Over the years, a lot of winged eyeliner has been drawn on to the gritty sounds of L7. And, if I’m being honest as a ‘90s girl, plenty of eyebrows, too. Nothing got me ready to rage more than running Bricks are Heavy from start to finish as I put on my makeup in front of the mirror, whether it was with my girlfriends or alone before heading out to play a show. Their particular brand of unapologetic female aggression was like an ice-cold energy drink, a shot of caffeine reminding me exactly why I was plugging in my guitar.
I didn’t discover them until I was about 13 years old, coincidentally the year I joined my first band. By then, Smell the Magic had already been out on Sub Pop Records for a few years, and I remember thinking they sounded heavier and tighter than just about any other all-woman band at the time. They took the riffs seriously, which was a huge thing for me as a young guitarist. Their music wasn’t just a vehicle for the message; it carried enough weight to stand completely on its own.
Though L7 meant a lot to all of us budding feminists in the ‘90s, they were also the soundtrack for many games of hacky sack, “safety meetings” and cold summer beers on the porch. It was the sound of my youth and rebellion all in one. Aren’t we always trying to get that feeling back?
Despite always loving them, I managed to NOT see them until I was almost 40 years old, when they played The Pyramid Scheme in Grand Rapids, MI. They executed flawlessly, and it was great to chat with Jennifer Finch afterward. She was friendly and enthusiastic.
Like Jennifer, I was a shutterbug. As the years went on, it grew out of being a hobby and into being a full-time, multifaceted business that complemented my life as a musician. Looking back at Jennifer’s work, there is such a clear talent for documentation. Where would we be without photographers like Jennifer preserving the moments we’d otherwise lose? Especially when the world changes so quickly after the shutter clicks. As Jennifer herself so eloquently said, “The passage of time brings about inevitable comparisons between our younger selves and our current incarnations” (JenniferFinch.com, 2024).
Our current incarnations. That brings us to this last weekend, when I was driving home from the thrift store, and my husband said to me from the passenger seat, “Oh, no. Jennifer Finch died.” It took a moment for it to register. She was always “Jenny from L7” or “Precious.” And wasn’t she just 12 years or so older than me? It dawned on me that I’d been seeing L7 clips and old tour stories filling my social media feed over the previous day, and I had been enjoying the nostalgia without realizing they were elegies.
A few more days passed, and I listened to Hungry for Stink with my morning coffee and felt even worse about it. Jennifer’s passing is personal for me because as I approach 50 myself in just three years, I wonder how much time any of us ‘90s kids have left to make music.
For Jennifer, who was organizing fundraisers for St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital and continuing to tour with L7, there seemed to be no signs of slowing down until her devastating brain cancer diagnosis. I hate that for her. And I hate that for the rest of us, too. It’s unfair. Loss has a way of reverberating through a community before we even realize it, like mycelium underneath the forest floor.
John Donne wrote, “Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”
Rest easy, Jenny. Your band meant a lot to me.
Chantal Roeske is the frontwoman and lead guitarist for the Michigan noise rock band Tonguecutter. A writer and photographer, she explores underground music, creativity, and culture through personal essays. Tonguecutter’s latest album, Minnow, was released through Learning Curve Records, with new music planned for 2026.
