Carole Pope on Rough Trade, Feminism, and Pioneering Queer
A towering figure in rock whose daring artistry and unapologetic boldness helped redefine not only music, but the cultural conversation around sexuality and identity, Carole Pope broke through the mainstream as an openly queer performer at a time when very few dared.
Using her voice — both literally and lyrically — to challenge convention, confront taboo, and carve space for radical expression in pop culture, Pope emerged alongside Kevan Staples in the 1970s as the co‑founder of Rough Trade. The band shattered norms with its high‑voltage new wave sound, erotic lyricism, and provocative stage presence—and Pope, openly lesbian and flamboyant in bondage gear, became one of the first queer entertainers to gain mainstream visibility.
Their breakout hit, “High School Confidential” (1980), lit up the Canadian charts with lyrics that unapologetically centered teenaged lesbian desire. Serving as a seismic moment in pop culture, the song’s induction into the Canadian Songwriters Hall of Fame in 2020 celebrated its role as a catalyst for sexual expression in music. Rough Trade’s impact was further recognized with multiple JUNO Awards, a Genie Award, and both gold and platinum albums throughout the 1980s.
Following Rough Trade’s dissolution in 1988, Pope launched into a legendary solo career marked by historic collaborations, theatrical roles, and an acclaimed memoir, Anti Diva, published in 2000.
From a pioneering punk provocateur to a seasoned solo artist and storyteller, Carole Pope’s trailblazing journey remains a landmark in music history that continues to reverberate far beyond any stage.
KP: You’ve often been called a pioneer of queer visibility in rock.
As a gay woman myself, I have a very complicated relationship with those labels when it comes to creative output — on one hand, having the representation and visibility that comes with labeling something as queer is fantastic, but on the other hand, I feel that it can rapidly pigeonhole an artist, stifling both their overall impact and success.
Do you see yourself as a queer pioneer, or does that label ultimately feel self-limiting?
CP: I do see myself as a queer pioneer, but first and foremost as an artist. I don’t limit myself as a songwriter. Sometimes a love song is just a love song. My writing is open to interpretation.
KP: As a pioneer, you were unapologetically out at a time when very few were. What gave you the courage — or the defiance — to do that? What advice would you lend to women who are currently struggling with their identity?
CP: My credo has always been to write about what turns me on — I think audiences can relate to the fact that you’re being genuine. You have to be true to yourself as a woman. I’ve always given zero fucks about what people think. Women are magic; we create life, and we are compassionate. We are constantly undervalued, under siege, and degraded. Fuck that. Fuck the male gaze. Fuck the opinions of other women who think you’re in competition with them. You be you. You're the person that you have to live with.
KP: That’s invaluable direction to have.
You’ve often said that your work with Rough Trade was ostensibly driven by humor — from your provocative lyrics to your striking bondage attire. Why was humor so important to you at large? Do you feel that you ever used it to humanize a queer community that was so often looked at as inhumane and “other”?
CP: Human sexuality is a constant source of amusement to me, especially all of the sexual taboos created by religions in order to control people and feed them the lie that sex is just for procreation. Scientists know — and some have repressed the fact — that same-sex behaviors are prevalent in 1,500 species of animals and fish. Moral attitudes have changed, and really, who cares? It’s all about control and right now. People are rebelling against that shit. It’s a given that sexuality is fluid; I wish we could all move on. Queer people are lovely and brave and should be celebrated for that.
KP: And on the topic of bravery, in such a male-dominated industry, writing so candidly about lesbian desire was nothing short of bold. How do you feel it shaped your sense of power? What costs did you face for doing so?
CP: As a kid, I was obsessed with lesbian desire because it was so taboo. When I discovered ‘50s pulp lit, that opened the floodgates for me. Lesbian sexuality turned me on, so of course I had to write about it. I wanted to put lesbian love and identity out there. I definitely scared off men because I was androgynous-looking. Men get off on lesbians, except when they feel threatened by them (I love that Peaches collaborated on my song, “Lesbians In The Forest”). In retrospect, I think the thing that hurt Rough Trade the most was being so far ahead of the curve…. But we still got record deals.
KP: A part of that leading-edge curve, “High School Confidential” was banned from various airwaves, but it still became a classic hit. What was it like to watch that controversy turn into success? What is your relationship with censorship, particularly in a world that is becoming increasingly more puritanical?
CP: People loved that song because it was so anthemic. I don’t think everyone got that I was singing about lusting after a woman. We were not expecting it to be a hit. Some radio stations bleeped out “she makes me cream my jeans” — I thought it was such a harmless line. Censorship is so political today because they are trying to control people and dumb us down so we’re more pliable. But most artists are like, “Good luck with that.”
KP: And as an artist who was always breaking boundaries — sometimes far beyond what mass audiences could comprehend — what parts of your career do you feel still remain misunderstood or overlooked?
CP: I think that we, Rough Trade, were typecast in Canada for the song “High School Confidential,” but we were constantly evolving as artists. I’m very proud of the work that Rough Trade did.
It's been a struggle for me as a solo artist, but I think I’ve done some of my best work in the past few years. I learned a lot through trial and error. FYI — there's a documentary based on my life coming out. The world premiere announcement is pending.
KP: That’s very exciting! I’ll be looking out for it.
Is there a song in your catalog that still resonates with you especially deeply? Is there one that you feel audiences should have paid more attention to?
CP: That’s a difficult question to answer, because I bounce back and forth about what I like. “Shaking the Foundations” is so relevant, especially today. I still perform it live, and it resonates with people.
“Women are magic; we create life, and we are compassionate. We are constantly undervalued, under siege, and degraded. Fuck that. Fuck the male gaze. Fuck the opinions of other women who think you’re in competition with them. You be you. You're the person that you have to live with.”
KP: How has your sense or understanding of feminism changed over time?
CP: When I became aware that men thought we were lesser than them, I was so angry. I was a kid when I figured that out. I didn’t really know that there was a feminist movement until I started reading and doing research. It’s an ever-evolving process. The more I discover how women have been repressed and undervalued throughout history, the more it makes my head want to explode. I’m appalled by everything that’s going on with women's rights now, and all I can do is be vocal about it.
KP: I think that’s the most productive thing that we all can do right now — inaction feels historically useless.
Your 2000 memoir, Anti Diva, was widely praised for its raw, unapologetic look at both your personal life and your career. What was the experience of writing it like for you? Did you learn anything about yourself from it?
CP: Writing about my life was like therapy. I played a lot of ‘60s music while I wrote, which triggered so much. I think the interesting thing about memoirs is that people remember things differently than you do. I’m actually just finishing another memoir that starts at 9/11.
KP: Are you?! That is so exciting.
In Anti Diva, you described police officers lurking outside Rough Trade shows, almost eager for you to push things too far. What did it feel like to perform under that kind of scrutiny — and did it only fuel your desire to provoke?
CP: The scary thing about the police lurking was that they were waiting for me to masturbate on stage, which I did on occasion… Meanwhile, down the street, punk bands were self-mutilating, spewing blood, and inciting their audience. What kind of a message is that? All I thought was, “What the fuck?” I just carried on.
KP: Sex is always more censored than violence — it’s one of the greatest mysteries of our world to me.
As an enigmatically complex, beloved figure, do you feel most proud of your provocations, your resilience, or your tenderness?
CP: Wow, that's really sweet. I wouldn’t say that I’m proud. I wasn’t afraid to say things that people were thinking — there happened to be an audience for that. I try to go through life just being me and not putting up with people’s shit.
KP: What do both legacy and success mean to you now, after decades of pushing boundaries in music and identity?
CP: I really appreciate everyone who supported Rough Trade. I love that I was able to inspire some people to come out and others to become performers. Nothing compares to the wave of love from an audience, and I’m grateful to still be out there performing.
KP: What advice would you lend women about life, work, or love?
CP: Take care of yourself first. Find someone who treasures you for what you are.
KP: What would you tell your younger self?
CP: Be brave. It's going to be a shitshow.
KP: What do you feel makes a provocative woman?
CP: Speaking your mind and not caring what people think. That is hot.
