by Carrie Brownstein

(Thanks, Aubree!)

Back in the '90s, whether you were from Seattle, Olympia or Portland, a riot grrl or not so much, pro-Nirvana but anti-Pearl Jam (or vice versa), or whether you thought that Dwarves album cover (link not safe for work!) was perfectly fine or totally effed up, one thing most people could agree upon was that the band name "Cherry Poppin' Daddies" was revolting. The group, based in Eugene, Ore., seemed to be playing just about every weekend in the Pacific Northwest, so everywhere you looked, there was a flier for one of their shows, and there was that name.

In a decade laden with identity politics, people seemed much more sensitive to the notions of cultural ownership and appropriation. One's background either gave one license to borrow, name and depict, or it rendered those same allusions off-limits. And, though I'm certain that Cherry Poppin' Daddies would claim that the name was ironic, we had not yet entered the age of post-irony. You know, like how nothing is offensive anymore because it doesn't mean anything and everyone is just kidding and we all know it's not real and stuff like that.

Then, the other evening, I was telling a friend about Local Natives, and she balked at the name. It had been a while since someone had voiced such an immediate and visceral objection to a band's moniker. Sure, it was more of an eye-roll than anything else, but the message was loud and clear. All of a sudden, we were talking AIDS Wolf, Meth Teeth and Black P—sy.

The other day on this very blog, I mentioned a band called C—tifer. Sure, it's offensive, but it's also laughable. Yet it's only laughable if we're all operating under the tacit agreement that it's offensive. That's where it starts to get complicated.

So, have we moved beyond caring? Is bad music the only true offense? Or are there still band names that make you cringe? (Try to keep it as clean as possible in the comments, please.)