Bursting out of the humid swamps of Ft. Lauderdale, Florida in the early 1990s, Jack Off Jill carved out a name for themselves with a venom-laced lipstick smear of riot grrrl angst, industrial bite and goth-glam theatrics. Fronted by the irreverent and unapologetic Jessicka Addams, the band wasn’t just ahead of their time; they were kicking and screaming at it the whole way through.

Forming in 1992, Jack Off Jill came up in the same murky South Florida scene that spawned shock-rock titan Marilyn Manson (who, notably, played a big role in JOJ’s early days — producing their first demo and sharing the stage with them often). But, where Manson went full on horror, Jack Off Jill leaned into a different kind of darkness — one lined with glitter, razor blades and scathing satire. Their music, a snarling cocktail of punk, goth and industrial noise, was as much a middle finger to the patriarchy as it was a lifeline to misfits and outcasts listening.

Unfortunately, despite their cult following, JOJ were never fully embraced by the mainstream — and that’s probably exactly how they wanted it. The band met their end after 2000s Clear Hearts Grey Flowers, but went on to reunite for a small string of shows in 2015 that didn’t garner much attention. Jack Off Jill’s legacy lives on less in chart numbers and more in the hearts of the weird, wounded and loud-mouthed. If you know, you know.

Emerging out of the alternative heartland of Olympia, Washington, Bikini Kill ignited a musical revolution that demanded the world to listen up. Often cited as pioneers of the same riot grrrl movement that Jack Off Jill cut their teeth on, the band’s raw, unfiltered mix of punk, unapologetic, feminist fury reshaped the underground. It sparked a movement that still resonates with fans today.

At the helm was Kathleen Hanna, whose blistering vocals and incendiary lyrics transformed every performance into a call to arms. With the likes of guitarist Billy Karren, bassist Kathi Wilcox, and drummer Tobi Vail, Bikini Kill crafted anthems in “Rebel Girl” and “Double Dare Ya” — a wild concoction of jagged guitars and pounding drums.

Their early shows in basements and dingy clubs became legendary gatherings and spaces where revolutionaries united in a shared mission to challenge societal norms. Not only would Hanna urge female fans to stand front row, she was no stranger to jumping in the crowd to personally kick out any detractors; specifically male.

Beyond the music, Bikini Kill’s impact was amplified by their staunch feminist ethos. Despite facing fierce pushback, their brief but explosive career left an indelible mark on not only the music scene, but feminist culture. In a landscape that constantly sought to box them in, Bikini Kill’s story is a blazing reminder that real change is born from unyielding defiance.

Forged in the back alleys and neon-lit dive bars of New York City in the late 1980s, Alice Donut arrived on the scene with a presence that defied categorization. Formed in 1986, the band’s original name was Alice Donut Liver Henry Moore, which was a play on Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore — the 1974 romantic comedy directed by legendary filmmaker Martin Scorsese.

After shortening their name to Alice Donut, the band quickly established themselves as architects of an off-kilter sound; one that fused the raw aggression of punk with alternative rock, unexpected pop twist, and a healthy dose of experimental chaos a la Frank Zappa.

Over the course of their nine studio albums, including 1992’s The Untidy Suicides Of Your Degenerate Children, Alice Donut captured their unwavering commitment to reinventing rock on their own terms. Like so many bands of the time, it was no longer just about sound; it was about attitude. Alice Donut’s influence extended far beyond their recordings. They were central figures in New York’s underground scene and their fearless experimentation and shifting lineups challenged the norms of what a rock band could be and should be.

In a city known for its ceaseless reinvention, Alice Donut remains a vivid reminder of a time when music was as unpredictable as the urban jungle it sprang from. Their legacy lives on in every band that dares to blur the lines between chaos and craft — a true blazing tribute to New York’s untamed creative spirit.

Ripping their way out of Minneapolis in the late ‘80s and kicking the door down into the alternative rock scene of the early 1990s, Babes In Toyland didn’t ask for permission and sure as hell didn’t need it. Formed by guitarist and vocalist Kat Bjelland and drummer Lori Barbero, Babes In Toyland were loud, feral, and quite literally impossible to ignore.

Their 1990 debut, Spanking Machine, set the tone for their career right out of the gate: guttural screams, twisted guitar lines and lyrics that sliced through with trauma, rage, felinity and unapologetic intensity.

“Swamp Pussy” and “Dust Cake Boy” weren’t just abrasive — they were cathartic, chaotic declarations from a band that knew exactly what they were doing. With the addition of bassist Maureen Hermann with 1992’s Fontanelle; Babes In Toyland went on to tour alongside the time’s industry greats; all the way from L7 to Nirvana.

Unlike many of their Seattle contemporaries, Babes In Toyland didn’t quite get their due. Maybe it was because they were too abrasive, too messy, or too real. Whatever the reason, their legacy remains criminally underrated. What they created was more than noise and left a mark on everyone who crossed their frequency.

Babes In Toyland never wanted to be your favorite band; they were trying to tear something open in you, and if you were lucky, you got to feel it.

Before Shirley Manson became a household name fronting Garbage, she was sharpening her claws in the short-lived, but fiercely captivating ‘90s band Angelfish; a project that burned quick and bright.

Hailing from Edinburgh, Scotland, Angelfish formed in the early ‘90s as an offshoot of the band Goodbye Mr. Mackenzie, where Manson had previously played keys and provided backing vocals. But, in Angelfish, she stepped into the spotlight and immediately proved she belonged there.

The band’s one and only full-length release, 1994’s self-titled Angelfish, was a brooding, genre-blurring record that lined into dark wave, post-punk, and al-rock sensibilities. Songs such as “Suffocate Me” and “Heartbreak To Hate” shimmered with moody guitars and haunting atmospherics; but it was Manson’s voice — cool, venomous, and emotionally razor-sharp that cut through the haze.

Though Angelfish never had the time to fully take flight, their moment in the spotlight wasn’t without impact. A single airing of the “Suffocate Me” video on MTV’s 120 Minutes was enough to catch the attention of producer Butch Vig — who promptly reached out to Manson and offered her the gig that would soon lead to global recognition in Garbage.

Just like that, Angelfish were over before it really got started; but what they left behind is a criminally overlooked gem of ‘90s alt-rock. Angelfish weren’t just a launching pad, but a statement far too good to be forgotten.