#11-#12: "Divorce Song" "Fuck & Run" - Liz Phair

I missed last week's song write-up so decided to double up this time with an artist that has two songs on my list that absolutely changed the way I listen to music.

A while back, I recorded a bonus podcast about the songs that changed my life and asked friends to contribute as well. My choice was one of these titles but should’ve been both, really. Not to mention the fact that I also contributed to an entire episode on both Exile In Guyville and another one on WhiteChocolateSpaceEgg, both by Liz Phair. Without question, hearing her songs back in 1993 changed everything for me.

For those who aren’t aware already (or didn’t read my piece on “Hide”) both Matthew Sweet and Liz Phair are the two main reasons I became a songwriter. Kurt Cobain was the impetus to ask my dad for a guitar as a birthday present but then I heard two other records around the same time that made me think, I wanna do more than just play an instrument. To me, it’s still surreal that I’ve met both Sweet and Phair - the latter of which was at SXSW in Austin Texas outside a Starbucks in which after I walked away, I teared up. I was overwhelmed.

I suppose that I experienced some hero worship back in the early 90s that is hard to shake. That tendency to put musicians and actors and directors on a pedestal still exists to this day, often to a fault. Yes, at the time of sexual awakening, it makes sense why hearing a song like “Fuck & Run” would be so appealing to my heterosexual ears. Not to mention the fact that girls in high school that I found attractive were responding so strongly to the same record that I was - we had something to talk about and bond over. But outside of that superficial fact that Liz Phair was a confident, stunning indie rock star that came from Chicago, it was about all the songs and these two in particular I still think about.

It’s accurate to say that Exile on Main St. served as a project plan template that helped Liz focus her songwriting efforts and organize previously-written material; it also served as an occasional guide to production. It was never meant to be a track-for-track response to the classic Rolling Stones record that she was a fan of. It was a source of inspiration, a blueprint. She was always destined to make music that was entirely her own. Regardless, they connected with so many people my age at the time that I often cite her songs as being even more powerful than Nirvana.

“I wrote those songs during one of the hardest periods of my life. I had no money, and I was lonely, confused about the future and angry about the past. The lyrics reflected my reality in an unflinching, unapologetic, and sometimes explicit way that people deeply connected with. Fans came up to me at my concerts expressing gratitude and admiration for my bravery in telling the truth, because it made them feel a little less isolated and overwhelmed by their own difficulties. They heard themselves in the music, not me” - Liz Phair

What’s interesting is that I didn’t hear myself in these songs, I was getting a revealing look into what women were experiencing. The fragility, the objectification, the anger. I heard Liz Phair before I heard Courtney Love but it did feel like I was connecting with them even more strongly than I was with a lot of male songwriters. Perhaps it came down to the simple fact that I truly didn’t know all the time what women were thinking and feeling because I wasn’t one. Here was an inside peek into the heart and mind of someone brave and vulnerable.

I told Liz Phair that hearing her record felt like the most exciting moment in music for me at the time because there was nothing else like it. Before Alanis and the Lilith Fair trademark of songwriters that emerged, Liz broke ground first and paved the way for generations to come. When I see new favorite musicians like Courtney Barnett, Julien Baker or Big Thief, I often think of how I may be seeing the effect and power of Exile in Guyville - a ripple effect that has inspired so many women to just put themselves out there, fearlessly and without hesitation. The water is warm ever since Liz took a dive and made a splash.

Of course there were consequences: the indie rock scene in Chicago was dominated by white men with huge egos on a power trip. Liz was frustrated with this - perhaps that was its own brand of hipster culture that must’ve been eye-rolling. Instead of looking at her as a peer they mainly dismissed her as a bit of a “younger sister” if you will, that didn’t deserve the kind of attention they were getting. So it makes sense why Liz would later try to separate herself from the sound and working environment that led to her making Exile In Guyville. She even made devoted fans like myself quite angry with the release of her self-titled pop record that found her wanting to be more like Sheryl Crow and Avril Lavigne. Now people are out defending that record but I’m still on the ‘nay’ side perhaps due to my love of her first three albums (this could be a case where friend / podcaster Patrick may be right in only holding a couple of selections from an artist’s catalog sacred and worthy of repeat listens - whereas I try to listen to everything and anything they put out even if it’s been diminishing returns).

An early version of "Divorce Song" appeared on one of the three cassette tapes she circulated to two friends called Girly-Sound, who then made copies, who then made more copies, with of course each tape sounding worse than the one before it. These tapes, the first set of which had been dubbed from four-track demos Phair recorded at her childhood home, served as sources for Phair's new recordings for more than a decade. Yes I had a copy of them after becoming obsessed with Exile in Guyville.

It’s hard to say why “Fuck and Run” in particular worked its magic on me because in terms of the music and production, it’s straightforward and maybe even a little repetitive. There’s not a verse/chorus/verse/bridge structure, it almost feels like the music was secondary to the journal-entry lyrics which is why it pairs so well with “Divorce Song.” These songs tell a story of a woman (most likely Liz herself) trying to maintain confidence and consistency among men that don’t really try to engage with her on a sincere emotional level.

The title “Fuck and Run” says a lot for the most part as does “Divorce Song.” The big epiphany for me in the latter were these lyrics: “it's harder to be friends than lovers // And you shouldn't try to mix the two // 'Cause if you do it and you're still unhappy // Then you know that the problem is you.” I guess I never heard words like that song so directly in a manner that was achingly honest and apt. It was very hard being friends with girls in high school I was attracted to but there was also little energy (due to depression and body image issues) to pursue them sexually. So there was also this push and pull between desire and not wanting to ruin what we had.

Both songs are just telling a story that I could understand without having entirely experienced everything myself. As much as I admired a storyteller like Bob Dylan, Liz Phair just made more sense to me. Perhaps I just never got into politics or practical thinking the way many others have - even when entering high school, I wanted to understand human behavior, philosophy, psychology and avoid any kind of small talk. Dylan certainly did that in his own way, but Liz Phair was akin to some of the girls I adored and could have long phone conversations with past my bedtime. The conversations weren’t always as frank about sex but they were about emotions, fears, ideas and trying to process our lives in a meaningful way.

I was experiencing intimacy through music and that’s when I began to crave more of that. Not just in the arts but with actual people that were unafraid to get deep and real. In “Fuck and Run,” Liz finds herself exhausted by the expectation that all roads lead to sex, the superficiality of casual fucking and all the bullshit that comes with it. Yes, being able to cum together is fun but what about love letters and sharing a soda? She also realizes that physical connection doesn’t always scratch the loneliness itch - some things should last longer than a night. “I want all the stupid ole’ shit,” too Liz. Even if I’m a decade younger than you and in high school. Though of course, I wasn’t fucking and I wasn’t running. I was the kind of guy who makes love 'cause I was in it, particularly with someone who loved classic rock and smoking Marlboro Lights outside by a bonfire.

The song title isn’t sung until later on. I guess there was a little bit of a shock with the final line: “Fuck and run, fuck and run // Even when I was twelve.” My 16-year-old self was a little taken aback and now that I’m in my 40s, I have very different (and sometimes conflicted) feelings about sexualizing youth. But in the case of Liz’s intention, I’m not sure if she ever sat out to SHOCK the listener. She set out to tell some unexpected truth about what she is going through and what she went through. To criticize is almost counterproductive to a degree.

I could say that Exile In Guyville’s production isn’t always the most revolutionary. You’re not going to get the same oomph or sense of awe when you hear the Steve Albini drum sound of In Utero or the layered Big Muff guitar My Bloody Valentine homage that Butch Vig accomplished with Siamese Dream. The songs that Liz Phair created were meant to make the lyrics the main focus and that’s what stood out to me the most. I can even openly admit that the harmonica that kicks in late during “Divorce Song” is not something I find pleasing to the ears (oops, maybe that’s why I was hit and miss with Dylan).

The cause of the bickering in that track before the outro is pretty obvious: both parties engage in indirect, incomplete, contaminated communication and neither considers how their words may land on the other. Although hardly an original story line, Liz lays it out in a way that heightens the tension in the car, a milieu where neither party can engage in face-to-face communication. Picture both of them with their eyes fixed on the road ahead, seething with hurt and anger, taking potshots at each other without having to make eye contact. Although hardly an original story line, Liz lays it out in a way that heightens the tension in the car, a milieu where neither party can engage in face-to-face communication. Picture both of them with their eyes fixed on the road ahead, seething with hurt and anger, taking potshots at each other without having to make eye contact.

Phair explained the connection between the two songs in a Song Exploder podcast: "What I got from that song was tension, and everyone's gotta release the tension. In 'Ventilator Blues,' things get so intense and people just keep slogging through life. So with 'Divorce Song,' it's a lyrical corresponding thing. That was like what it is when you're in a relationship. You're just slogging through together. There are times that you blow up and fight with each other, and it doesn't have to mean it's the end of the relationship necessarily – you just have to ventilate” - Liz Phair

Despite the relationship that takes place in “Divorce Song” not working out for the best, there’s still a sense that even when something fails or doesn’t live up to expectation, it still isn’t a “waste of time.” We learn and grow from being unfulfilled. Sometimes compromise leads to continual complacency. The only thumbs down lyrically throughout both songs for me is the tired inclusion of “you put in my hands a loaded gun and told me not to fire it.” But then the follow-up line is so strong and there’s a sudden jolt of gaslighting expressed that I’m willing to let it slide: “When you did the things you said were up to me // And then accused me of trying to fuck it up.” I think miscommunication and wanting to be the one who is “right” is the reason that a lot of relationships dissolve and this song emphasizes this better than just about any I’ve ever heard. Again, it shook me up and made me appreciate direct honesty, even when the truth stings a little.

“Fuck and Run” is more of a simple song about embracing lust whereas “Divorce Song” really does attempt to deconstruct how two people can fuck up. Everyone involved has good intentions even if they come from a selfish place. Whether you’re in high school or like Liz Phair was, in your 20s, immediate needs are what take precedence. We are after all, needy creatures that sometimes resent and loathe human beings but at the same time, we are driven to be close to them. Sometimes we’re just horny but most of the time, we really want something that will last longer to where we don’t end up permanently alone.

Liz Phair really did express the complicated, entangled weave of messy emotions that are inevitable to being imperfectly human. She has always been a keen observer of human behaviors, emotions, and the delicate imbalances in male and female perception. I remain forever grateful to have heard Exile in Guyville around the time my brain was developing and my interests in self-expression were changing. I may never have decided to write down words that would become songs too. Part of me knows that I could never say things as nuanced and complex and layered as she accomplished with songs like these, but hearing her sing the words she wrote gave me the motivation to try.