Rosie Garland on The March Violets, Survival, and Embracing Your Inner Outsider
From the smoke-drenched stages of 1980s Leeds to the quiet fury of the written page, Rosie Garland courageously makes space for the strange and the silenced.
Rising to prominence in the early 1980s as the charismatic frontwoman of The March Violets, Garland helped shape the dark, glittering edges of the UK’s goth scene with her commanding stage presence, spoken-word ferocity, and the band’s fusion of jagged guitars and synth-laced melancholia. Known for her magnetic live performances and poetic delivery, she stood out in a male-dominated genre as an unflinching and theatrical voice of both rebellion and allure.
But Garland’s creative evolution didn’t stop with music. Over the decades, she’s established herself as an acclaimed novelist, poet, and performer, weaving gothic sensibilities and outsider narratives into a wide-ranging literary body of work. Her novels — including The Palace of Curiosities, The Fates, Vixen, and The Night Brother — have been praised for their lyrical style, historical depth, and radical empathy. A survivor of throat cancer and a longtime advocate for LGBTQ+ visibility, Garland’s art is marked by resilience, reinvention, and a refusal to be silenced.
Whether through the pounding basslines of a March Violets track or the haunting prose of her fiction, Rosie Garland continues to champion the strange, the queer, and the fiercely original — offering sanctuary and spark to generations of bruised and beautiful misfits.
KP: I like to start chronologically whenever I can, which takes us back to Leeds in 1981, where you joined the seminal post-punk band, The March Violets. I’ve spoken to so many artists that were in the UK during the late 70s and early 80s, and all they can speak about is how inspiring that environment was for music at the time. Undoubtedly, I think it’s certainly one of the golden eras of sound.
So take us back. How did you first join the band, and what was that experience like?
RG: Yes, let’s start at the very beginning! In 1981, I moved to Leeds and met Tom Ashton, Simon Denbigh, and Lawrence Elliot. We drank at the same pub, went to the same gigs. Conversations turned into action, and the result was The March Violets. It was an exciting place and time for music, one of those rare moments when bands try out new things and new technologies. This new scene had no name: a jumble of punk, glamour, romanticism, death, darkness, and glitter; it was fantastic.
We strummed our first riff and wrote our first songs, recorded them, and performed them — all at blistering speed and with blistering energy — because we were in the moment and living from day to day. Leeds in the early 1980s was shabby, chaotic, and poor, which is a fair description of the four of us. When things are messed up, one way to deal with it is to create something, and we did that in wild, grubby abundance. All our rough edges ground against each other, sparking fire.
KP: The band rereleased its full back catalog in 2023, to much fanfare and acclaim. I recently spoke with Anja Huwe of Xmal Deutschland — they, too, recently rereleased their discography and have experienced quite a resurgence as a result.
But we spoke about cultural cycles and how it was quite astounding to her that Gen Z has taken such a liking to Xmal’s work, something that she never foresaw happening. To me, I think a lot of the post-punk ideologies and soundscapes are re-resonating with the youth of today’s very disjointed, broken world. Perhaps that has a bit to do with the late 70s and early 80s resurgence in music.
So I’m very curious to ask you something somewhat similar to what I asked her — did you ever envision your music still reverberating with youth over 40 years later? What do you attribute it to, if anything?
RG: It’s amazing how much our fans, old and new, love The March Violets. We are thrilled!
I think there are a number of reasons.
Our songs are — and always have been — as dark and twisted as the times. It’s especially relevant now, as we witness a resurgence of the ultra-right and a howling backlash against hard-won rights.
Also, The March Violets are not and have never been our own tribute band, where we only play the 1980s hits. Sure, we love the old songs and are proud of them! However, new music continues to burst out — as you can hear on Crocodile Promises, our new album of entirely original songs.
And this… When starting out, I was inspired by foremother icons, including Siouxsie Sioux, Polly Styrene, Patti Smith, Joan Jett, and Pauline Black. They forged their own path, challenging and disrupting ideas of what women — particularly women in bands — could be. I looked to them for encouragement, hope, and permission. If they could do it, why shouldn’t I?
What moves and humbles me is the realization that I have become a scary gothmother for others. I’m deeply affected by the number of young folk who approach me after a show and say how I’ve made a positive difference in their lives. It’s intensely heartening and life-affirming. We never know who has seen or heard our work; we never know for whom it’s shone a beacon. Those times when we do find out are a gift. If people are drawing inspiration, I couldn’t be happier.
KP: I love that. It’s the whole purpose, isn’t it?
You’ve returned to the stage to sing, which, having beaten throat cancer in 2010, is quite remarkable and incredibly inspiring. What was that journey like for you, both emotionally and physically? What helped you get through such a distressing time, and did it shape your work or worldview in any way?
RG: As a non-smoker, the diagnosis of throat cancer came out of the blue. My immediate response was one of defiance. I was not finished with the world. I had things that I wanted to do. I had a passion for survival.
I spent a lot of 2009 in hospital, undergoing intense chemo and radiotherapy. It was a grueling time, physically and mentally, and there was one time I almost gave up because the treatment was so bloody tough. Somehow, I found the stubbornness to persist. As they say, Nasty Medicine Works. At the end of 2009, I was given the all-clear.
I realize I’m one of the lucky ones. I’m only here because of the amazing healthcare provided by the NHS. I can’t say it clearer than that. And I was blown away by the kindness and generosity of friends who knitted hats, baked cakes, offered reiki, and — literally — prayed for me. I accepted everything with an open heart.
My voice is integral to my sense of self, and it didn’t magically return on its own. I fought hard to regain it: singing lessons, physio, and vocal exercises that I still do every day.
As for how the experience of cancer affected my worldview — it can be summed up simply: Do It Now. Got an idea for a story, a film, a song, a picture? Try not to listen to the voice that says, “Wait for tomorrow.” Do it today. In the words of Louis Prima, “Enjoy yourself; it’s later than you think.”
KP: An invaluable perspective to have, no doubt.
You published your first book of poetry, Hell and Eden, in 1997 and have had a thriving, triumphant career in literature ever since. When did you first begin writing, and what do you feel draws you to words?
RG: Thank you! It’s good to hear that it looked triumphant. Behind the scenes, it was more complicated. I wrote four novels that got nowhere (I call them apprentice novels, rather than failed novels.) Drawing on the stubborn streak I mentioned above, I persevered. Finally, after twelve long, difficult years and three different agents, my debut novel, The Palace of Curiosities, was published by HarperCollins. I’ve now had four novels published. I still have to pinch myself that it happened...
I have always loved words. A very early memory is of my grandmother reading folktales and fairy stories. Without leaving the safe harbor of her lap, I could travel to impossible elsewheres and elsewhens where a weird kid like me might find belonging.
I didn’t just devour — I created. I wrote stories for my toys (they were good listeners) and scribbled with the freewheeling energy of a child. I learned the power of words to conjure something that wasn’t there before… Which is a fine working definition of magic, right?
KP: Certainly so! I want to get into your performance art, but before I do, I’d like to recognize the overarching theme of your written work altogether, which I very much see as an act of resistance. Do you view writing as a political act? What do you hope to achieve with your work or your legacy?
RG: I write to communicate and to connect.
Toni Morrison put it beautifully: “If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.” As I said above, as a child I yearned for books where I could connect with the characters. In weird fiction, I found myself reflected for the first time. Stories of Dracula and Frankenstein’s creature resonated deeply: isolated outsiders, alone of their kind. I realized there were writers who shared my strange imagination. It was okay to write strange stories. I started and never stopped.
I’m wary of the phrase “political act” when it comes to writing, as it sounds uncomfortably close to sermonizing. Yes, I sat through too many church sermons as a child. I’m not interested in writing a story that thumps its fist on the table, hammering down rigid answers. My motivation isn’t to “change minds.” I write to explore the questions and thoughts that keep me awake at night. I write to take up space, without waiting for it to be given. As a proud declaration of existence. I resist the overwhelming sludge of normality. Life’s too short to wear beige.
KP: I love that. Relatedly, on describing yourself as a survivor within your literary work, you said, “I’ve referred to the importance of good mental health. I don’t have a problem describing myself as a ‘survivor,’ but a stigma is firmly attached to the word… Another prejudice is that survivors are only capable of writing about being mentally ill. Which is as untrue as saying that black writers only write about being black, or that queer writers only write about being queer.”
As a gay woman, I have a very complex relationship with this concept, so it very much spoke to me. If we want queerness to be normalized, we can’t fall into the trappings of consistently radicalizing and separating ourselves from the majority. On the other hand, in a world that is so cruel and violent when it comes to queerness, if we don’t differentiate ourselves and speak of our injustices, we will simply fall prey. It’s a tightrope walk, and one that I constantly feel the weight of carrying.
I want our work to be seen as great work with no other individualist categorization, but it frustrates me that our creativity is always labeled as “queer” — other, a label that keeps us very confined to our own communities and somewhat limited in terms of success. In essence, we could attribute it all to a cycle that keeps us oppressed.
I don’t really have a question here, but I’d be so fascinated to hear your take on any of this.
RG: I agree: it’s complicated. I wouldn’t have it any other way. F. Scott Fitzgerald said, “The test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in the mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function.” I love that dance of uncertainty.
Back in the 1990s, I was thrilled and relieved to find anything by queer writers, anywhere. My local radical bookshop (the wonderful Grass Roots in Manchester) had a section for LGBT books, and I headed for it every time. Delightfully, things develop and grow. A striking example of positive change unimaginable twenty (or even ten?) years ago is Manchester’s Queer Lit, a thriving bookshop complete with cafe and performance space.
I’m proud that they stock my books. However, I want everyone to read my novels. I want them to be found in all and any bookshops, mainstream or queer. I want them stocked under G in Fiction, which is where they are — not hidden away.
The same goes for my writing. I roll my eyes at novels where the gay / POC / disabled character is shoehorned in order to do the gay / POC / disabled things. When I create a queer character, their sexuality is part of who they are as a whole person, not a clunky plot device. For example, in The Fates, my latest novel, the character of Atalanta is bisexual. She’s also a warrior, an athlete, the only female Argonaut, and — if that wasn’t enough — the foster daughter of a bear.
KP: So her bisexuality is the least interesting thing about her. As it always should be! [Laughs].
You perform as Rosie Lugosi the Lesbian Vampire Queen, who you have said “embodies the defiant and transgressive power of unconventional female sexuality — the predatory villainess who never gets staked.” I love every single thing about that sentiment — I don’t think that we will ever achieve equality as women without flipping the script entirely in some way or another, but that’s a six-hour conversation for another day, isn’t it? [Laughs].
How did you first conceive of the character of Rosie, and what do you feel she’s taught you?
RG: Ah, flipping the script is one of my favorite activities!
Rosie Lugosi is my alter ego. Joyous in her weirdness, she breaks down stereotypes of what queer women look like, sound like, can be, and can achieve — what it means to be different and proud. Rosie Lugosi says what she wants, wears what she wants, and does it for herself, not to please anyone.
She sprang from the childhood fascination with the Gothic and vampires, as I mentioned before. My passion to perform sprang from the determination — and need — to be seen. As a child, this flew in the face of biblical directives that females submit and serve. Parental put-downs included “show off” or “too big for your boots.”
A big inspiration was Suzi Quatro. As a kid I saw her on Top of the Pops, belting out “Can the Can” and plucking a low-slung bass guitar, which looked bigger than she did. She dominated it effortlessly, encapsulating danger and disobedience. I was entranced. I wanted to be like her, not merely a bookish oddity. I was going to dress in leather, stride onstage, and belt out songs myself. Enter Rosie Lugosi!
I’m an aging, queer, working-class, female, gender outlaw. I reclaim and occupy the power of being a show-off, that sign of ego and expression so much frowned upon in female children. I am too big for my patent leather, spike-heeled boots, and it’s wonderful.
“I resist the overwhelming sludge of normality. Life’s too short to wear beige.”
KP: I couldn’t love that more than I do!
As you mentioned, your novels often blend the Gothic with the historical. What draws you to these genres in particular?
RG: The Gothic: abject, unreliable, dangerous, and weird. Which also sums up how I’ve felt about myself since realizing there was a plan, and I wasn’t going to go according to it.
In 1974, Angela Carter said, “We live in Gothic times.” It’s never been more apt. The Gothic taps into our relationship with internal demons, and that explains its allure and terror. All of us have cobwebbed dungeons in the psyche. They can be frightening places, and we are sold the lie that if we paint our world pastel pink, then everything will be okay. We ignore personal darkness at our psychological peril. Far wiser is to explore the haunted labyrinth and face the fearsome ghosts.
It’s never been an easy path, and that is part of the territory. Punk rebelliousness motivated me at the start of my creative journey, and it motivates me now. I do not explore these themes as a pose or because it’s this year’s thing in publishing. I write from my passions, spurred to get my dissenting voice heard.
In writing the past, I find a freedom to plunge into fictional voices. To paraphrase Emily Dickinson, “I tell the truth, but tell it slant.” I’m fired up by the stories of those who don’t make it into history books — which is all of us, right? I’m not interested in rehashing the lives of royals. I’m far more excited to discover previously overlooked and sidelined characters and place them center stage, where they can go from silence to speaking out.
I don’t write the past because I regard it as quaint, safe, and charming; a never-never-land where everything was better. When I encounter fictionalizations portraying people from “days of yore” as one-dimensional tropes (the simple peasant, swooning damsel, square-jawed hero, etc.,) I switch off. I disagree with the saying “The past is another country; they do things differently there.” My personal conviction is that we haven’t changed much. We share the same motivations. Love tastes like love and malice like malice, whatever the era.
I’m not interested in creating narrow worlds. I’m telling stories about life on the boundaries of what is human, acceptable, or normal. I explore lives that don’t fit narrow expectations. And celebrate them.
KP: And you do it fabulously well.
Speaking of, the majority of your work celebrates the outsider, which I can strongly relate to. Has being an outsider always felt empowering to you, or is it something that you had to grow into?
RG: I’ve always been drawn to stories of outsiders, those who won’t (or can’t) squeeze into the one-size-fits-all templates on offer, and the friction that occurs when they try. I’m sure that comes from being an outsider myself. I grew up with a keen sense of difference. I was adopted, geeky, contravened gender expectations, and was queer long before I understood the nuances of the word. And I adored reading, a particularly suspect activity!
However, I think it’s a universal feeling. I have a suspicion the majority of folks have felt that they didn’t fit at some point in their lives.
Books came to my rescue. Between their covers I discovered the imaginative potential for a world where oddities like myself could live and thrive. Books introduced the radical notion that difference is okay. It didn’t have to be terrifying. It was who I was.
Yes, I was lonely to start with. And yes, it took time to discover that I wasn’t alone. Which links neatly to the next question...
KP: It does! I relate to every bit of that very much. So what advice would you lend to women who feel insecure in their differences?
RG: As I said, I write to connect. Breaking down isolation and building communities of belonging is vital for emotional health. It is worth hanging on, however lonely you may feel. There are sisters, brothers, and all kinds of others out there.
Sure, there is a negative side to the internet and social media. However, it’s a great starting point for reaching out and discovering that you are not alone.
But there’s nothing that beats hanging out with folks in real life. Check out your library / local bulletin board for writing and reading groups. Go to open mic events, even if you think you’re not creative (yet…). It’s uplifting and empowering to hang out in the company of creatives. Magical, too. I remember the first time I went to an open mic reading. I was nervous and lurked silently in the back, listening to the poets. Something clicked. These people were reading their words out loud. No one was telling them to shut up. I had words, too. It dawned on me that if they were allowed to speak out, so was I. I didn’t have to keep my stories hidden away.
We are all in this together. It is worth keeping going through difficult times (especially through difficult times). The world needs our weird, unconventional, provocative songs and stories now more than ever. In a recent interview, Cyndi Lauper said, “It ain’t never over until you give in. And you don’t have to give in.”
KP: Our patron saint of New York!
As someone with such a long and storied career, what do you feel is something about yourself that may surprise people?
RG: Gardening! I have a tiny city garden that I created from rubble, an oasis amongst the surrounding red brick and concrete. There’s something calming and positive about watching a plant grow and bloom through summer, die back in winter, and come back next spring.
KP: I would love to have a garden one day — what a gift.
What advice would you lend women who want to get involved in the arts?
RG: Kurt Vonnegut says it far better than I could: “Go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.”
Start now. It’s never too early. Or too late for that matter. Laura Ingalls Wilder (author of Little House on the Prairie) published her first book at age 65. Anna Sewell published her children's classic Black Beauty at age 57.
Keep at it. I don’t feel that there’s anything mystical about creativity, or that it’s only for “special” people. I turn up at the blank page, and I practice. The cartoonist Sarah Andersen (Sarah’s Scribbles) has a great cartoon…
KP: It is never too late.
What’s one thing you know now that you wish you knew then?
RG: It’s tempting to imagine a world where I avoided making all of my mistakes! However, I wouldn’t change a thing. No, not even the tough stuff. Every step I’ve taken, every stumble and fall, has made me the person that I am today, complete with its mess-ups and joys, contradictions, and challenges.
KP: What do you feel makes a provocative woman?
RG: I sometimes get the feeling that simply expressing an opinion makes for a provocative woman! Not that it’s ever stopped me. It is worth speaking against the grain. It is worth being who we are without compromise or excuses.
Perhaps if we spent less time trying to twist ourselves into something that we’re not and accepted ourselves — celebrated ourselves — complete with all the marvelous, uncomfortable, ill-fitting, odd contradictions that we encompass, we might, just might, be a whole heap happier.
Photography (in order of appearance): Nic Chapman, Jungle Records, Simon Topp
