey, life is messy, right? I’ve dusted off so many high school era clothes: a long-sleeve fishnet crop top with little holes torn for each thumb; a black mesh babydoll top that used to be my mother’s; scuffed up, grayed leather Docs with black satin laces. Clothes I kept in a prized section of my teenage closet, but never dared wear outside my bedroom.
A reminder of the giddiness that bubbled up when I purchased my first transgressive item: faux leather gladiator sandals, knee-high. I was absolutely stoked to wear them to my weekend Century III Mall trip, but my boyfriend at the time refused to be seen with me wearing that, ordered me to change, now. or he’d simply leave without me. I’m sad to say I did change, but the last 17+ years have taught me different responses to that kind of controlling bullshit.1
My 30s have brought me so many gifts, including the confidence to not give a fuck enough to dress the way I want in public. A friend and I have made a new monthly ritual of attending our local synth/post punk/industrial night fully gothed up and ready to dance, which has become one of my favorite things during a time when my life feels untethered. Immersed in the favorite tunes of our youth amongst friends and strangers. Letting ourselves be absorbed into the joy of embodying the music in limbs, fingers, hips; eyes-closed with bliss written in our smiles. Rhythmic foot stomps, sonic vibrations, the healing power of losing ourselves in the all-encompassing beats of live music.
In the span of my middle school years, I went from listening to Good Charlotte and Linkin Park, to Nine Inch Nails, then straight on to Skinny Puppy, Einstürzende Neubauten, Ministry, KMFDM, and the like. I’d browse the FYE at Century III mall, buying albums on a whim, looking for the weirdest shit possible. Limewire dial-up-downloads of Depeche Mode while wishing I was old enough to go dancing at Metropol.2 Some extended family asked me what I wanted for my birthday; I said Ministry’s “Land of Rape and Honey,” a suggestion which was immediately refused and my mother called.3
Industrial music became the music of my transgression: an existence of pathologized difference and deviance, an isolative rebellion that was partially in response to the way the world treated me and partially of my own making.
A large part of this was that I was dealing with adult-sized problems as a child, problems that the institutions around me did nothing to protect me from. And so, transgression took the form of giving space to, then becoming engulfed by, pain. Trauma seemed like the only constant in my world, and its presence was ignored and invisibilized… so what better way to so radically acknowledge its existence than to let it completely consume me?
It felt like giving any space to joy was negating the importance of my pain, the absoluteness of it. Everything felt sanitized, white-washed, fake. I needed something that called out the bullshit, mirrored my reality, validated the pain I was feeling. In that way, industrial music was my savior, as well as my method of pushing myself to the margins, where I felt safe and like I belonged.
Trauma seemed like the only constant in my world, and its presence was ignored and invisibilized… so what better way to so radically acknowledge its existence than to let it completely consume me?
It’s wild looking back on this era of my life: industrial music and the isolation I felt it represented for me has now become a source of community, connection, and joy two decades later. But still, in my adulthood, I need to constantly remind myself to find the pockets of joy, lest I slip back into making trauma my entire existence, my personality, my God.
I think I’m doing alright (?); I’ve found a decent balance of honoring my feelings while also living. Knowing that feeling joy doesn’t mean my pain isn’t valid or important. Forgiving myself for times when my healing journey feels like a backslide. Seeking community, practicing vulnerability, writing and making art again rather than making vague trauma-dump posts on my close friends stories. You know, the hard stuff.
I hope anyone reading this will carry what resonates and join me on this weekly Substack journey of figuring-things-the-fuck-out again. If you enjoyed this piece, leave a comment, share with a friend, or subscribe via the button below. And look for a new piece every Sunday; personally, it’s a lofty output goal, but I will try my best.
<3 Lyss
Cue “Limp” by Fiona Apple.
Metropol was a club for “industrial dancing” that was in Pittsburgh’s Strip District, 1988-2005 RIP.
I was putting my energy into the wrong kind of ministry, apparently.