Flak Magazine: Liz Phair and Natalie Merchant, 07.24.03

Liz Phair and Natalie Merchant seem to want to trade places. Merchant, who has had numerous hits and enviable album sales with 10,000 Maniacs and as a solo artist, left her label, Elektra, last August to form her own, Myth America Records. "Natalie Merchant has stepped off the pop treadmill," the New York Times announced in March, with no argument from the singer. The House Carpenter's Daughter is her label's first offering, and it indicates Merchant's willingness to settle into middle age as an indie doyenne, producing personal albums and supporting them on her own dime.

Phair, conversely, has been a darling of the music margins since the release of Exile in Guyville, her extraordinarily persuasive debut, in 1993. But it didn't sell; nor did her follow-up, Whip-Smart, or her lesser 1998 release whitechocolatespaceegg. Lately, Phair has made a lot of noise in the press about wanting to get on the gravy train. Liz Phair is an overt bid for the profile and success that Merchant enjoyed with Tigerlily, something to go to the bank on as Phair enters the Indian summer of her career.

It's difficult to argue with either strategy, particularly in the music industry's current bleak condition, where online piracy and generally tepid offerings from the five global music companies that control most of the record business have led many to speculate on the future of popular music, some not too kindly. ("The amazing thing about the death of the record industry is that no one cares," Malcolm McLaren recently told the New Yorker.) In a world where the top-selling female artist of 2002 was Avril Lavigne, Merchant realizes her music's incompatibility with the marketplace and walks away, while Phair decides, "I want to drink some of that 'Sk8ter Boi' Kool-Aid." Both approaches make sense, but the resultant albums do not — they are thematically uninspired and painfully boring.

Natalie Merchant Merchant's voice — consonant-averse, non-physical, disdainful of confrontational, angry tones — is unique, to be sure, and beloved by many. But when the songs are weak and the production uneven — on the bulk of Ophelia, for example — her voice operates as an anesthetic. Conversely, when song and production are tailored to Merchant's open, gentle tones, the result is "Birds and Ships" from 1998's Mermaid Avenue, where her smooth reading deepens the song's meaning. It's like Brad Pitt: As long as the script is strong and the direction sure-handed, the one-note gesticulating and vocal flatness are less apparent, even suitable.

No such luck on The House Carpenter's Daughter. It may be the fault of song choice — none of the numbers Merchant culled from various folk catalogs gives off any sparks. "Soldier, Soldier," a tale of a woman's failed efforts to marry a man before the war, is complemented by a swampy, fuzzed-guitar groove straight from a Tom Waits session; "Crazy Man Michael," about a man doomed by prophecy to take his lover's life, is imbued with honeyed guitar and organ work; "Owensboro," a working woman's lament, features acoustic guitar and banjo-picking you might find on any of a dozen clichéd Southern porches. These tracks are produced with eclecticism and style, but through it all is the limp sameness of Merchant's voice.

Phair's voice, though, was once a great asset — wobbly and tart, perfect for her tossed-off randy lyrics, such as on Whip-Smart's "Supernova," where she informs lover du jour that "you fuck like a volcano and you're everything to me." Producers the Matrix — Lauren Christy, Graham Edwards and Scott Spock by name — couldn't care less. They've enhanced Phair's voice on the four tracks they contribute, robbing it of all the frayed edges that make it interesting by plopping her down into slick, empty pop songs. Phair does not survive the makeover. Thickly metallic, ornery guitars give way to the worst lyrics ever to appear on a Liz Phair album. The major offender is "Favorite," a comparison of a tried-and-true relationship to Phair's bestest briefs. "You're like my favorite underwear, it feels just right, you know it," she actually sings as the guitars blaze. "You feel like my favorite underwear, and I'm slipping you on again tonight."

Phair's album is little more than a cry for attention and a longing for the fountain of youth, particularly on "Rock Me," where she extols the virtues of humping young guys. "I wanna play Xbox on your floor," she informs the 20-something stud, a wan lyric in a song rife with them. These lyrics are presented at face value, without her usual irony, which will no doubt shock and sadden her fans. If, as she claims in the song, you don't even know who she is, the lyric is merely uninspired, tired.

Merchant seems equally exhausted. The set lacks the vitality and fun of Mermaid Avenue and the searching quality of Bob Dylan's overlooked World Gone Wrong, or even Ralph Stanley's latest album, in which traditional folk songs are chosen because of their modern resonance. Her track list doesn't add up to anything more than a desire, however noble, to cover folk songs. The readings are flat, and the songs fade from memory with regrettable speed. Phair and Merchant have trained us to expect a degree of thought to go into their work, whether it be sardonic and pained ruminations on loves won and lost, or liberal character portraits that reveal the limits of American democracy. Here, they operate in separate vacuums to equal effect.

But there are bright moments. "Sally Ann," the opening track on The House Carpenter's Daughter, has a lilting, lazy melody that suits Merchant's voice, and an exuberant fiddle section energizing each verse break. Phair's best song, "Firewalker," would have fit well on Whip-Smart with its haphazard guitar pounding, warbling piano interludes and a melody that spins like a maple seed while Phair's vocals try to keep pace. That's not much; you can download these songs and skip the rest. Merchant and Phair have done nothing to stay the decline of the album, though Phair would vehemently deny it. One is tempted to join Phair on the floor of some 23-year-old's rental, as the music industry becomes a conveyor belt of bland singles, none so revelatory as to interrupt your umpteenth game of Midtown Madness 3.

— Christopher Hickman (hickatz at mindspring dot com)