October 06, 2005


I know it's "cliche" for me, really, here on October 5th? 7th? in the year of our lord 2005, to write another word about sexism and the plight of women in rock. But, really, if you want cliche, if you want strife of the girl band writ larger than a Times Square billboard, if you want to feel resigned and fuck it to the truth about rock critical patriarchy , I suggest you do what I have done: Spend a few days reasearching and reading everything written about The Slits (76-81), and then peruse The Collected Press Kit of Liz Phair , which should rank somewhere around Plath, as far as depressing reads.

Does there exist, ever, an accounting of the Slits where they are not made out to sound like feral animals--accidental, instinctual, primal, "emotional" and wild wild wild? Where their genius is abnegated by their beginnerhood--even five years in? Even in spite of those BBC sessions that burn cleaner than a gas fire.

And oh, Liz. Details and GQ down to Mp3 blogs and CMJ, they loved you as the blowjob queen in 1993, but, at 38, they find it unbecoming of someone of your advanced age. That hint of tit on the Exile cover, you lunging, mouth open and hungry--yr candor was applaudable. But now, though you appear topless and half-shirted with less frequency than yr now-peer, Sheryl Crow, you are, in short order "desperate" (sexually and for sales). You went beyond the pale and made apparent: You know what we like and you gave it to us, you posed with glossed lips and made us think you wanted it, but that last record you made clear--you knew exactly what you were doing the whole time and that you understood the transaction at hand-- which destroys the fantasy, when you seemingly exploit us back.

Liz Phair's press kit evidences, in the plainest of daylight examinations, once and for all that the fantasy and economic structure that are inherant to stripclubs are pervasive outside of rooms with gold poles.

Posted by Jessica at October 6, 2005 02:36 PM | TrackBack