“We’re open about S&M,” says Lynee,
Tribe 8 lead singer—and just about anything else as Tracy Flannigan has so
unstintingly captured in this 60-minute look into this dyke band
extraordinaire.
Starting with their controversial gig at
the 1994 Michigan Womyn's Music Festival, the film chronicles four years in the
lives of these reformed addicts who take to the stage, strip off their shirts
and rage loud, long and hard about their past traumas and the plight of womyn
everywhere.
The Canadian connection is bass player
Tantrum, who joined the troupe in San Francisco, abandoning Toronto for this
heady scene (even though she confesses “the music kind of bores me”), yet living
in fear of deportation due to her “unofficial” status in the U.S.
Since their shows are not on the
mainstream circuit, all of the members must find other, time-flexible jobs
between engagements. Of mixed race (like Tantrum), Leslie has talent for
tattooing. She makes the wry observation that a few decades after she dies, all
of her body art will disappear from the planet as her human canvasses also
expire.
The band’s mantra is to be “goofy” on
stage and at that they exceed expectations. Lynee revels in prancing about in
sport boxers with a plastic dick lurking incongruously in the fabric. But it is
often unleashed as a male member from the frenetic crowd is cajoled into taking
stage and “give Tribe 8 a blow job.” Licking heavy leather boots is also part
of the fun.
One of the most memorable shots is the
band members falling into the waiting arms of their fans, producing imagery of
being carried off with love to a funeral pyre. And the slogan “shoot rapists,
not heroin,” will resonate long after the credits fade to black.
It’s truly an extraordinary group: near-neophytes banding together with the common threads of sexuality, previous substance abuse, failed relationships, and the difficultly of coming out provide
a vat of emotional glue. They love to be in-your-face, although once off stage
(we are told) they are far removed from their theatrical personas.
Inevitably, they start to break apart and
move on to separate paths. The desire to “experience the rapture of being
alive,” which—initially—brought them together, sends them back home, along bike
paths and into other means of more personal self-expression (arts, writing,
film).
Which is to say they’re right: “You can’t really save anybody.” But through their common cause and ensemble
venting, each one has found enough of themselves to have the confidence to
vacate their oh-so-quirky nest. JWR