There are a few things I simply can’t get my head round when listening to this. First up is that Liz Phair has been touring the US in recent months with clown princes of alternative rock, the Flaming Lips – and try though I might, I just can’t equate this kind of bright, infectious pop with anything resembling bunny-suits and bloody-curdling puppet-shows. Ther’s bananas that are banana shaped and there’s bananas that are straight, and this is one perfectly straight banana. An Avril Lavigne shaped banana. Which is hardly surprising, as a good deal of the songs on this record where produced by fashionable production team, The Matrix, the team responsible for Avril’s own less than challenging take on the world of indie rock. But with contributions from everybody like Mike Elizondo (Dr Dre’s bassplayer and co-writer of 50 Cent’s ‘In Da Club’) to Pete Yorn the record becomes even more problematic. On the face of it, it’s a plastic, shiny, chord-crunching, bubblegum blowing teen of a record. Empire-state sized choruses (‘Extraordinary’ ‘Red Light Fever’, ‘Why Can’t I?’), 2zillion and 1 tracked vocals, an army of meticulous guitars and as clean as a whistle production values. In fact it’s so clean it’s squeaks. Scratch the veneer and the gloss though and there’s the workings of a lively pop-siren. Not exactly PJ Harvey, not exactly Sheryl Crow, but a partial antithesis all the same to the mainstream glamourpuss depicted on the album cover. Tracks like ‘It’s Sweet’ deliver all the sass and fruity eccentricity of the Revolution’s Wendy & Lisa, whilst ‘My Bionic Eyes’ hint at an Orbit era Madonna – gently distorted vocals, retro guitars and bonkers 60s sound effects.
The label seems at pains to emphasise that this is a stylised and self-conscious foray into the big bad world of ‘pop music’ for the ordinarily ‘alternative’ and ‘Exile’ era Liz. But ‘irony’ is not something you can manufacture, no matter what agency you employ, and it certainly can’t be used as a safety-net. Liz herself is making no excuses, pursuing the lofty altitudes of mainstream success and perpetual youth with much the same fervour of a middle-age crisis. As a thirty-something year old, though, you can’t help coming away feeling a little cheated. As opposed to demonstrating the power of music to protract youth and the natural and impervious vitality of the artist (as with Phair tour mates, The Flaming Lips) it merely draws attention to the lengths that many will go to stay a little longer at the party than is strictly courteous and respectful.
Imitation is not always the sincerest form of flattery. Sometimes it’s a gesture of quiet desperation. As pleasing and inoffensive as it is on this occasion.