So what we can surmise from the decade-long run of Those Darlins, a band fronted by two women who sincerely didn’t give a fuck before “No fucks given!” graced half the twee coffee mugs sold on Etsy?

Maybe Jessi and Nikki paved a way for young, unique, artistic women. In the last year or so we’ve been gifted a Sleater-Kinney reunion, a swift takedown of a sexual assault-y music PR bro, a Lenny letter penned by one of modern pop’s foremost gals. There is a guitar with room for boobs, a shirt slung over the amp of luminary Sadie Dupuis that declares “GENDER IS OVER”.

And then there is, or was, Those Darlins. Those Darlins who started a band that clogged as part of their rhythm section; who later spat beer on grateful fans during shows; who wrote fine songs about love and loss and partying; who were road dogs; who epitomized the modern female rock movement without leaning on it.

They’re close to all the way broken up now, and will pursue their art individually with band accomplishments and friendships intact. I slid side stage to snap a few pics of their final moments in St. Louis, a petulant city that loved them all along.

BYE, DARLINS.