Liz Phair
Soberish
Chrysalis
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The widespread critical acclaim and ensuing stardom that greeted Liz Phair 28 years ago with the June 1993 release of her bold, brave debut album Exile In Guyville has arguably proven to be both a blessing and a curse.
A blessing in the sense that the Connecticut-born, Chicago-bred singer-songwriter’s inaugural 18-song declaration compelled millions of listeners to discover one of music’s most distinctive and refreshing voices to emerge in the past three decades. Meanwhile, the seemingly countless plaudits bestowed upon Phair afforded her greater flexibility and control in mapping out the subsequent paths her career has taken since, both professionally and creatively.
A curse in that the breakout success of Exile has become inextricably—and rather myopically—ingrained within others’ perceptions and expectations of her. The narrow scope with which self-proclaimed “trusted voices” of music criticism have defined her artistry has all too often manifested in the form of intensified levels of scrutiny, some of which has been downright repugnant over the years. It’s as if some pundits have been laser-focused on knocking Phair down from the press-generated pedestal they themselves arguably helped to erect in the first place.
Phair’s recorded repertoire since Exile In Guyville’s auspicious arrival has been informed by her gravitation toward artistic adventurism and her commitment to relinquishing the burdensome “lo-fi indie queen” tag that accompanied her for years. Released amidst weighty expectations at the time, her second studio affair Whip-Smart (1994) found her embracing a more polished and powerful sound than its precursor, while retaining the lyrical candor that had endeared her to so many.
Four years later, whitechocolatespaceegg (1998) surfaced as her veritable “coming-of-age” album and reflected a pronounced narrative poise to complement the notably more expansive, pop-indebted melodies contained throughout. Not just the most intriguingly titled offering in her discography, it also remains my personal favorite within her oeuvre to date.
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In the early summer of 2003, Phair unveiled her eponymous fourth LP Liz Phair, a transitional and guitar-driven pop record that marked her first release for Capitol Records proper, following the end of her Matador Records contract, and the first produced by collaborators not named Brad Wood. While Phair’s convention-bucking creative pivot—fueled in no small part by her work with pop-production juggernauts The Matrix (Christina Aguilera, Avril Lavigne, Britney Spears)—suggested an artist in full-on evolution mode, her musical risk-taking was unfairly misunderstood by critics as a calculated attempt to curry mainstream favor. What many failed to appreciate was that Liz Phair was her attempt to stretch her sound beyond the tried-and-true and to, heaven forbid, have some fun while doing so.
Her subsequent releases Somebody’s Miracle (2005) and Funstyle (2010) would continue this experimentation while boasting plenty of inspired tunes, but as with their immediate predecessor, both albums incurred the continued wrath of curmudgeonly reviewers stifled by their suffocating snobbery.
So, all of this to say that Phair’s ensuing extended hiatus from recording new material—while a tough pill to swallow for her legion of loyalists—was understandable. Just over four years ago, in early 2017, reports suggested that her sabbatical was approaching its conclusion thanks to her studio sessions with the now much-maligned Ryan Adams, but this collaboration (thankfully) fizzled, as Phair explores—without actually identifying Adams by name, mind you—in the fourteenth chapter of her self-deprecating yet self-assured (and highly recommended) 2019 memoir Horror Stories.
Fast forward to October 2019 and the first inkling of her seventh studio album arrived in the form of “Good Side” and its clever, confessional opening refrain “there’s so many ways to fuck up a life / I’ve tried to be original.” If there was ever any doubt that Phair’s songwriting prowess had been stunted by nearly 10 years away from the limelight, the single instantly reminded listeners that her pen game had not suffered a bit during her time off.
While rumors of Soberish’s gestation continued to surface and swirl during the subsequent months, it wasn’t until earlier this year that Phair confirmed that the project was indeed a go, galvanized by the new deal she signed last fall with the resurrected Chrysalis Records. A decorated label with a proven pedigree for fostering artistic integrity among its wide-ranging roster that has included the likes of Blondie, Gang Starr, Sinéad O’Connor, and Spandau Ballet, among many others, the match seemed like a compatible fit, and the finished Soberish product—coupled with the Chrysalis team’s methodical pre-release promotional strategy— corroborates this.
With the aforementioned Brad Wood back in the producer’s seat, three additional singles have materialized over the past few months in the form of the idiosyncratically charming homage to Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson “Hey Lou,” the buoyantly ruminative “Spanish Doors,” and the subdued, introspective “In There.” All three songs are bona fide standouts and augured promising sounds to come with the formal reveal of Soberish in full.
Many of these newly constructed songs find Phair in her signature reflective mode, with allusions to past love (and lust) throughout, the logical extension of the types of musings that make Horror Stories such an enveloping read. A notable highlight is the shapeshifting “Ba Ba Ba,” a jubilant reminiscence of past romance and the intoxicating rush that accompanied it.
Phair has continually proven to be particularly adept at deconstructing the dynamics of love and examining its many ambiguities, and her keen sense of perception and self-awareness shine through on a handful of songs. “The Game” is a soaring, smoothly crafted exploration of a lover whose feelings are hard to pin down, while the percussive title track exudes a confessional innocence, as an irresolute Phair confides, “I've got so much to say / Somehow it's never thе right thing / I meant to be sober / But thе bar's so inviting.”
Three additional offerings underscore Phair’s narrative range. The comparatively darker-toned, piano-driven “Soul Sucker” finds her lamenting a lover’s controlling tendencies. “Bad Kitty” exhibits a sassy swagger, punctuated by the double-entendre of her (eye-)opening confession that “My pussy is a big dumb cat / It lies around lazy and fat / But when it gets a taste for a man / It goes out hunting for him anyway it can.” With a sparse acoustic arrangement that illuminates Phair’s underappreciated vocal versatility, the evocative “Sheridan Road” is a wistful—and wonderful—ode to her Windy City stomping grounds.
Well worth the extended wait, Soberish represents the work of an accomplished, confident artist at peace with her place in the world, free to craft the songs she alone wishes to make, seemingly—and thankfully—beholden only to the self-imposed pressure of her own expectations. As she surmised a few decades ago, “all that matters is what makes you happy,” and this superb album should give Phair—and all of us fortunate enough to experience its songs—much to be happy about, indeed.
Notable Tracks: “Ba Ba Ba” | “The Game” | “In There” | “Sheridan Road”
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