Ladies Rock Camp Enthusiastically Tells Women They Too Can Rock

I went to summer camp exactly once. I was 12 years old, and my friend Jennifer, an evangelical Christian, invited me to a camp a few hours away from our town. I knew I was going to be less-than-popular when during our first camp session, a counselor asked, “Who should we love before anyone else?” I screamed, “Ourselves!” Of course, everyone else hollered, “Jesus!” Then I got shingles. Yes, you read that right. I came down with the blistery rash normally suffered by geriatrics, and then I went home.

My previous camp experience wasn’t the only reason I was nervous to attend Ladies Rock Camp, a weekend-long offshoot of Southern Girls Rock Camp. At LRC, people ages 18 and up who identify as female go to learn an instrument, form bands with other rad women and play a show. (Southern Girls Rock Camp gives the same opportunity to young women ages 10 to 17.) I mean, I definitely didn’t want to get a rash and go home the second day, or embarass myself by not knowing the culture of my fellow campers. But more than that, I was apprehensive because I’d never played an instrument before in my life.

My boyfriend in high school attempted to teach me to play drums and bass. My husband has tried multiple times to teach me to play bass. Each time, I felt like I failed before I even started. There are a couple of reasons for that: First, I tend to want to be good at things before I even try, and if I pick up a new hobby and don’t immediately create something amazing, I consider myself a complete failure. Second, most of the musicians I grew up with were boys or men, and they were very competitive about playing music. I’ve always had a general feeling that women weren’t exactly invited to the party, unless it was to sell T-shirts or take money at the door — both of which I’ve done my share of. And when they were included, it seemed like they were women first, musicians second, and often judged more harshly by male players. Part of me knew I could be OK at playing music. I scored really well on a musical aptitude test when I was in fifth grade. Not just really well, actually — I got the best score in my whole grade. But our school didn’t have instruments to loan out, and my family was too poor to buy one for me. I don’t remember being upset, because I’m not sure I knew exactly what I was missing out on. 

When I heard about Ladies Rock Camp, put on by the nonprofit YEAH! (Youth Empowerment Through Arts and Humanities), I knew this was my chance learn how to play bass. At this camp, I wouldn’t have to recite Bible verses to make friends, and it would probably be OK to say I love myself. I was definitely invited to this party.

While Southern Girls Rock Camp has become well-known since it launched in 2003, Ladies Rock Camp started only recently, after years of parents and volunteers telling SGRC organizers that they wished they had a similar opportunity. At the end of March, I attended LRC’s fourth camp, which attracted participants from as far away as Louisville, Ky., and Austin, Texas — one to join her daughter for the experience, and the other after receiving the tuition as a birthday present. There were 17 women total, the most the camp for adults has ever had, and their ages ranged from 25 to 67. LRC is also a fundraising platform for Southern Girls Rock Camp, and this session raised $2,700. That’s enough to fund eight-and-a-half full-tuition camp scholarships.

Before I got to camp, a couple of men I know told me I should try to learn and practice ahead of time. “You’ll be better than everyone else,” they said. Their comments solidified my feeling that a lot of men see music as a competition. I was a little nervous about learning, but not enough to want to get a jump on everyone else. As it turned out, plenty of women there already knew how to play, and more than anything else, they relished the opportunity to play with other women.

After some instrument instruction — during which I looked around and realized I was holding my bass upside-down, eliciting a wink from one of my classmates — we were placed in bands and sent off to write a song that we would perform at the end of the four-day camp. At first, I feared there was absolutely no way this could happen. “What if I’m so bad they don’t want me to play?”

Three days later, my new band Shawl & Coats — a yacht-rock-y trio made up of me, a 12-year-old girl who filled in for our no-show drummer and a guitarist who plays in an ELO cover band — played a song in front of an enthusiastic crowd. I didn’t get a blistery rash or make a fool of myself, and the name of our song, “So Can I,” reflected my experience that weekend. All my life, I’ve watched as the men around me confidently declared that they played an instrument. And now I can finally say what I’ve always wanted to say: So can I.