Periphery Zine

y r e h p i r Pe

WOMEN BUILT THIS SCENE

Intro

Front cover: Painting from the Spanish school in the Dar Niaba Museum in Tangier.

Back cover: Xingonas in the Pit crew by @pray.4rain

Welcome to Periphery.

They told us we were on the sidelines.

They laughed when they said it.

They said peripheral like it meant optional, like it meant decorative, like we were side characters in a story built on our labor. Like you could erase us off the record sleeve, out of the liner notes, out of history itself, and the music would still play.

This zine exists because that is a lie.

Periphery is dedicated to uplifting the women in punk and alternative history who have been erased, minimized, or left uncredited. Women onstage and off – the ones making the music and the ones making it possible. Punk has always survived on the emotional, physical, creative, and invisible labor of women and femmes.

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Our voices screaming into busted mics. Our hands stapling zines and flyers at kitchen tables. Our backs hauling gear. Our homes turned into venues.

And too often, our bodies navigating harm in spaces that were meant to free us. Punk has lived off the labor of women who recorded the music, made the art, booked the shows, documented the scene, cooked the food, paid the rent, raised the kids, carried the emotional load, and then watched our names disappear. Without women, especially Black, Indigenous, women of color, queer, trans, and working-class women, punk as a genre and a culture would not exist. Full stop.

We have always been the backbone of punk, yet history keeps trying to bury us anyway.

The spark for this zine came from Amalia Ortiz’s experience (detailed in her essay “The History of a Classic Girl”), when she overheard women in the scene dismissed as “peripheral players.” Side characters. Afterthoughts. That moment cut deep because it echoed generations of misogyny and erasure. Instead of staying quiet, Amalia raged back. She wrote the anthem “Periphery,” honoring women erased from history at large and turned that rage into action.

From there, we linked up. Amalia Ortiz of the queer Xicanx punk band Las Hijas de La Madre and me, Daisy Salinas of Muchacha Fanzine. Two punk Xicanas from San Antonio, from different 2

generations, united by refusal. Refusal to be written out. Refusal to stay small. Refusal to let patriarchy define punk. Together with the feminist punk collective Xingonas in the Pit, we helped organize Black and Brown Punk Fest 2025, centering women and femme-fronted punk bands from across Texas and proving what we already knew. When we build our own spaces, they thrive.

While women in punk and alternative scenes are more visible than they once were, visibility alone does not guarantee safety, credit, pay, or respect.

There is still work to be done. Periphery is part of that work – naming the harm, honoring the labor, celebrating the art, and demanding that women receive recognition in the present, not posthumously.

We make space by force, by refusal, by choosing ourselves when the scene would not. We build new worlds inside the wreckage of the old one.

We were never on the sidelines.

We were always the foundation.

Released on Valentine’s Day 2026, Periphery is a love letter to all the women and femmes in punk and alternative culture and history who were denied their flowers. We are giving them now. On our terms.

— Daisy Salinas 3

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w w e e i i v v r r e e t t n n II With Amalia Ortiz

Photo by @pray.4rain

Amalia Ortiz is a Xicana poet, spoken word performer, and the frontwoman of the queer Xicanx feminist punk band Las Hijas de la Madre. Her work collides poetry, theater, and punk to center border feminism and collective resistance. I’m so honored and excited to not only work with her on this zine but also interview her about her badass band — one of my favorites right now. If you haven’t listened to their latest album Diatribas Punk, stop what you’re doing and go listen! Then check out the interview below to learn more.

Daisy Salinas (DS): How did transforming the theatrical punkmusical Canción Cannibal Cabaret into the punk band Las Hijas de la Madre alter your approach to collective performance and political storytelling?

Amalia Ortiz (AO): I've always enjoyed working with groups more than working alone. But I wrote The Canción Cannibal

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Cabaret alone and hoped to cast a band with a singer to perform it. When I began performing that show with various musicians, I fell in love with working with a full band. Las Hijas de la Madre is a true collaboration, so my approach now includes many conversations with my bandmates ranging from possible themes to address in our work to design of all images we use and costumes. My approach to political storytelling is ultimately more hopeful and emboldened because I am not alone.

DS: What guided your choice to focus on consent, border feminist voices, environmental justice, and POC liberation on your debut album Diatribas Punk?

AO: Life. But seriously, all of these topics were also addressed in various ways in The Canción Cannibal Cabaret as well as in my first book of poetry, Rant. Chant. Chisme. I did begin Diatribas Punk with a bibliography of memoirs by punk women, and I responded to those books creatively with poems, essays and ultimately songs. Some of those women were also concerned with my same issues. (The Day the World Turned Day-Glo by X-Ray Spex) Others from that list inspired me more musically rather than thematically.

DS: How did that shape song selection and order?

AO: As far as song selection, there were other song ideas and at least one song that was abandoned because they didn't fit thematically or sonically with the rest of the album. I obsessed over song order, and relied on much feedback from the band to land on the final order of the album. I could still be convinced there is a better order.

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DS: How does your song “Periphery” turn the anger of overhearing women belong on the margins into music and lyrics that push listeners to act?

AO: I'd like listeners to act, but I don't know if they will. The song is in response to my personal experiences actively being written out of history thereby helping me to understand how this has happened to marginalized folx forever.

DS: As a queer Xicanx feminist from the border, how did border militarization make it into Diatribas Punk?

AO: Border militarization is referenced in "You Want to Kill Me" with allusions to the current policy of caging immigrants and exploiting undocumented workers. "Belly of the Beast" and "Hocicona, Peleonera" also express cultural pride for my border roots. "Belly of the Beast" paraphrases Gloria Anzaldua's quote from Borderlands/ La Frontera, "This land was Mexican once, was Indian always/ and is.

And will be again."

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DS: In what ways do you reclaim space for women, femmes, and nonbinary people in the punk/alt scene to ensure their work and stories are preserved rather than sidelined?

AO: I reclaim space by simply being me and showing up. I have been made to feel that I am not welcome or not invited in various spaces countless times throughout my life in subtle and overtly racist, sexist and homophobic ways. It hasn't been easy, but as I get older, the less fucks I give and keep showing up, maybe more calloused, but definitely freer. As far as other women, femmes, and nonbinary people in the punk/alt scene, I hope the album inspires them to take up space, share their stories and document their own work when they are being overlooked. Your work and stories are important, and it sucks that we live under a patriarchy that has no problem exploiting our labor without giving proper credit or worth to our work.

photo by @pray.4rain

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PERIPHERY

By Amalia Ortiz

Las Hijas de La Madre halls full of walls full of sultans and chiefs halls full of walls full of statesmen and priests halls full of walls full of kings and male presidents halls full of walls full of men leading governments books filled with pages and pages singing men’s praises male names, male acclaim, tales and tales of male fame books filled with pages and pages singing men’s praises male names, male acclaim, tales and tales of male fame I said, “We need more men on these walls!

More men on these walls!

More men on these walls!”

I said.

I said, “We need more monument halls with men on the walls!

More monument halls!”

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(Chorus) Your blind spot is my whole reality.

I live and die on your periphery.

No kings. No masters.

(I didn’t vote for you!)

No kings. No masters.

(I didn’t vote for you!)

No. History will write only white men were there, but we were there. We were there. We were there. I swear!

History will write no women were there, but we were there. We were there. We were there. I swear!

History will write no one queer was there, but we were there. We were there. We were there. I swear!

History will write you and I weren’t there, but we were there! We were there. We were there. I swear!

(Chorus) I live and die on your periphery (x4) books filled with pages and pages singing men’s praises male names, male acclaim, tales and tales of male fame books filled with pages and pages singing men’s praises male names, male acclaim, tales and tales of male fame (Chorus)

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She Should Have Been Given Her Flowers: Q Lazzarus

By Daisy Salinas Diane Luckey should not be a footnote, a mystery, or a trivia question passed around late-night music forums.

She should be a cornerstone and a name spoken with the same reverence as the architects of alternative and punk history. Instead, she became another immensely talented Black woman the music industry failed and then conveniently forgot. As Q Lazzarus, she carried a voice that was haunting, confrontational, tender, and defiant all at once. It was a voice that refused to be polite, refused to be easily categorized, and refused to make itself smaller.

The music industry did not know what to do with her because it has never known what to do with Black women who do not conform. Labels told her they could not market a Black woman singing rock, as if whiteness were a requirement and Blackness a liability. And it cannot be ignored that fatphobia played a role too. As a plus-size Black woman, Diane existed outside the narrow beauty standards the industry demands, and that kind of cruelty shapes who gets invested in. This hypocrisy is especially stark given the founder of rock ’n’ roll was a plus-size Black woman: Sister Rosetta Tharpe. Yet the same oppressive logic continues to relegate Black alternative artists to the margins, pressuring them to dilute their sound or vanish altogether. Q Lazzarus did neither. She kept making the music anyway.

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In the mid-1980s, while trying to survive in New York City, Diane Luckey was driving a taxi. Not as a quirky backstory, but because Black women artists have always had to work twice as hard to get half as far. When director Jonathan Demme hailed her cab, she took the opportunity to play him her demo. He heard what the industry refused to hear, a voice that was otherworldly and unforgettable. That chance meeting led to her music appearing in his films, most famously “Goodbye Horses,” which later became a cult classic through The Silence of the Lambs.

But cult status is not the same as equity. A song becoming iconic does not mean the artist behind it was supported. Q Lazzarus’s voice became part of popular culture, but she did not benefit from that success. Sure, she was paid for her songs being in Demme’s movies, but then she never received royalties for her music. The industry took what it wanted and left her to navigate the aftermath alone.

What followed was not disappearance but survival. Diane moved through many worlds, not just music. She cared deeply for her family and was known for her humor, her storytelling, and her love of fashion, food, and travel. She worked grueling jobs as a bus driver, coach operator, and car service driver while quietly carrying a legacy people around her never fully knew. During her struggles with substance use, she also turned to sex work to survive and support her addiction. She battled homelessness, incarceration, and depression, but she eventually got sober and rebuilt her life. These were not just detours from her artistry. They were the conditions forced upon her by systems that repeatedly fail talented Black women.

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Won’t You Listen to Me? 14

In August 2019, her story came full circle. Filmmaker Eva Aridjis had been searching for Q Lazzarus for years when she was picked up by a car service driver in New York City. During the ride, Aridjis asked if she knew who Q Lazzarus was. Diane said yes, but at first she did not say more. She had spent decades being erased and dismissed. Then something shifted.

Much like the night she played her demo for Jonathan Demme years earlier, Diane chose truth. She told her, “I am Q Lazzarus.” That moment became the beginning of Aridjis’ documentary Goodbye Horses: The Many Lives of Q Lazzarus which finally gave Diane the chance to tell her story in her own words.

During the filming of the documentary, she reconnected with music and began imagining a comeback that was intentional and on her own terms. For the first time, it seemed like the world might finally be ready to listen. She should have been celebrated then. She should have been supported then. She should have received her flowers while she was still here to hold them.

After being forced to postpone her comeback concert due to the pandemic, Diane Luckey heartbreakingly died in 2022 at the age of 61 after breaking her leg and developing sepsis. Her son, James Luckey-Lange, said that her death was the result of medical neglect rooted in racism. Her pain and condition were not taken seriously—a familiar pattern in which Black women’s suffering is minimized until it becomes fatal. His words echo a well-documented reality: Black women are routinely dismissed and undertreated by a medical system that does not value their lives equally. Even in death, Diane Luckey was failed by the very institutions we are told are supposed to protect her.

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Her story is devastating because it is familiar. Black alternative artists are repeatedly invited in only when their work can be extracted or aestheticized, then discarded when they ask for care, safety, or sustainability. Their contributions are celebrated without celebrating them.

Diane deserved a career that matched her talent, a music industry that believed in her vision, and a healthcare system that treated her life as precious. Honoring Q Lazzarus means refusing to let this pattern continue. It means naming the racism and sexism that shaped her path and demanding better for the Black women creating outside the boxes today.

Q Lazzarus did not disappear—she was erased by an industry and by institutions that profit from Black creativity while neglecting Black lives. To remember her now is not an act of sentimentality. It is an act of accountability. It demands that we confront how many gifted, funny, caring, brilliant Black women are silenced not by lack of talent, but by neglect, racism, and indifference. We write Diane Luckey back into the record to make sure her story, and the stories of Black alternative artists like her, are never pushed to the margins again.

If you want to support Diane Luckey’s legacy and her family, you can donate directly to her son via PayPal at @realqlazzarus. You can also support her music by purchasing Goodbye Horses: The Many Lives of Q Lazzarus (Music From the Motion Picture) at www.sacredbonesrecords.com, and watch the documentary Goodbye Horses: The Many Lives of Q Lazzarus on Amazon.

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f o y r o t s i H e h T a Classic Girl

By Amalia Ortiz I received a phone message that was so clear, it took me a while to figure out it was a butt-dial. A close friend of mine was brainstorming with a second male voice, listing people to interview for the Chicano music documentary he had been working on for some time. After rattling off a list of men’s names he paused and contemplated, “And I gotta get some… some mujeres.” After a pause, “I mean, I hate to say that I have to, you know. But I do…” He chuckled. “I do. I think the… [more laughter] the problem is thinking… but who would that be? There’s some, like, sort of peripheral players… you know, but I'm not sure who else that will be necessarily...” The conversation then switched topics, but my thoughts couldn’t.

I was shaken. It wasn’t only the words “I gotta get some… some mujeres. I mean, I hate to say that I have to, you know…” It was also the laughter. It wasn’t evil laughter, but something more insidious: the kind of guilty laughter of someone who knows they just said something fucked up. It was what I imagine uncomfortable laughter sounds like after locker room talk, laughter by someone who disagrees, but doesn’t have the backbone to shut it down. The butt-dial was from a man of color and a homie I have known for decades: someone I consider an ally. The recording cut me.

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When I get mad And I get pissed I grab my pen And I write out a list Of all the people That won't be missed You've made my shitlist. 1 As a huge live music fan and a staunch feminist, I felt an obligation to respond. But I first heard the butt-dial message right before boarding an international flight to Spain. I was traveling to a conference, and my husband and I wanted to make the most of this opportunity to scratch a visit to Morocco off of our bucket list. So, upon landing in Madrid, we immediately journeyed south to Tarifa by train and bus.

24 hours later, we found ourselves walking the streets of the Tangiers medina. In the Dar Niaba Museum, the butt-dial recording came to mind as I walked through hall after hall of antique paintings and more modern photographs of men.

Sultans and kings. Men of power and privilege. “Where are the mujeres?” I wondered. Then, I found a smaller room filled with paintings of women, most of them at work.

“Some people think little girls should be seen and not heard / But I think ‘oh bondage, up yours!” 2 On the streets of present-day Tangiers, women have the choice between various levels of modesty. Some wear head coverings or full body coverings and some don’t. But in the museum paintings, the women were covered from head to toe while drawing water and doing laundry at a river or at a marketplace, their sails of fabric blanketed them, indistinguishable from one another. In one of the few 1 L7. “Shitlist.” Bricks Are Heavy, L7, Butch Vig, Nov. 1991.

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X-Ray Spex. “Oh Bondage! Up Yours!” X-Ray Spex, Falcon Stuart .

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paintings where their heads were uncovered, women polished pots and candlesticks happily. In a portrait of a woman of privilege, her eyes cut through time staring out through a veil.

In yet another, a brown-faced female met my gaze, her head but not face covered, and she looked pissed.

“Such a classic girl…” 3 The combination of the art and the butt-dial sent me to a dark place. I posted the images of the women on Instagram with angry descriptions and defensive hashtags, “You should smile more. #notperipheralplayers #youcamefromawoman #iseeyoukween”4 “These walls need more men.”5 I captioned another. I thought of the historic documentation of women.

My friend’s words are true. He doesn’t have to include more women. No one is forcing him. But he should. I thought of centuries of patriarchal gate-keepers controlling female lives, narratives, and how history perceives them.

“I’m gonna get get get get rid of that girl / I’m gonna get get get get rid of that girl / I’m gonna get get get get rid of that girl tonight…”6 My mind jumped again to the Beat Generation, specifically the female Beats and how their stories have never been regarded as highly as their male contemporaries. I pictured Joyce Johnson in famous photographs, standing in the shadow out of focus behind Jack Kerouac gleaming under the neon “BAR” light outside of Kettle of Fish in NYC. The camera clearly focused on him, blurring the reality that she was there.

3Jane’s Addiction. “Classic Girl.” Ritual de Lo Habitual, Dave Jerden, Perry Farrell, North Hollywood, CA, 1990.

4Ortiz, Amalia. amalia.o. 10 June 2024. Instagram.

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Ortiz, Amalia. amalia.o. 10 June 2024. Instagram.

6“Get Rid of That Girl.” The Donnas, The Donnas, 1997

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“Such a classic girl…” 7 In my early thirties, I won a literary award. One of the judges, a nationally recognized award winning writer in his fifties, requested to meet me to personally congratulate me.

At that first meeting with him, he offered me part-time work helping him with an anthology of Texas-Mexican literature he was editing. I’d have to email and collect signed releases from all the authors and other low-level administrative duties, he explained. And of course, he intended to include my poetry in the collection. From this first conversation on, he became a mentor, and over the next months, he introduced me to a larger literary world, inviting me to share my writing in highprofile reading opportunities and introducing me to writers at a national level of success. Over the next year, he invited me to sit in on his graduate-level literature classes and to share the bill with him on book tour readings requiring us to travel out of state together. At some point, our relationship had become romantic.

The relationship lasted about a year and a half and ended badly when his mentorship turned overbearing and controlling. Convinced I would cheat on him with someone younger, he isolated me from my friends, discouraging me from spending time with anyone other than him. He often ridiculed me in public, referring to me as his “teenage” partner, further exploiting the power imbalance between us.

In the end, there was no calming his jealousy and paranoia, so I broke up with him. Word got back to me through mutual friends that he was now describing me as a crazy ex, using the same word, “crazy,” that he had used to denigrate all his former partners in his descriptions of them to me.

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Jane’s Addiction. “Classic Girl.”

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“Typical girls get upset too quickly / Typical girls can't control themselves…”8 When the Tex-Mex lit anthology was released years later, it was no surprise to me that my poetry was removed from the manuscript, but one reviewer for a newspaper directly pointed out the absence of my work. This is just one example of how I was painted out of a specific his-tory. I won’t do a deep dive into my romantic relationship with a filmmaker who filmed my spoken word performance for his documentary on Tejana poets, then scrapped the footage after that relationship ended.

Oh, look at my face My name is ‘Might-Have-Been’ My name is ‘Never Was’ My name's forgotten9 Ironically, the most profound example of historical omission I ever witnessed came on a trip with my mentor in 2002. I invited him to my high-profile gig, a live taping of an episode of Russell Simmons Presents Def Poetry10 in New York City. After my performance, I tagged along to an impromptu meeting with one of his literary friends, Hettie Jones.

I’m embarrassed of my younger self. At that time, I had never heard of her. On the taxi ride to her apartment in the East Village, my mentor caught me up with a CliffsNotes version. Ms. Jones was an author of poetry, fiction and nonfiction. Her most notable work, How I became Hettie Jones: A Memoir, documented her life in 1950s and 60s Manhattan when she worked at the heart of the underground publishing scene with her husband LeRoi Jones (who later 8

The Slits. “Typical Girls.” Cut, Dennis Bovell, Rusper, England, 1979.

Hole. Celebrity Skin, Michael Beinhorn, Los Angeles, CA, 1998.

A concern was texted to me that I might “support Russell Simmons, who has been accused of rape & assault by dozens of women.” My response: “I do not support Russell Simmons, but I was on Def Poetry. I don’t mind bringing it up and wouldn’t mind talking about it more.” What I didn’t say was, as a rape survivor myself, I should be congratulated for surviving a misogynist industry at a misogynist company in the pre-#metoo era.

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divorced her and became Amiri Baraka). They attracted writers, jazz musicians, and artists, all of them icons of the Beat Generation. Including Hettie Jones herself.

After climbing the narrow and uneven steps to her modest brick apartment, I found myself sitting in her living room.

The original hardwood floor planks were noticeably warped and slanted, the bare brick walls were chipped and crudely patched in places, but the home felt lived in and loved, neat and cozy like a modern bohemian hobbit house.

I froze in my seat, an awkward fly on the wall as she recounted to my mentor tales of Allen Ginsberg, Thelonious Monk, Billie Holiday, James Baldwin. At one point, Hettie turned in my direction and pointed at me. “Jack Kerouac sat right there.” Her eyes saw through me to his ghost still in the room with us.

Ms. Jones was animated and intense about these memories, because they were under attack. She explained how gentrification was taking over the Bowery, and her home was listed to be the next casualty. Developers had their eyes on the building, and there was a good chance that she would be forced out. Then, her energy switched to anger. There was one way she could save the building, but she wasn’t sure she could stomach it. She had begun researching how to procure a historical marker for the building, she said. Her voice rose to shouting at this point. And I am recounting this story to the closest that my memory allows, but she said something like she would be damned if she had to walk by a plaque every day that read, “Amiri Baraka lived here.” Why wasn’t it enough that Hettie Jones raised two daughters here?

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The experience forever changed how I viewed the Beats.

Their popularity always seems to be championed by men who never seem to ask, “Where are the mujeres?”

“I’m gonna get get get get rid of that girl / I’m gonna get get get get rid of that girl / I’m gonna get get get get rid of that girl tonight.” 11 Who is privileged and who is omitted through hegemonic history-making? This question is central to the book ¡Chicana Power!: Contested Histories of Feminism in the Chicano Movement in which Maylei Blackwell used oral histories to challenge traditional history modes which favor those in power. The book chronicles Las Hijas de Cuauhtémoc, the Chicana feminist newspaper and student movement which emerged from the late 60s through 80s to address “the repudiation of women’s leadership and the marginalization of 12 women’s issues in the Chicano student movement.” Chicana organizers began to recognize their struggles were not only with issues of alienation from the dominant culture due to race and cultural differences, but also from gender and sexuality issues from within the Chicano movement itself.

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“Survival is the game / Can't stop us now, it's all in vain…”

It follows then that any modern Chicano history that fails to include Chicana perspectives is falling into this same inherently sexist trap. Blackwell flipped the script on Chicanx history, playing the role of cultural DJ remixing female voices through oral histories into the male dominated narrative of the movimiento: 11“Get Rid of That Girl.” The Donnas, The Donnas, 1997.

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Blackwell, Maylei. “The Telling Is Political.” ¡Chicana Power!: Contested Histories of Feminism in the Chicano Movement , University of Texas Press, Austin, TX, 2011, pp. 2.

13 The Bags. Survive, Geza X. Gedeon, Hollywood, CA, 1978.

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When I began this research in 1991, I embarked on a question to turn up the volume on the stories of gender and sexuality that have been dubbed out of the Chicano historical record.

Through this journey I have found that being an oral historian is like being a DJ. As one digs through the old crates of records (historical archives) to find missing stories, the songs (narrative grooves, if you will) must be selected and their elements remixed to produce new meanings. Oral historians spin the historical record by sampling new voices and cutting and mixing the established sounds to allow listeners to hear something different, even in grooves they thought they knew (p. 37-38).14 Hey! Miss Lady DJ (Lady DJ) Miss Lady DJ (Lady DJ) Miss Lady DJ (Lady DJ) Hey! Hey! 15 Once back from my trip to Spain, I knew I had to talk to my friend about his documentary. The easiest thing to do would be to say nothing, but the butt dial wasn’t sent to just anyone. It landed in my lap, of all people. I had to tell him that it's true, it’s his doc and he can do whatever he wants, but ignoring the mujeres would be a big mistake. I wanted to tell him about my testimonio that was published in “Maximum Rocknroll” in a larger collection of pieces about the Black and Brown Punk Fest organized by a collective called Xingonas in the Pit. In the article, I described how in my early days of crowd surfing, I was regularly sexually assaulted, only we didn’t call it that in those days. As I was passed over head by countless strangers, men would inevitably grab my breasts, squeeze my ass, or grab and one time even punch me between my legs.

14 Blackwell, Maylei. “Spinning The Record: Historical Writing and Righting.” ¡Chicana Power!: Contested

Histories of Feminism in the Chicano Movement, University of Texas Press, Austin, TX, 2011, pp. 37–38.

15RuPaul. “Miss Lady DJ.” Supermodel of the World, Karen Bernod, Eric Kupper, Jimmy Harry, Randy Barbato, Fenton Balley, 1993.

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“Too many creeps, too many creeps / Too many creeps, too many creeps” 16 I wanted my friend to consider how live music scenes are usually supported by bars which are not always safe or supportive to the marginalized in the ways we need them to be. Collectives like Xingonas in the Pit, a “San Antonio-based decolonial feminist punk collective,” celebrate artists of color, but also understand the challenges of marginalized folks and aim to create “inclusive spaces for punks and other alternative people of color.” 17 I've been crawling up so long on your stairway to heaven.

And now I no longer believe that I wanna get in.

And will there always be concerts where women are raped?

Watch me make up my mind instead of my face.

The number one must have is that we are safe.18 The same week I sat down to write this essay, Casey Niccoli published an article in HuffPost defending her legacy as a creative, collaborative force with Jane’s Addiction during the band's formative years. She detailed how she riffed with frontman Perry Ferrell on the band’s name, styled him, taught him how to play guitar, took photos and co-created art which appeared on their first two albums, which were both named by her.19 Niccoli also directed multiple projects including the award-winning music video for “Been Caught Stealing,” which catapulted the band into a national MTV audience.

16Bush Tetras. Too Many Creeps, 1980. ‘ 17

Salinas, Daisy. “Black and Brown Punk Fest: Creating Space for Punks of Color in Texas!”

Maximumrocknroll, Jan. 2019, pp. 47–50.

18 Sleater-Kinney. “ #1 Must Have.” All Hands on the Bad One, John Goodmanson, Portland, Oregon, 2000.

19Niccoli, Casey. “I Was A Creative Force Behind One Of The Biggest Rock Bands Of The ’90s. Then I Watched Them Erase

Me From Their Story.” Huffpost.Com, 17 July 2024.

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“Such a classic girl, gives her man great ideas/ And hears you tell your friends, ‘Hey man, why don't you listen to my great idea!’”20 Bassist Eric Avery posted a picture on Instagram in May 2024 of the sculpture she co-created with Ferrall for the cover of the 1990 album Ritual De Lo Habitual. “An amazing historical artifact was unearthed today. #janesaddiction”21 he captioned the post without mention of its co-creator Niccoli.

Internet fans protested the omission and a day later Niccoli went to instagram with her thoughts on the matter, which would evolve into the HuffPost essay: I thought I would celebrate me today, because my name doesn’t get mentioned much anymore in reference to my work for JA. …Perry and I haven’t spoken since probably 1999. Somewhere along the way, without any communication, Perry decided that I was unworthy of any credit or respect. He slowly stopped mentioning my name when interviewing about the band’s history, and the artwork.

What he once referred to as “we” became “I”.22 Her story is riveting and gut wrenching. The article proves her capable of writing an autobiography or creating her own documentary. Whatever the case, herstory needs to be told and heard.

“Such a classic girl…”23 When I hear about a lack of representation of women in a music scene, my first reaction is to wonder how welcome women are in the first place. How many female and marginalized performers have been pushed out by a boys club of promoters, club owners, or a male-dominated musicican 20Jane’s Addiction. “Classic Girl.”

21Avery, Eric. An amazing historical artifact was unearthed today. #janesaddiction. 16 May 2024.

Instagram.

22Niccoli, Casey. ogclassicgirl. 17 May 2024. Instagram.

23Jane’s Addiction. “Classic Girl.”

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community? Whose stories are left out due to bad blood or breakups? What other factors keep marginalized folx out?

Patriarchal industry gatekeepers? Archaic divisions of labor that come to a head when women have children? I want to ask any man standing center stage what women have sacrificed for them to be there. Who raised the babies? Who fed them and cleaned the house? Who sacrificed their own artistic aspirations to perform the labor necessary for paying rent? What role do drugs and alcohol play in a community which can only exacerbate the threat of sexual assault, sexual harrassment, unplanned pregnancy, and domestic violence?

“Too many creeps, too many creeps / Too many creeps, too many creeps…”24 It took me about a month after my return from my trip abroad before I was able to meet with my homie calmly and tell him about his butt-dial. I handed him a list of about 13 people I think he could interview for his Chicano music documentary. My list included queer rapper Chris Conde, festival and rock show producer Faith Radle, and filmmaker Jim Mendiola who is known for his directing videos and films championing female rockers. Rebel Mariposa, the former owner of the now closed lgbtq+ live music and gay cultural hub La Botanica should be interviewed, along with the creator of Xingonas in the Pit, Daisy Salinas, who frequently moved all the furniture out of her house to create a safe and inclusive space for the local punk houseparties.

The list goes on: Son Queers, Alyson Alonzo, Suzy Bravo and the Soul Review, Speeder, Jackie on Acid (now called Saving Jackie), DJ Despeinada, Ceiba Ili, and the Indigenecias.

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Bush Tetras. Too Many Creeps.

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just another book about the women in rock just another book about the women in rock just another book about the women in rock just another book about the women in rock 25 My list is not comprehensive by any means. We all have blind spots that we can either acknowledge or ignore in our work. “Your blind spot is my whole reality,” I told him. I didn't mention to him that this is a line from a song I had just written inspired by these thoughts. I also didn’t mention that I am writing this essay.

He heard me out and took it like a true homie. He apologized for the hurt his words caused. We talked about the list and he agreed that he needs to interview some of the names I offered him. “Such a classic girl, gives her man great ideas / And hears you tell your friends, ‘Hey man, why don't you listen to my great idea!’"26 Hettie Jones ended up fighting developers until a deal was struck for them to construct a 23-story hotel around her building. The Cooper Square Hotel (now The Standard, East Village) opened in 2008, and eventually in 2017, a historic marker did go up. It reads:

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In the 1960s, this 1845 former rooming house became the laboratory for artistic, literary and political currents. Writers LeRoi Jones (later Amiri Baraka) and Hettie Jones, their Yugen magazine and Totem Press, musician Archie Shepp and painter Elizabeth Murray all had homes here. The vacant building was transformed into a vital hub of cultural life, attracting leading figures including those from the Beats and the world of jazz.27

Julie Ruin. “Crochet.” Julie Ruin, Kathleen Hanna, Olympia, Washington, 1997.

26Jane’s Addiction. “Classic Girl.”

27The Greenwich Village Society for Historic Preservation. “27 Cooper Square.”

Https://Readtheplaque.Com/, readtheplaque.com/plaque/27-cooper-square#gsc.tab=0. Accessed 15 Mar. 2025.

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It doesn’t mention, but should be noted that Hetti Jones raised two daughters there. “Such a classic girl… /Such a 28 classic girl… / You know for us these are the days.”

28Jane’s Addiction. “Classic Girl.”

References: https://www.instagram.com/p/C7DUgqQrVS6/ https://www.instagram.com/p/C7GORCANfh1/? utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igsh=MzRlODBiNWFlZA== https://socialjusticechicanoactivism.wordpress.com/wpcontent/uploads/2016/09/chicana_power.pdf https://www.yahoo.com/entertainment/creative-force-behind-one-biggest125908936.html https://www.beatdom.com/women-of-the-beat-generation/ https://medium.com/@womenofthebeatgeneration_/introduction-to-thewomen-of-the-beat-generation-e9ff38a454a5 https://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/28/nyregion/thecity/28hote.html https://www.standardhotels.com/culture/hettie-jones-east-village-interview https://pitchfork.com/features/lists-and-guides/9923-the-story-of-feministpunk-in-33-son https://www.instagram.com/p/C7GORCANfh1/? utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igsh=MzRlODBiNWFlZA%3D%3D

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The Underrated Women Who Made Punk Possible pt 1

Obviously, there are our foremothers like Tina Turner, the Queen of Rock ’n’ Roll, who paved the way for them all. Then there are trailblazers who form the canon: Debbie Harry, Siouxsie Sioux, Ari Up, Eve Libertine, Lydia Lunch, Wendy O. Williams, Beki Bondage, Exene Cervenka, Kim Gordon, Donita Sparks, Kat Bjelland, Kim Shattuck, Theo Kogan, Mia Zapata, Donna Dresch, Kathleen Hanna, Tobi Vail, Allison Wolfe, Corin Tucker, Carrie Brownstein, & Brody Dalle. There’s also an undercurrent shaping punk today: Amy Taylor, Marisa Dabice, Stephanie Phillips, Lira Mondal, & countless others. Below are more names you need on your radar — just as vital but too often overlooked.

Alice Bag (The Bags) Chicana feminist punk icon who helped form the East L.A. punk scene before punk was even called punk.

Fertile La Toyah Jackson Black punk vocalist and performance artist active in underground DIY scenes.

Flora Lucini (MAAFA, The 1865) Brazilian-born Black punk musician & fest organizer who channels politically rooted “Afro-Progressive Hardcore.”

Anjali Bhatia, Ella Guru, Stefania Lucchesini, Anjula Bhasker, Mary Deigan (Voodoo Queens) Multiracial feminist punk band central to 1990s UK riot grrrl and anti-racist punk.

Fanny Millington & Jean Millington (Fanny) Filipina-American sisters in one of the first all-women rock bands.

Casey Niccoli (Jane’s Addiction) Visual artist and collaborator whose aesthetic work shaped alt-rock’s visual language.

Gaye Advert (The Adverts) British punk bassist who’s basslines helped define early UK punk.

Chrissie Hynde (The Pretenders) Early punk participant whose role in UK punk is often minimized.

Cristy C. Road (Choked Up) Queer Cuban-American artist, writer, and punk musician whose anti-fascist DIY work bridges punk and activism.

Irma Cecilia Loera (Cecilia ±) Early Descendents vocalist erased from official band history - later fronted goth band Angel of the Odd.

Debora Iyall (Romeo Void) Indigenous Cowlitz singer whose voice helped define post-punk and new wave.

Jenny Lens Without her photographs, large parts of the early L.A. punk scene (Black Flag, X, Germs, The Bags) would barely exist visually.

Etsuko “Sheena” Ayukawa (Sheena & the Rokkets) Foundational figure in Japanese punk and new wave.

Jessy Bulbo (Las Ultrasónicas) Mexican punk musician, producer, and writer whose work helped define feminist punk and garage rock in Mexico.

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The Underrated Women Who Made Punk Possible pt 2 Lorna Doom (Germs) Mexican-American bassist whose musical role is often overshadowed.

Pauline Black (The Selecter) Key figure in 2 Tone ska-punk, merging anti-racist politics with punk energy.

Michelle Gonzales (Bitch Fight, Kamala and the Karivores, Spitboy) Xicana drummer and lyricist central to multiple all-women punk bands.

Penelope Houston (The Avengers) Political punk frontwoman central to the San Francisco punk scene.

Poison Ivy (The Cramps) Guitarist, songwriter, and archivist whose musical vision was central to The Cramps’ punk-garage sound and longevity, often overshadowed by her male bandmate.

Mimi Nguyen (Evolution of a Race Riot) Writer and editor whose work reshaped punk discourse on race, feminism, and power.

Nomy Lamm Queercore punk singer-songwriter, zinester, and activist whose work confronts fat oppression, disability, gender, & trauma through punk ethics.

Poly Styrene (X-Ray Spex) Black British punk visionary whose influence is often sidelined in favor of white contemporaries.

Nikki Corvette (Nikki & the Corvettes) Punk-pop pioneer whose influence on garage and pop-punk is rarely credited.

Q Lazzarus (Diane Luckey) Black alternative artist whose work crossed punk, new wave, and post-punk spaces.

Osa Atoe (Shotgun Seamstress) Zine-maker and writer documenting Black punk history.

Raeghan Buchanan (The Secret History of Black Punk) Comic writer and visual artist preserving Black punk narratives long erased from mainstream histories.

Pat Place (Bush Tetras) Guitarist who’s playing shaped New York’s post-punk and no wave scenes influencing punk’s experimental edge.

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The Underrated Women Who Made Punk Possible pt 3 Ramdasha Bikceem Creator of the riot grrrl zine Gunk, centering Black feminist punk voices.

Susana “Susy Riot” Sepulveda (Las Sangronas y El Cabron, Punk Con) Punk vocalist, scholar, and co-founder of Punk Con.

Rhoda Dakar (The Bodysnatchers) 2 Tone vocalist whose anti-racist punkska work shaped UK punk’s multiracial future.

Suzi Quatro (The Pleasure Seekers) Proto-punk rocker whose influence on punk bassists and performers is often under-acknowledged.

Sadie “Switchblade” Smith (G.L.O.S.S) Trans punk vocalist who formed the hardcore band G.L.O.S.S (Girls Living Outside Society’s Shit).

Suzy Exposito (Suzy X) Singer (Shady Hawkins), zinester (Chiflada), and music journalist.

Sareena Rai Known as the godmother of Nepali punk.

Teresa Covarrubias (The Brat) East L.A. punk bassist and organizer central to Chicanx punk’s emergence.

Shonen Knife Japanese punk trio whose influence is often dismissed as novelty despite deep punk roots.

Tina Bell (Bam Bam) Seattle punk pioneer whose work predates and directly influences grunge.

Tina Weymouth (Talking Heads) Bassist whose rhythmic innovations shaped post-punk and new wave.

Sister Rosetta Tharpe Black guitarist whose electric style laid groundwork for rock and punk aesthetics.

Wendy Yao, Amy Yao, Emily Ryan (Emily’s Sassy Lime) First-generation Asian American riot grrrl trio who challenged the movement’s whiteness through raw, lo-fi DIY punk made on their own terms.

Sista Grrrl Riot (Tamar-kali, Simi Stone, Honeychild Coleman, Maya Sokora) Late-1990s Black feminist punk movement formed in response to Riot Grrrl’s exclusions.

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t s e F k n u P n w o r B & k Blac f o y r a u t c n a S l a ic d a R –A Joy & Resistance

By Daisy Salinas "We're witnessing the era of a new creative punk renaissance led

by QTBIPOC investing in the collective holistic well-being of our people in ways that offer alternatives to the dependency on the systems that kill us. Which to me is vital in the longevity of our movements; We really are 'ALL we got.'"

— Flora-Morena Ferreira Lucini (MAAFA, The 1865)

After four months of planning, Black & Brown Punk Fest 2025 (Saturday, October 18th at San Antonio’s Tandem) was a huge success and it’s taken me a minute to really sit with what this moment meant. Because Black & Brown Punk Fest isn’t just a show. It’s a sanctuary. And it was built and led by women and femmes of color, onstage, behind the scenes, and in every invisible detail that made the night possible.

Punk gave me freedom growing up in Nashville, but it also pushed me out. Sexism and racism nearly drove me away from the scene I loved and helped create. I wrote about that experience in Muchacha Fanzine’s “Decolonize Punk” issue (page 45). The message was clear: You can be here, but you can’t take up space. You can exist, but you better stay grateful and quiet. But punk taught me something else too. If the world won’t make space for you, you build your own.

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That exclusion pushed me to do the punkest thing I could think of: build my own scene. Since 2017, the feminist punk collective I started, Xingonas in the Pit, has been doing exactly that. In 2018 we launched Texas’s first Black & Brown Punk Fest, which returned in 2019. We’ve also organized additional fests, shows, workshops, the plus-size clothes swap Thick Bitch, a Covid Conscious Craft Club, and more. After a pandemic pause and some burnout, an incredible team of volunteers across Texas helped us bring the fest back stronger and more intentional than ever.

(photo by @pray.4rain)

The crew (pictured above) was Jazzmin, Crystal, Nilse, Alma, Denise, Amalia, Monica, Geo, Des, Sabrina, plus me. Folks don’t always see the hundreds of invisible hours behind a DIY festival. You spot a flyer and decide whether to come, but it doesn’t happen out of nowhere. It happens because people like us make it happen through dozens of emails, meetings, grant applications, artist bookings, travel arrangements, rider fulfillment, production logistics, vendor coordination, marketing, flyering, volunteer recruitment, training, and site 36

setup. It’s unpaid labor. It’s emotional labor. It’s physical labor. It’s the kind of work capitalism wants to erase because it can’t profit off it. But we do it anyway. By the people, for the people.

BBPF’s success was collective care in motion. Our sound team (shoutout Tequila Productions, our production manager Monica, stage manager Des, and stagehand Nilse) made every set land. Flyers, photos, and videos (thank you @juan.y.diego, Bosh, Geo, and Sabrina) captured the night’s intensity and tenderness. Vendors, from Gorda Bakes’ perfect cake to zine creators and artists, made the space feel abundant and sustaining.

Cake by @gordabakes, flyer by @juan.y.diego (photo by @__kreatura)

And I need to say this plainly: Xingonas in the Pit’s Safer Space Crew is not a “nice addition.” It’s the backbone. It’s the point. A safer space crew isn’t just there for vibes. We’re there because people are harmed in scenes that refuse accountability. We’re there because too many punk spaces still treat misogyny, racism, transphobia, 37

fatphobia, and ableism like background noise, like it’s “just how it is.” No. That’s not punk. That’s bigotry playing dress up in a punk costume. Safer Space Crew is how we protect each other when the world won’t. Shoutout to the incredible Shawna Potter (War on Women) for the training!

This work is hard, and sustainability matters if I want to keep doing it. I’m lucky to have such a badass team to prevent burnout. Watching women, queer, trans, and BIPOC people of all ages dance, mosh, and rage together makes every bit of labor worth it. This wasn’t just another show. It was a declaration.

From left to right: Our stage manager Des, production manager Monica, volunteer/photographer/videographer Geo, & me. (photo by @pray.4rain)

When Xingonas in the Pit took the stage at the beginning of the fest, the room transformed into an intentional space of fierce joy, urgent catharsis, and collective care. Before I passed the mic to Geo, our youngest volunteer, I talked about the importance of all-ages shows and intergenerational solidarity. I talked about creating the kinds of spaces I needed when I was younger. Knowing I get to be a punk auntie to a generation doing punk bigger and better than I ever imagined almost brought me to tears.

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Because this is what the people in power don’t want us to have: a space full of movement and sound that feels like sanctuary and refuge. People dancing like it matters, moshing like it heals, singing as an act of political resistance. That energy carried the night from performance to ritual, pulling us a little further from isolation and closer to one another. It was, simply, magical.

BBPF reaffirmed that punk is more than a genre of music. It’s a language of resistance and solidarity. It’s a radical tool for marginalized people to resist their oppression, refuse state violence and white supremacy, and still make room for tenderness, queerness, and joy. The bands (Lagrimas, Las Hijas de la Madre, BÖNDBREAKR, Black Mercy, Morta, Fuchi, and quiet storm) delivered cathartic performances that felt like the release we need in these fascist times. Their sets held grief and rage and survival and future-making.

Necessary refrains against a world intent on silencing us.

Accessibility was political, not optional. Safety, clean air, and care were central. All acts performed outdoors for better airflow. Volunteers secured the ADA entrance for wheelchair accessibility (shoutout to Crystal for crushing it at the entrance). Supporters provided masks and air purifiers (huge thank you Covid Conscious Bloc of San Antonio, Clear the Air Austin, and NALAC). Despite the ableist hellscape we live in that sacrifices our health to capitalism, I firmly believe: masking is community care. Clean air is a right.

And in response to transphobic policies that make public spaces unsafe, we transformed the bathrooms into genderneutral facilities to be accessible to people of all genders. That infrastructure is political. That decision is punk. That’s what it looks like when we stop asking for permission and start acting like we deserve to exist.

Many thanks to our sponsors (Music to Life and Wonder of You Massage) for helping make an accessible event possible.

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quiet storm by @__kreatura

Morta by @pray.4rain Lagrimas by @__kreatura

Black & Brown Punk Fest San Antonio

in

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BÖ ND @p BRE ra AK y R

Las Hijas de La Madre by @pray.4rain Fuchi by @pray.4rain

October 18, 2025

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BBPF matters because it pushes back against the erasure baked into DIY and punk cultures that have historically centered whiteness, cis-heteropatriarchy, and gatekeeping.

This festival reclaimed punk as home for Black, Brown, Indigenous, and other POC, for women, queer, youth, disabled, fat, migrant, trans, and nonbinary folks, for anyone told they don’t belong. We flew our freak flags, invented rituals of care and resistance, and imagined futures where our existence is celebrated, not policed.

And here’s the part I want everyone to hear, especially the people watching from the edges, thinking they’re “not important enough” or “not experienced enough” to build something: you can start your own festival. You can start your own collective.

You can start your own safer space crew. You can make your own DIY infrastructure. You can build the kind of space you’ve been praying to find.

You don’t need a million dollars. You don’t need industry approval. You don’t need a perfect lineup. You don’t need permission from people who don’t give a shit about you anyway.

You just need a few committed people, a shared politics of care, and the willingness to try. Because punk doesn’t belong to gatekeepers. It belongs to the people who show up and keep each other safe when the world is trying to break us.

And the biggest secret is this: we’re not alone. We never were.

We just have to find each other. And once we do, we build.

BBPF was proof of that.

Xingonas in the Pit will keep building. If you’re in or near San Antonio, come through. Follow @xingonasinthepit for updates. And if you want resources for organizing your own festival hit me up at xingonasinthepit@gmail.com. I’m also planning a collaborative “howto start a fest” zine with BIPOC punk fest organizers, so keep an eye out. Because we’re done waiting to be included. We are the scene.

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S AS WA KW NK UN PU P S RS UR OU YO RY VEER NEEV N They tried to tell us the noise came from somewhere else.

Like we were only echoes, not the strike that lit the match.

Like we were props in a scene we built with our own hands.

But punk grew in our kitchens and living rooms, In late nights and in the unpaid labor that built your boy world legacy, In throats torn open from screaming words we were never credited for.

We learned how to tune guitars while running the whole damn thing.

We booked the shows, built it from nothing, kept each other safe in the wings.

And still you tried to shrink us into labels you could pocket: scene slut, crazy bitch, girlfriend, muse.

I’m not your muse. I’m the blueprint.

Whoever gets remembered is political, That’s why you keep burying our names like contraband.

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Byy D B Da aiis sy y Saalliin S naass

Macho punk bullshit stood at the gates like a bouncer with a god complex.

Patriarchy in a leather jacket pretending it’s rebellion.

Homophobes and transphobes screaming “free speech” through nostalgia, Ableists and fatphobes deciding which bodies are disposable.

Gatekeeping + violence go together.

Like punks playing dress-up, mistaking cruelty for credibility and bigotry for edge.

But patriarchy isn’t punk.

And punk was never fucking yours.

It survived in spite of you, Kept alive by women and femmes you tried to sideline, silence, erase.

So no, we’re not asking for a seat at your table.

We’re flipping that table over.

We’re done being the side characters in our own revolution.

Keep your flowers, we’ll give them to each other.

We’ll grow gardens in the ruins, build our own altars, write our herstory like graffiti you can’t scrub out.

And light every gate on fire.

So the next generation of punks inherits not your cages, But a world we rebuilt from the ashes.

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OSS BIIO B Amalia Ortiz is a Tejana spoken word performer, playwright, and poet, and the author of two award-winning books of poetry. She received the 2020 American Book Award for Oral Literature and has appeared on three seasons of Def Poetry on HBO as well as the NAACP Image Awards on FOX. Her honors include a City of San Antonio Individual Artist Grant, and she was a member of the Spring 2025 cohort of Music to Life’s Musician Changemaker Accelerator Academy. Ortiz earned her MFA in Creative Writing from The University of Texas Rio Grande Valley. She is also the frontwoman, lyricist, and lead singer of Las Hijas de la Madre, whose members include Errezeta (lead guitar, vocals), Lilith Tijerina (bass, vocals), Dr. Kip Austin Hinton (rhythm guitar and musical direction), and Joaquin Muerte (drums).

Las Hijas de la Madre is a queer Chicanx feminist punk band that formed originally to perform The Cancíon Cannibal Cabaret, Ortiz’s punk musical published by Aztlan Libre Press in 2019. Centering Tejana voices, the band explores the relationship between Chicanx rasquachismo and the do-it-yourself ethos of punk, radically re-envisioning a historically white, male genre through an intersectional feminist lens. Their latest album, Diatribas Punk, is a Chicanx feminist punk outcry for social change, addressing themes of consent, solidarity in social movements, border feminist perspectives, people over profits, environmental justice, queer identity and self-love, and global liberation for people of color. The band developed the album during a Democratizing Racial Justice Artist Residency funded by the Mellon Foundation, with additional support from an Alternate Roots Project Development Grant. The album’s twelve tracks were independently recorded at Jett Bass Studio at The Corn Pound in San Antonio, mixed by Justin Morris, and mastered by Houston-based, GRAMMY-winning mastering engineer Harold LaRue. 45

Daisy Salinas is a Xicana feminist zinester, punk, activist, & rabble rouser living in Yanaguana (San Antonio, Texas). With the mission to uplift the voices and talents of artists of color, Daisy is the founder of the decolonial Xicana feminist zine Muchacha Fanzine and the feminist punk collective Xingonas in the Pit. Through her art and the work of fellow people of color, Daisy aims to advance struggles for liberation on a global level. Daisy has fronted the punk bands Alien Midwife, Frijolera Riot, and her current project Venus Thigh Trap. Follow her work on Instagram @muchachafanzine and @xingonasinthepit or support ongoing publications and projects via her shop at etsy.com/shop/muchachashop or subscribing at patreon.com/muchachafanzine.

U OU YO KY NK AN HA IG TTH B BIG

This zine was made possible because Rock’n’Cave funded its creation after Muchacha Fanzine’s “Decolonize Punk” was named one of the winners of their fanzine contest.

Rock’n’Cave is a Portugal-based non-profit cultural association founded in 1997, uplifting underground, innovative art and keeping DIY culture alive through projects like their Rock’n’Cave Fanzinoteca (a living zine library and archive). They believe culture belongs everywhere, not just big cities.

Support them: follow them @rockncave, share their work, and check out rockncave.org.

Collages, edits, edits, & & design design by

by Daisy Daisy Salinas Salinas Collages, Published February February 2026 2026 Published 46

U N D E R G R O R U U N DN EHT B A D B I T C SEH

TCHES BAD BI E RUN TH ROUND G UNDER