In which we take the time machine back to high school

Liz Phair.

Wait, hold on: Liz Phair, circa 1993's Exile in Guyville. That's better.

Somewhere in a box that's sitting in storage is my copy of Exile on motherfucking cassette. I played it so much that the type on the cassette disappeared. I checked out the liner notes (read: half-nekked photos of Liz Phair) so much that part of the insert broke at a fold and got lost to history.

God, I loved me some Liz Phair.

At the time when I bought Exile, I was having this mad identity crisis where I was pretty sure I was a big 'mo. But, you know, small town and all, so I was keeping that crisis in check by messing around with boys and girls simultaneously and getting super confused over why I couldn't keep a boyfriend/girlfriend for more than three seconds. "Fuck and Run"? Anthem. "Shatter" ("I know that I don't always realize how sleazy it is/ Messing with these guys/ But something about just being with you/ Slapped me right in the face, nearly broke me in two")? Anthem.

Everything about Exile was perfect, is perfect. Even now, I can listen to it and sort of marvel at every single track; get amazed at the raw, boyish voice or the lyrics that are still kind of filthy 14 years later. Phair's later albums? Eh, not so much, although Whip-Smart was a soundtrack for a ton of collegiate fuckery for me.

Tonight, I've been hitting Exile pretty hard and have been thinking about how the early-to-mid '90s version of Liz Phair set the standard for me for solo female musicians.

I would have given my left arm to see this in 1995:



I would give my right arm to see something that self-conscious, geeky and perfect now.