Liz Phair
Whitechocolatespaceegg

THE REVIEW

Musically speaking, 1998 was quite a prolific year. "Moon Pix" by Cat Power revolutionizes the indie-rock concept, "Slide" reconfirms itself as yet another masterpiece by Lisa Germano, and Tori Amos takes a turn in her career with the accessible "From The Choirgirl Hotel." Few, however, know about this "Whitechocolatespaceegg."

Liz Phair, after all, has never loved glossy covers (at least until then; from 2003 she will begin to pursue them blatantly), and indeed, the program behind "Exile In Guyville" (her debut, 1993) reveals itself as overtly "anti-commercial." The formula is clear: scandalous and censorable lyrics, provocative and eccentric image (somewhere between Courtney Love and PJ Harvey, for reference) and a contralto voice that can open up to infinite tone changes. Praised by critics specializing from the outset (the work she did on the first album was exemplary: a back-and-forth with Jagger-the-misogynist in the form of improbable sexual proposals), Liz Phair, starting from her first single in heavy rotation ("Supernova," from "Whip-Smart"), has managed to win over a fairly large fan base, despite the (not entirely justified) lukewarm reviews that greeted the release of the second album.

Many believe Liz Phair went into a coma after the release of the first album, and after the controversial "Liz Phair" she definitively passed away. But at least it was talked about. At least "Why Can't I?" raged across America a few years ago. But who has ever mentioned "Whitechocolatespaceegg"? Who has managed to admit that we are facing one of the best works released in recent years? The originality that gave life to this album has the same seed that birthed "The Velvet Underground & Nico" or the early albums of Pink Floyd. And I am not exaggerating.

Listen to "Baby Got Going," which smells of the west, or the grunge of the title-track. Let yourself be plucked by the guitar strings of "Perfect World" and be lulled by the sleepy trance of "Headache," sung with a laziness that is not too distant a relative of Lunch's singing.

The layered pop of "What Makes You Happy," free from the mannerisms of Garbage, anticipates those paths that will become dear to Phair in a few years. The rural America, the southern one, is dusted off by the honor stories of "Uncle Alvarez," but the epic singing on which the gem that is "Shitloads Of Money" unfolds is truly timeless. Liz Phair has grown up. With a pregnancy behind her (the "Space Egg" of the title is an affectionate reference to her newborn son's little head), she has even (but not entirely) abandoned the vulgarity that made her famous. And she chooses to do what she does best.

Sing.