Why on Earth did anyone ever think it would be a good idea to remake Carrie? It happened, through no one's coaxing, in 2013, and, despite being directed by the woman that brought us the heart-wrenchingly potent Boys Don't Cry, it proved ultimately unnecessary. The 1976 Brian De Palma adaptation of Stephen King's parable of adolescent abuse and subsequent empowerment and self-destruction is a classic of horror that almost entirely avoids anything supernatural (minus, of course, the extended finale, which really just puts a metaphorical bow on the story of a young woman coming into her own and lashing out on her tormentors).

What could have been lurid and hokey - thanks to De Palma and King, respectively - ended up being an unlikely statement for feminism. The film opens with Carrie getting her first period in the communal shower room of her high school, and then getting barraged with ruthless ridicule on the part of her fellow classmates. In the absence of anything typically horror-oriented, the scene taps into a fundamental insecurity that plagues people of all genders - this feeling of being exposed and mocked for simply being who you are - as well as subtly casting a light on the unfairly weighted judgments that society inflicts upon women. This scene says that to be human, and to be a woman, is grounds for prosecution in the minds of some.

The rest of the events of Carrie are pretty well-known, but if you don't know what they are, and you don't have time to watch the movie, I suggest two options: either watch the trailer for the remake, which brazenly gives away the entire plot (thus nullifying an argument that it was made for a new audience unfamiliar with the original), or you can listen to "Carrie," by feminist punk band French Vanilla. Besides being essentially a Cliff Notes summary in musical form, the song is a fine introduction to the jumpy art-punk of the LA quartet. Frontwoman Sally Spitz's anguished talk-singing kind of reimagines the story of Carrie if she had been played by the B-52s' Fred Schneider.

Made up of Spitz, Ali Day on guitar, Daniel Trautfield on bass and saxophone, and Max Albeck on drums, French Vanilla cheekily say on their Facebook page that their influences are limited to the Beatles. One listen, though, and you'll be able to place their sound firmly in the camp of the art-punk, post-punk, and noise rock movements of the ‘80s and early ‘90s. Even the clip-art album cover of their demos EP helps place it in the culture of punk zines and underground madness of that era. The inclusion of saxophone on many of the songs lends a spookily groovy vibe to songs that are otherwise marked by abrasiveness and playfully confrontational attitude.

French Vanilla's songs are made up of jagged edges, lacking any smooth surface to allow for easier access. For songs that speed by, rarely passing the two-and-a-half minute mark, they're packed with feverishly unspooling lyrics from Spitz, surrounded by angular guitars and restless drums. Trautfield's sax ensures that there's no moment of calm from the onslaught of sound. This is a band that cites their no wave aspirations, though, so the volume of sound is not rounded out by a pleasant fullness; this is unvarnished music that wants to get your body moving, perhaps even convulsing, by any means necessary. Their desire to move you is achieved through sheer force of will and a "f@#$ everything" air.

Much like Carrie, French Vanilla is a band that's willing and able to burn the gymnasium down if you dare mess with them.

French Vanilla, w/ Mommy Long Legs, Oh, Rose, 8 p.m., Monday, Feb. 13, Cover TBA, Obsidian, 414 4th Ave. E., Olympia, 360.890.4425, obsidianolympia.com