 
I can picture it now as it must have been – Liz Phair’s manager, sitting in a bar beating himself in the head with his fists and doubleshots of Jack Daniel’s, trying to think of how to get all of Liz Phair’s fans together. Artists grow and change, just like the rest of us – we’re allowed to start or stop liking whenever we choose. And yet there is rarely such a divide with most artists as there currently is with new and old Liz Phair fans. Her old ones loathe her new work, which is understandable. And her new ones, most of which are probably just starting middle school, don’t even know that her old albums exist. So there’s Liz Phair’s manager, sitting in a bar, when a bowl of peanuts just lights on fire before him. “Let there be a small, intimate venue,” said the peanuts, “and let it be an acoustic show. Jack up the ticket price to $40 so that no middle schooler could possibly score a seat. And then allow the fans to choose whatever songs they want.” “Okay,” said Liz Phair’s manager. And yea, so it was. Liz Phair played Thursday and Friday night, August 18 and 19, in Café du Nord. I walked into the room and it was like walking into a high school auditorium, with steel chairs set up in rows before the stage, mood lighting, and a lonely little mike. Everyone in the audience was at least thirty and looked it, and they all had that high school recital mood around them – you hope against all hope to enjoy it, but realize that it’s probably going to suck. I myself wasn’t expecting very much. Like every other angry little girl, I went through a Liz Phair phase in high school, when both your boyfriends and your girlfriends routinely betrayed you, and sometimes you didn’t make the high school cheerleading team. That was the Liz Phair that her old fans loved – the one that always sang in a nasal monotone, a half-note flat, and whose lyrics had sentences with words like “fuck” and “I want to” and “you” and “and your minions too” in a slightly different order, that made you cringe and giggle at the same time. I listened to her 2003 album out of obligation, because that’s what loyal fans do for singers who have helped them get through hard times, like high school. I even enjoyed it, but not in the same way, because that’s impossible. On “Liz Phair”, she sings on-key about falling in love, and her songs have that swoopy pop rhythm that makes her newly blow-dried hair swish back and forth across her back as she sings. It’s loathsome. A sweet, delicious loathsome, but loathsome nonetheless.
If you were a hardcore Liz Phair fan, you couldn’t not be thrilled. It was that good. Her debut “Exile in Guyville” was the one that I played over and over, in my little pink bedroom, every time I broke up with a boyfriend. And she didn’t play “Never Said”, which was my favorite. But she played nearly every other song off it, so I forgave her. And it was so good. That was Liz Phair’s appeal in the first place, that she was your best friend’s bitter older sister that you thought was so incredibly badass – and there she was, playing at your very own high school recital. She played duets with her boyfriend on-stage and it felt like she was playing all her old favorites in your basement. It was like the bastard love-child of a high school recital and a human jukebox. This tour was a sneaky way to promote her newest album, which is set to come out in October. It’s called “Somebody’s Miracle” and I tell you what, the first single to come off it is just about as bad as it sounds. Or maybe that’s just because in my personal experience, significant others are not miracles but most of the time, more trouble than they’re worth. But I sat there and listened to it because it was snuck in there between “Fuck and Run” and “Divorce Song” and I have never heard those songs played live, not even at Lilith Fair. Every other thirty-five-year-old would-be indie rock girl sang along with her, and with me, and it was great. I also listened to “Why Can’t I” too, and for the first time almost liked it. You can’t help liking anything from someone who sounds like they’re playing just for you. And I guess I should be glad that bitter older sisters eventually get something to be happy about, because I’m a bitter older sister too. It was fun.
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The
Bastard Lovechild of a High School Recital and a Human Jukebox
I was
not aware that the concert had this special ingenious format, so I was
expecting a night of syrupy pop that I was prepared to endure in the
hopes that she might play “Never Said” for an encore. Boy,
was I wrong. The whole show was one big encore designed to please one
kind of fan – me. And apparently I am a thirty-five-year-old woman,
because everyone else there was thrilled, too.