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Liz
Phair
by Liz Phair |
Apparently, Liz Phair has hired Avril Levine’s manager,
producer, handler, hair stylist, or song writer, perhaps all of
them. That is not a joke, nor are the results, which could generously
be described as one of the most depressing falls from indie-grace
ever. Phair has gone from creating one of the cleverest, most
endearing debuts of Chicago history in her bedroom more than 10
years ago (Exile in Guyville) to becoming a cosmetic
clone of Canada’s most annoying teenager. She’s self
titled her new album, presumably to fool old fans into thinking
she’s reached a moment of self-discovery and trick newcomers
into thinking she is a totally new act. Unfortunately, the songs
are spin-offs of so many unbelievably embarrassing sources that
many will be clamoring for the cheeky pleasures of “Sk8er
Dude”.
The record begins with a guitar riff straight out of the 311
playbook. That’s right, 311. Didn’t know 311 had a
playbook? Phair did, and has it, along with Pink’s, Natalie
Imbruglia’s, and Jewel’s. That’s right, Sarah
McLaughlin, I mean Jewel. Things calm down after the first 5 seconds
of loud guitars and settle into a generic, soft-rock groove of
nondescript, female artists singing about things only the junior
class could get excited about. That’s when it’s good.
In the nauseating double-dip of “Favorite” and “Love
Hate”, modern midi-beats are jettisoned for a glorious return
to the synthesizers of Debbie Gibson. That’s right, Debbie
Gibson. And during the big sendoff, “Good Love Never Dies,”
a guitar lick John Karnes would be proud of finishes off each
chorus (which incidentally compares love to “looking at
the sun.”… ouch). And that’s right, John Karnes.
That’s right, the studio guitarist for Richard Marx during
the late 80’s.
For one brief moment, Liz tries to recapture the good old times
with some sexual frankness and an acoustic guitar. But “Hot
White Cum” is actually about the generative, life-giving
powers of the titular liquid, not about a good money shot. For
any fan of Liz Phair who still remembers opening the booklet of
her debut CD and being immediately taken in by the candid photos
accompanied by Dirty Harry quotes, wondering for weeks what that
photo was of on the CD while listening to it, you will hope and
pray that this is a gag. Maybe on her part, but not by me, which
should be made quite clear by the following rating:
On an inverse scale of insufferable artists that Rolling Stone
insists on calling the “Women of Rock”, where Janet
Jackson is a 1 (not that bad) and Shakira is a 10 (really bad),
Liz Phair is an Ashanti, the numerical equivalent of
a 9.6 (it sucks).
-Nathan
Fuller 
Magnolia
Electric Company
by Songs:Ohia
Possible-Best-Album-of-the-Year-Red-Alerts, unlike most red alerts,
must come several months after the release that triggers the red
alert. After all, it takes time to judge the true quality of record.
Will an album that initially overwhelms you with rock bravado
maintain its fiery bluster over time, or will it burn out before
the smoke clears? Will an album making a weak start out of the
gates continue its slide, or will it begin to percolate like a
rich cup of coffee that gets magically sweeter after sitting in
the pot for a few months? I cannot remember the last time I listened
to Beck’s Sea Change, hailed by Rolling Stone
as an “an impeccable album of truth and light from the end
of love”. On the other hand, I’ve been happily listening
to Neil Halstead’s Sleeping on Roads a lot lately,
which I, myself, originally described as “an inexcusable
piece of shit I will likely never listen to again by a mediocre
artist blindly flailing into a solo career he neither deserves
or appreciates.” But it’s really quite good.
Songs:Ohia’s new record, Magnolia Electric Company,
has slowly revealed itself to be a great work of melancholy and
faith. Until now, this band’s career, basically just Jason
Molina with a rotating band of musicians, has been largely about
a great atmosphere lost in a morass of similar, sleepy songs that
all seemed to contain unsettling imagery of “moons”,
”blood”, “ghosts”, or “black crows”.
This changed last year with the release of the haunting Didn’t
It Rain. With their new album, featuring a full array of
guest singers, plenty of pedal steel, and a prefect balance between
shakers and ballads, they blossom. The music is amazing, both
vintage and inventive. Songs like “Peoria Lunchbox Blues”
hold striking lyrical turns close to their heart. “The constellations
and Cominskey's lights / Two old friends in the night / Who always
knew they would if they could / Meet one last time in the old
neighborhood” goes one. In the beautiful, reflective finale
of the record Molina sings, “Hold on Magnolia to that great
highway moon / No one has to be that strong.” Okay, so the
“moon” thing is still there. But, otherwise, it seems
if Songs:Ohia has musically reinvented itself to produce, at least,
the best album of the year so far.
On a scale of alerts, where a Timex wrist-watch alarm
is a 1, and an air raid warning is a 10, Magnolia Electric Co.
rates an ambulance siren, the numerical equivalent of a 9.5.
 Buy
this CD
-Nathan Fuller
The Dawson’s
Creek Series Finale
I was late turning on the season finale to Dawson’s
Creek because I had spent the previous 24 hours watching
the first season on DVD, and I had slightly miscalculated when
it would be finished. I turned on Channel 61 just on time to hear
“I don’t want to wait...” for the 25th time
that day. The singer was still right. I hurried into the kitchen
to make some more coffee and returned to the TV.
The first scene I caught was a make-out session between Jack
and Doug Witter. I didn’t understand it at first but the
show quickly revealed itself to be set in the future. Dawson was
the famous and wealthy director he had always wanted to be, Joey
lived in New York with a new boyfriend, Pacey owned a restaurant
in Capeside, and machines ruled the earth. Just kidding about
the last one.
This episode worked well because, for the greater portion of
the time, it treated the show as if seasons 2 through however
many it actually had, did not exist. That was a good choice because
those episodes fucking sucked. They revolved around characters
having mental breakdowns, drowning, dying in car accidents, or
attending pseudo-AA meetings. In other words, 90210 stuff.
Of course, the question which was been perpetuated since the
first episode revolved around a typical television plot line:
Will they or won’t they end up together? The ultimate answer
was… they won’t. What must be remembered is that the
writer/creator, Kevin Williamson, is gay (I think) and he put
himself into the character of Dawson (and later, Jack). That having
been said, Joey and Dawson could not have ended up together. Plus,
I always thought of myself as Pacey and so I was relieved to know
that Joey ended up with him and not a mid-thirties punk-ass.
The music from the first season was also brought back. The first
season featured dreadful “musicians” like Jewel, but
put her music over a collage of beautiful young men and women
and a creek and, suddenly, it isn’t so bad. Take this for
example:
“My hands are small, I know, but there not yours they are
my own and they are never broken.”
That’s nice, but memo to Jewel: the size of one’s
hands has nothing to do with their ability to withstand being
broken. I can palm a basketball, but I once broke my hand punching
out a circus clown. That was not performance art punching, but
just an opiate.
Whether it is religion or clown punching, a man needs something
to take his mind off of things that are real. Dawson’s
Creek was once a serviceable opiate, but, alas, no longer.
It ended, finally. Happily, not on the worst of notes.
Buy the DVD
-Steve Smith
The
Creek Season Finale
In the season finale of Dawson’s Creek, it is
the future and Dawson Leery is in Hollywood producing a The
Creek, a show based on his life on Dawson’s Creek.
Oh, the mind boggling convolutions of the show-within-a-show.
I wished I lived in the universe of the WB. In that world, The
Creek is only getting started, its first season coming to
a successful end, many heart-wrenching seasons still ahead. Also
in that world, regular dads look like Treat Williams and a town
called Gilmore is full of hot daughters and liberal moms dating
new guys every week (I think that’s what the show is about,
anyway.)
Instead, I’m stuck in this world where Pacey gets the girl.
But in that world, there is still hope for Colby and Sam on The
Creek, while the notion of Peety horning in on the action
is not even a consideration. I’ve always thought of myself
as a Dawson/Colby (depending on the universe I’m in) except
without the ambition, good looks, or ability to lose my virginity
before the age of 29. Such as it is, it pains me to see Pacey,
the aloof, trouble-making, teacher-sleeping, yacht-deckhand bad-boy
win Joey.
Plus, if I lived in the WB but was somehow still had the knowledge
of the real world, I could not only enjoy The Creek,
but hunt down Pacey in New York and kill him in a “random”
mugging, then win over Joey because I would naturally be much
cuter in the WB world just like everybody else.
Even better, since James Van Der Beek would not be an actor in
this world, just a television writer for a low-rated series, the
movie Varsity Blues would not exist, or it would exist
with Marc Blucas as the star, either of which is preferable. Speaking
of Marc Blucas, Buffy’s old boyfriend, I also have a few
thoughts about life in the UPN universe, but I’ll save that
for later.
-Nathan
Fuller
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