I never had an older, wiser, possibly drug-addled sister. You know, someone to bestow upon me all kinds of wisdom about life, love (or lack thereof), self-loathing, men or intergalactic star implosions as sexual metaphors. Turns out I didn't need one. Liz Phair's 1993 debut album Exile in Guyville (and subsequent follow up Whip-Smart) was all I ever needed to know about all of these topics and then some. One listen to Liz banging out her hollow, demented version of Chopsticks on her piano was all my thirteen year old self had to hear, and I was hooked. I spent much of that year devising elaborate plots to to not only buy but listen to these albums on cheap headphones every single day under a shroud of anti-parental secrecy. Liz Phair and her life lessons were strictly forbidden to me, probably for a good reason but not one that I was about to find acceptable at the time, or ever. Even now I consider these albums to be cornerstones of my adolescent worldview, these precious collections of a storyteller who can't really sing, a musician who could only marginally play. They were endearing and they were honest, almost heartbreakingly so. Her songs were rich with characters that reflect an endless measure of longing, desperation, melancholy, self-depracation and occasionally a certain sort of perforated hope, often with a healthy coating of grime and swirling guitar feedback.
So you can imagine my surprise when, in 2010, I hear that Phair has a new album out, entitled "Funstyle". And she's rapping. Over Indian dance beats. After unglueing my jaw from the floor, (and it took awhile) I listened to the entire album, beginning to end. My first thought was" What is she thinking?!" Well apparently she has been thinking, and a lot. Liz has quite a bit on her mind, and she wants you to know about it. She wants you to know exactly what she thinks about her failed 2003 bid at pop stardom, soulless suburban soccer moms at Starbucks, her record label, and her management team, and she wants to tell it all to you over some of the most fantastically bizarre, electronic beats that blend everything from sitars (on the song Bollywood) to deranged disco and hip-hop, with a little falsetto operatic drama (on the track Smoke) thrown in there for good measure. For all its' mismatched, borderline psychotic charm it is truly Ms. Phair's most brazenly honest work since the days of her voice cracking over tambourines and guitars that sounded like they were recorded in a dive bar's broom closet, and this is where her brilliance lies. She tried to fool us in the late 90's/early 2000's by insisting she was a 'serious musician,' a move that backfired horribly. Make no mistake, Liz Phair is a storyteller first, a musician only second if not third.
While many longtime fans of Phair's would dismiss this album and tell you that her wit and wisdom died when she sold her indie darling soul to the business, Funstyle resurrects the same introspective genius of the early 90s and spits it back out in a web of all-out strangeness that can only come from an artist who has truly ceased caring what the industry thinks of her. Love it or just love to hate it, it is certainly worth a listen. It is a rare glimpse into the creativity that comes to light when one has nothing left to lose and no one to impress any longer, and though it can never replace the low-fi gloom of her glory days, it is at the very least unforgettable.
No comments:
Post a Comment