PUNK AF
DIY or die — how women in Winnipeg’s music scene embody the values of punk rock.
Winnipeg Women in Punk
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When you think of punk, who do you think of? A bunch of white men with torn jeans, spiky hair, and bad attitudes? Punk isn’t just a style of fashion or music. It’s a set of beliefs rooted in nonconformity. Its anti-corporate and anti-authoritarian roots are expressed through a do-it-yourself (DIY) and direct-action mentality. Above all, it’s community.
Since the 1970s, before the riot grrrl movement of the ‘90s, women have been gaining ground in the music industry. Yet, according to Women in Music, a not-for-profit organization dedicated to fostering gender equality in the music industry, gender diversity in Canada’s music scene is low.
In 2021, according to the Canadian census, 51 per cent of musicians are women, yet women only make up 30 per cent of the Billboard Hot 100 Year-End Chart. This number is up from 23.3 per cent in 2012 — a slow gain. Female songwriters have seen little to no growth, holding at 14 per cent.
While change is slow, Winnipeg’s punk scene — through its nonconformity, DIY attitudes, and community — provides a unique vehicle for women to get into music.
Below you will meet some of the women who make up Winnipeg’s punk scene — they take up space and have fun while doing it. Their music spans different subgenres within punk. Each of them embodies the spirit of punk, and together, they illustrate a picture of women in Winnipeg’s punk scene over time.
THE MUSICIANS
Debbie Wall
Winnipeg’s first all-girl punk band, The Wurst, started in 1979 when Debbie Wall’s friend Alison Cain dragged her to a social at the Granite Curling Club. Debbie recalls they got to talking over the gin Alison had snuck in, and Alison asked Debbie if she wanted to play drums.
“I don’t know how to play drums,” Debbie protested.
“So what? I don’t know how to play guitar,” said Allison.
“I’m like, ‘okay. Let’s do it,’ and we got together,” says Debbie.
Not long after, Debbie lived in the House of Beep (many people named their houses in the ’70s), an infamous punk rock party house in the River Osborne area. She recalls another house, the Spud Club, helping them out in 1979.
“A couple of the guys from the scene helped us get our arms and legs all coordinated, and we played, ‘Louie Louie,’ over and over and over again,” says Debbie.
She recalls that during practice, Allison kept saying, “This is the worst, that is the worst.”
“I was like, why don’t we call the band the worst?” says Debbie.
Nine weeks later — The Wurst played their first show in 1980.
Debbie remembers that show. They had already played and were paid in Black Russians. They were asked to play again. The next thing she knew, she was back sitting on the drum stool, on top of a drum riser, on a raised stage, and frustrated.
“I threw my sticks back over my head and went toppling off the stage. So, my challenge then was being sober enough to not only play but stay on my stool,” says Debbie.
As a teenager, Debbie often felt alone and like she didn’t belong. She found the punk scene supportive and welcoming.
“Nobody felt like they belonged, but we all belong to each other, and you sort of found like-minded people — people you felt comfortable with — and it was so much fun,” says Debbie. “I mean, you heard a little bit the odd time. You’ll never stop hearing criticism, right?”
She says the only thing keeping women from going up on stage is themselves.
Joanne Rodriguez
In the late ‘90s, Joanne Rodriquez started playing guitar in folk and country music.
“I wasn’t a lead singer, so that was a safe way for me to ease into music,” says Joanne.
However, she knew she was made for rock and roll. She loves the ’50s and ‘60s barbershop harmonies and doo-wop sounds. She adores listening to how The Ramones turned those sounds into punk.
“To hear that formula in a low-fi, downstroke heavy, electric really spoke to me,” says Joanne.
In 2018, when she was in the Sorels, after playing the opening set for The Sweet, a British glam rock band, they walked up to the side balcony at the Burton Cummings Theatre, previously known as the Walker Theatre. Everyone started cheering; Joanne, thinking the show was about to begin, started pushing her way to the front.
“When I looked out, it was a standing ovation for us. No drug can make you feel that good. I didn’t know it was for us. I lost it,” says Joanne.
She found people were genuinely nice and dug what they were playing; “Those are the fans we want — they just need to realize people are still creating.”
Joanne volunteers with an organization called We Rock Winnipeg, teaching kids about music and focusing on developing their confidence. She has also found the younger groups in the music scene to be “super encouraging, accepting of everyone, and very cool.”
“It’s why I volunteer,” says Joanne.
It’s recital night for We Rock Winnipeg, a music camp for girls, trans, and nonbinary kids, and she jumps up and down and claps her hands as the kids finish onstage.
The camp provides a safe space for kids to create and learn music. They all start with an instrument they want to learn more about but don’t have experience playing. They learn how to play and write music and perform their song at the end of the week.
She loves teaching young musicians how to talk about sound. Learning the terminology and the ways to describe sound empowers people. She says knowing what they’re doing is especially important for women and non-binary people because it gives them the confidence to speak up and communicate so that the sound technician or producer doesn’t look toward their male presenting bandmates when they should be talking directly to them.
“’No, it’s her amp. Ask her.’ Language is power,” says Joanne.
When I asked Joanne what makes Winnipeg special, she replied, “It’s worked living in Winnipeg. It’s a small, big city, so we all know each other. Which is so fucking cool. No other city has this or can take it from us,” says Joanne.
It’s our creativity with each other and our openness to create with each other from all different genres and backgrounds.
Joanne says putting in your time in one city like this — working on all sides of it, including other industry roles, makes you a well-rounded musician and performer. She credits hard work and networking for her opportunities.
“I don’t apply for a job with a resume; you know me,” says Joanne.
Joanne believes that when musicians get involved in the community and know who to ask and where to go, they will build confidence and good things will happen. She says people will want to see them succeed.
“I trust them, and they trust me. That’s from putting in your time, building bridges, not burning them,” says Joanne. “We have the pleasure of being in a smaller city and connecting with those people.”
Mandy Sousa
In 2007, I would take the 11 bus to the University of Winnipeg and get off in front of a gallery with blacked-out windows called The Label Gallery. While I was wondering what was on the other side of the glass, Mandy Sousa was inside learning to play guitar.
For a while, this gallery tripled as someone’s home, an art gallery, and for a brief period, was a heart in Winnipeg’s punk scene. One night, when Mandy was playing, and the band was goofing off, a gang of bikers pulled up outside. They were headed next door for food, but the next thing she knew, the gallery was packed, and bikers were head-banging with a group of students.
“I liked the raw energy of it all, the emotion in the music, and how accessible it was for me at the time,” says Mandy.
Mandy got into punk because she loved the vibe and didn’t need to be a good or proficient player to start.
“I am not the person who knows music theory. I can’t read music. I just make some noise, and it sounds good to me,” says Mandy.
Today, if someone wants to learn an instrument, the internet has many resources, but when Mandy got her start, people went to music stores. Mandy remembers being overlooked because she was a woman in these settings. Once, she got dragged into the acoustic section by music store staff when she wanted to be in the electric guitar section.
“You know, I would walk in with a male friend or my dad, and they would just ignore me. So that was super annoying,” says Mandy.
She thinks things are improving now because more people who play in bands are working in music stores (as opposed to classical music bands and performers).
While some things have been difficult for women in the punk scene, she also remembers some great opportunities in the scene. One thing Mandy wishes would happen again is Not-Enough Fest, a punk festival with a woman or gender-diverse fronted lineup, and Cootie Club, a women or gender-diverse showcase that ran every few months from 2013-2015.
“Some cool bands formed out of that,” says Mandy.
Mandy thinks that events like these help people with similar interests meet each other and form friendships to play music.
“Unless you have friends who play music, it might be a bit of a barrier,” says Mandy.
Jenny Wuckert
“I was always drawn to the chaotic nature of punk,” says Jenny Wuckert of Yer Mum.
She fell into the punk scene by accident. She and a friend were jamming in a garage, and then there was a drummer. The next thing she knew, what was supposed to be an occasional “get out some aggression in a cathartic fashion with friends” turned into being on stage at the Royal Albert Arms (the Albert).
“It went awful,” says Jenny. “21-year-old me said, ‘I’m never doing this again. I am done. That was terrible.’”
A couple of months later, they were back on that stage.
During the Myspace era, when loading things on your phone was difficult, Jenny recalls loading gear into the back of a venue when a staff member stopped them.
“You know, you’re paying cover when you’re done carrying that stuff, right?” the male staff member said.
They tried to show them that they were the ones playing and not their boyfriends, but the phone wouldn’t load. Instead, they awkwardly hung around, and the person who stopped them didn’t believe they were the musicians until they stepped on stage.
Over time, it got better; they developed a rapport and friendships with people working in venues.
She would also hear that they shouldn’t play such aggressive music.
“Playing soft melodic things, there’s nothing wrong with stuff like that, but don’t tell me what to play just because I’m a girl. How about no, we leave people alone and let them do things they want and express themselves the way they want,” says Jenny.
Jenny also shares how people have told her bandmates to get a different bassist.
“I’m not gonna let that stop me, no. I’m glad they shared that with me just so I could keep doing it to make someone angry,” says Jenny.
She appreciates Winnipeg’s creative culture, the cycle of hunkering down to write music in the winter, the spring release shows, and summer festivals. It’s the community building, “making connections and growing roots” that Jenny really appreciates.
Karen Thompson
Karen Thompson started playing music after moving from Winnipeg to Berlin in 2011.
“Another fellow Canadian I had met out here, Ambika Thompson (no relation), posted on Facebook that she wanted to start a rock and roll choir,” says Karen.
Three women responded, not enough for a choir — “Ambika said, ‘fuck it, let’s just start a band!’”
Ambika lent Karen a bass; They had to string it upside down because Karen is left-handed.
Karen’s experience with the music scene is mainly in Europe.
“I’ve faced some flak from a certain demographic, mostly men, directly after a show who are hellbent on pigeonholing you and telling you what you should be doing differently,” says Karen.
According to Karen, surrounding yourself with tough, strong women who can guide and inspire you is critical.
“It’s just very calming and safe to have that camaraderie,” says Karen.
When Karen is faced with gatekeeping, she reminds herself to “not give a fuck” and kill them with kindness.
“I’m usually over the top, nice to them, and thank them graciously. Not sure that is helping the cause, but it gives me a great wicked satisfaction!” says Karen.
Karla Chin
Karla Chin went to punk shows every weekend at the Albert, a community centre, or someone’s basement in her teens and twenties.
Just before Halloween in 2023, she was excited to play a basement show with her band, The Rules. She was excited to see that basement shows are “still a thing.”
A few years ago, Karla was on stage trying to figure out where to set up, talking to the guitar player, when she was approached by someone who asked her to get off the stage so the band could set up.
“‘Get off the stage and let the band set up; that would be great.’”
“I’m actually in the band,” Karla responded. “He didn’t even know.”
When I asked her what makes Winnipeg’s music scene quirky yet vibrant, she replied, “I think it’s because we are so isolated.”
She refers to the touring routes that bands take where they go along the border, crossing into Canada for larger cities like Toronto and Vancouver; because Canada is less densely populated, it makes the drive between shows too long.
“And the winters, so cold and isolated, and it just gave us something to look forward to. ‘Hey, what are we doing this weekend? We are doing a show.’”
Kayla Wilding
Kayla Wilding, the front of Shit Happens, had always dreamed of being in a punk band but had never expected it to become a reality.
There isn’t a lot of money in punk, but Shit Happens has had opportunities to play —Track Slide in Montreal, opening for D.O.A., and most recently Bitch Fest in Toronto.
Kayla, sweaty, and fresh from the exhilaration of performing, Kayla climbed down from the stage at Bulldogs, a dingy all-ages venue located in the North End, when a 16-year-old girl approached her after her set. She was a little nervous and asked about what being in a band was like.
“I told her, ‘Don’t be afraid,’” says Kayla.
A year later, that girl started her own band, the bastardeyes, and Kayla was invited to their first show — proof that representation matters.
“It’s wild; she has her own band now. I am helping inspire girls,” said Kayla.
While bastardeyes has currently fallen apart, she is starting a new project (on the metal side) and is actively looking for members. While Kayla didn’t get the chance to see bastardseyes, she is looking forward to seeing their future bands and projects.
Production
Every music scene involves more than just musicians; it includes folks who work in venues, production, and management, where people often take on multiple roles.
Brandi Olenick
Brandi Olenick is one of the founders of We Rock Winnipeg, the volunteer board run punk camp for girls and gender-diverse musicians that Joanne Rodriguez volunteers with. The Winnipeg branch has been her labour of love since 2017.
“We’ve done our fourth youth camp this summer, two adult rock camps, and other workshops,” says Brandi.
Before We Rock, Brandi played in a band called Faithful Pagans. She currently plays in a band called Off Henderson. She has played at the West End Cultural Centre and the Park Theatre.
“If you look at the lack of diversity, not just women [musicians] in the industry, and it’s the local music team,” says Brandi.
A study for Women in Music Canada by PwC, a company that provides professional business services including industry-focused analysis, advisory, and tax services, concludes that diversity in leadership impacts diversity on a company’s roster. A 10 per cent increase in diversity translates to a 27.5 per cent increase in live performance ticket sales. Performance sales are an indicator of health in the music industry.
In 2015, only 23 per cent of leadership positions in the Canadian music industry were held by women, and 49 per cent of companies had no women in their executive ranks. Nearly 40 per cent of people at the manager and agent level are women.
Of these, many women in the industry are “often relegated to tasks perceived as ‘women tasks,’ such as cleaning or organizing events.”
It’s one of the reasons Brandi is so invested in We Rock.
We Rock is based on intersectional feminism and tries to have diverse mentors and volunteers to meet their community’s needs.
“We have these amazing local artists who volunteer their time, come in and mentor these kids throughout the week. So that they can see it’s possible,” says Brandi.
Brandi feels that representation is essential because being creative can be extremely vulnerable. We Rock also tries to cultivate a culture of kindness.
“It won’t be the old ‘here, carry my amp for me’ or whatever. It’s going to be a lot of mentorship as opposed to the arrogance I found when I was a kid,” says Brandi.
When I ask her if she thinks We Rock has made a difference, she replies, “It’s been pretty cool, but we haven’t seen the full effect of what this is going to do.”
Lana Winterhalt
“I mean, I have a secret love for punk rock music,” says Lana Winterhalt, sitting on the couch in her snuggy.
But Lana can relate to Debbie’s loneliness.
“I was always longing for music friends and a community of people to lean on,” says Lana.
As time passed, she realized she didn’t have to be a victim of her loneliness and could make it better for others.
She wanted to “see a community of people who could encourage each other and rely on each other and not just have it be competitive all the time.”
The Good + Plenty Club started as a safe space for people to grow their careers.
“Even just knowing what a producer does gives so much more confidence for an artist. They can know how to work with the producer, even if they’re not in the producer role,” says Lana.
A USC Annenberg Inclusion Initiative study found that 12 per cent of the top songs had women producers credited, and men outnumbered women producers 49 to 1. This reflects the larger international scene in which only 2.8 per cent of producers are women.
According to a survey commissioned by WIM-C, women did not feel they had access to coaching resources and mentors who could help them grow their skills.
This is why Good + Plenty’s programming focuses on the producer’s side. They run workshops and mixers and try to meet community needs.
“We’ll send personal messages or invitations to people that we want to come to events because we know that reduces a barrier,” says Lana.
They also educate people on free or cheap resources like the Winnipeg Public Library, which has recording and rental equipment — everything within their ability to reduce barriers.
Accessibility “presents a lot of opportunities for marginalized people to own their craft and own their voice,” says Lana.
Lana thinks that people’s resourcefulness and all the friend groups here are what makes Winnipeg special.
“The music industry in Winnipeg is built on really strong connections of real humans who enjoy being around each other,” says Lana.
The Spirit of Punk
Winnipeg’s punk scene is a special place — and not in small part because of the women who have, and continue to, shape it. Like the rest of the music scene, there are more women in punk than ever before, and thanks to people and organizations like Good + Plenty and We Rock, it’s becoming kinder and more accepting.
There is something about punk in its rowdy simplicity that reduces barriers associated with learning music in a classical way. This opens up a musician to experimentation and learning; as Mandy has demonstrated, you don’t need to learn how to read music to play punk.
“I would never trade having been part of that scene for anything. It was just wonderful. And it still continues to be, and I’m still playing drums,” says Debbie.
Women like Debbie Wall show us that people can keep doing what they love throughout life and that sometimes they need to ignore the odds and the statistics, embody the spirit of punk, say “fuck it,” and just have fun.
