Opinion: How Alternative Band Mannequin Pussy Turned Rage Into Resistance and Release at Gov Ball

By Camila Molina

This article contains strong language, including direct quotes from performers. The language has been retained to accurately reflect the tone, message, and emotional intensity of the performance. Reader discretion is advised.

It has been a little over a week since I saw Mannequin Pussy perform at Gov Ball, and I have not stopped thinking about it since. Lead singer and guitarist Marisa “Missy” Dabice, along with vocalist and bassist Colins “Bear” Regisford, delivered a performance that did not pretend everything was fine outside the festival gates. Instead, it acknowledged what many in the crowd already knew too well — that people are facing unprecedented attacks on their rights, from anti-trans executive orders to policies targeting immigrants and other marginalized groups.

Dabice did not just carve out one moment to say something thoughtful — her entire presence, along with the energy of the set, transformed rage into something other than a bottled-up, painful feeling. At one point in between songs she declared, “Christian fascism weighs heavy on my mind,” directly naming the oppressive systems that many avoid addressing.

She went on to speak about a broader cultural and legislative shift toward so-called “Christian values” that alienate and endanger those who don’t conform to these ideas. “Before we were all born, this script was made,” she said — likely referring to the Bible — before continuing, “and if you don’t fit onto this page, they’ll make your life a living hell.” 

She addressed the men in the audience at many points. Dabice said “I wish you would learn to respect the people that you don’t want to f*ck…” Though misogyny is nothing new, there has been a disturbing, relentless and impossible-to-ignore normalization of this cruelty. After all, the president of the United States was found liable in court for sexual abuse. 

There is a tendency for women who call out injustice and sexism to be painted as “man haters,” but Dabice didn’t leave room for such accusations, (though I am sure they exist somewhere) stating very clearly, “I am not a misandrist.” 

As the band started building into “Loud Bark” with peaceful instrumentals — providing a

moment of rest to allow space for these messages, in contrast to other songs reminiscent of early punk music — Dabice continued to address the men. “For some reason there’s still this apprehension, this fear of the word ‘pussy.’ And it’s so strange to me that it’s usually the men who are the ones who are telling us that what we do is obscene.” Dabice raised her voice, continuing with “that we should change the very way that we are in order to make someone else more comfortable. Can you imagine being so desperate for something you are so afraid of? So, before we begin this next one, just curious — where are all the boys in the audience, where are all the men?! Boys, men, don’t be shy, raise your hands. I’m Missy.”

Her call to action to the men in the audience was simple: “Scream pussy as loud as you can.” Then she said, “Girls, theys, show them how it’s done!”

Dabice addressed these topics in a way that didn’t leave nonbinary people out — something that often gets overlooked in these conversations. Though not explicitly addressed in the performance, abortion comes to mind as a key example, where reproductive health is frequently framed as a “women’s issue,” when in reality, women’s bodies aren't the only ones being policed and controlled. 

The sonic experience itself was not to be missed. I hadn’t even heard of Mannequin Pussy before this set — but after experiencing “Loud Bark” live, I’ve had it on repeat all week. The movement didn’t stop onstage — the band’s energy felt like it reached through the audience and wrapped us all in it. The crowd around me mirrored the momentum I saw on stage — jumping, sometimes frantically, with their own rhythm, screaming — and I felt free in a way I hadn’t in a very long time.

After “Loud Bark,” what came next was best described as an explosion, with instrumentals echoing the early 1990s, reminding me of bands like Bikini Kill during the riot grrrl era.

Then came their current number one song on Spotify, “I Got Heaven,” with Dabice delivering vocals that matched the studio version with uncanny accuracy — shifting seamlessly from raw, guttural screams to a controlled whisper. Surprisingly, the chorus transforms into a dreamscape — a bedroom pop/rock anthem. It’s a combination I wouldn’t have believed if I had just read it. But you had to be there.

The band revisited more punk elements in “Of Her” and “Aching” and the raw, repetitive urgency of “OK? OK? OK? OK?” But their music is far from one style. Dabice’s ability to shift from ethereal, floating vocals to full-blown screamo is nothing short of jaw-dropping — and a technical feat, especially considering the challenge of preserving one’s voice through it all.

From start to finish, the instrumentals and stage presence of the band were undeniably energizing — not just watching someone sing or play drums or guitar or bass, but witnessing a real performance. With Regisford headbanging toward drummer Kaleen Reading during a riff that’s likely going to be stuck in my head for days (as happened many times, especially during “I Got Heaven”), the energy was nonstop. Dabice remained a vocal powerhouse, jumping around the stage and at one point dropping to her knees, physically throwing herself into the song during “Of Her” — and she didn’t lose that intensity for a second.

But Dabice wasn’t the only one radiating that energy vocally. Regisford also delivered powerful, cathartic vocals. He took a moment to speak out before introducing “Pigs Is Pigs,” dedicating the track to people of color and the queer community: “This song is about how the police are f*cking bullsh*t.” He didn’t stop there, also calling out ICE — a growing concern even here in New York City, once considered a safe place. He also said: “So hopefully one day we can see a free Palestine, and maybe one day we can free ourselves.” Later the drums erupted, and Regisford launched into astoundingly visceral, screaming vocals.

The instrumentals also were part of the cathartic energy the band was channeling, with rhythmic feedback at one point filling the entire festival grounds.

Before playing “Perfect,” another punk rock performance, Dabice addressed  the crowd. She said, “I know I’m not supposed to be angry…I’m supposed to be shy and quiet and pretty and just take it and I’m supposed to shut the f*ck up, right?” She repeated this a few times before screaming and groaning. This was something I felt to my core, and the connection deepened when she returned to the topic later, saying she felt the audience was a reflection of the people on stage. I’m usually careful about resonating with bands in this way — after countless interviews and experiences meeting my idols, I know you can’t truly know the people you look up to, you don’t really know the band members — but in that moment, that side of me melted away. For this performance, I felt like we were all family.

The catharsis I keep referring to wasn’t accidental. Dabice says, “Taking in music and catharsis in a safe environment like this… I think we are pretty fucking lucky.”

Toward the end of the band’s set, Dabice introduced a tradition they do at their shows. It was another call to action, though in many ways, the entire performance already felt like one. She pleads, “Do not let them infantilize your anger,” sharing that she was once told she would grow out of hers. “It is complete f*cking bullsh*t,” she says. “I have only gotten angrier every f*cking year of my life. Don’t let them take it away from you.”

“Find a way to transform the rage into something else rather than something that just sits inside you…that is how they — racists and sexists and incels and homophobes and transphobic people — win…you don’t want to be exactly what they need you to be, which is full of hate.”

“You’re not too cool for this,” she told the crowd. “Get your catharsis out for the day.” She calls on the audience to scream: “This is a completely safe place. Take the rage inside you and give it to me.” She counted down. The screams erupt. And the band turned that rage into music.

I remember being told my senior year of high school — after writing a speech about the normalization of rape culture — “People will tell you to be less angry. Don’t.” As I write this now, I realize there are so many young people going through the world without ever hearing that message. I waited 17 years to be told it, and I think that’s why performances like Mannequin Pussy’s feel so important today. 

To close, Dabice yelled at us to take care of each other, and it was oddly comforting. The experience overall is best described as transformative, in a way that didn’t feel coincidental but deeply intentional on the part of the band.

The performance was a moment of embrace and emboldenment to those who may feel hopeless today — a reminder that there are still people who won’t ignore the crises unfolding around us.