...is everything I'll do to you.
The first time I heard a Liz Phair song I remember being in a state of awe. Like, this is amazing, she can't be saying these things. Because this is the way I think about men and sex and all my girlfriends seem to be stuck in some fucked up Disney movie with hand holding and malts at the soda shop and promise rings all wrapped up in angora-sweatered bullshit. Liz Phair was a dirty girl, an unapologetic self-proclaimed tramp that not only liked to hump, but sought it out.
TO BE CONTINUED...post Xmas dinner. My Mom sure will be proud that while we were eating prime rib and toasting to the family, I was thinking about the wording on this particular essay.
I remember when Liz Phair was on the cover of Rolling Stone and I was thrilled. I clearly recall buying Exile in Guysville (along with the Urge Overkill great Saturation, natch). I listened to it over and over that summer, driving around in a bikkni and cut offs, being angry and letting all those songs fuel the bold, unapologetic version of me I eventually became. It meant something to me on some sort of primal level- the embracing of being feral, of being OK with wanting male attention for a purely sexual reason instead of expecting that every dofus I made out with was my new emotional soul mate/boyfriend as all my girlfriends did.
When Whip Smart came out, it was smoother and less raw, maybe a bit more fancy-schmancy produced but still, very sharp and full of sassy foul language. I can remember singing the lyrics to "Supernova" with my best friend Suzanne while we backpacked through Europe that summer, looking forward to the day I'd meet and fall in love with the man worthy enough for me to want to be queer enough to sing those lyrics to in earnest. Whitechocolatespaceegg contained an evergreen drunk feel-sorrier-for-me classic (which is oft-mentioned in this ridiculous blog) "Polyester Bride", that I never get tired of. It was the theme of my Halloween costume this year, in fact. Liz Phair was gold to me, no doubt about it.
And then things got bad. Real, real bad. I won't bitch about it, because it's been shit on enough. And to be fair, I bought the album that will not be named that came out in 2003 and was a total dick-suck to Avril Lavigne, because as mad as I was about the mediocre crap that she shit out onto it I still have a place in my heart for her. But seriously, Liz. You hurt my feelings. And I know you said you didn't care what any of us thought of you, and you shamelessly chased sad, bad mainstream pop fame in a way that made me cringe at you like the blatantly gay, closeted kid in dance class who claims he has a crush on the most popular girl in school as he minces about to Miami Sound Machine's "Conga". But I'm torn because it's that same shamelessness that allowed you to write openly confessional songs about doing it, and getting your heart broken, and then doing it some more to try and quell the pain. I hate to scold you, even though you clearly need it.
It makes me mad, because I love her. I really do. But I also want to punch her. So the act of, say, listening to Whip Smart at top volume in the shower yesterday because I found it lodged in my desk drawer in my room at my parent's house is akin to a hate fuck.
Extra bonus points for having my Dad bang on the bathroom door and tell me to keep it down while I'm singing the f-word repeatedly.
This ends my exploration into my love-hate relationship with my former idol and current dissapointment, the filthy-mouthed sprite known to all as Liz Phair. Ah, thank you. Now if you'll excuse me I'm going upstairs to lather myself up while yowling "I won't decorate my love" over and over until Terry pounds in the door and utters the words, "For Chirssakes are they killing a cat in there?!"
No comments:
Post a Comment