they put silver where her teeth had been

The enduring greatness of albums from 1993, plus modern rock musings and my new book!

First, a public service announcement! My latest book, Pink: Raise Your Glass (Palazzo Editions), is out in the U.S. today, July 11! You can purchase the book via Bookshop and Amazon, and also request your local bookstore order the book (if they don't carry it already!). I worked very hard researching and digging into Pink's music and personal history—and even if you're a superfan, I guarantee you will learn something about her.

Now, on with the newsletter…

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In recent weeks, I immersed myself in Liz Phair's catalog—a listening binge sparked by an assignment to write a 20th-anniversary essay for Stereogum on the polarizing 2003 album Liz Phair. I somehow didn't realize until my piece published that Exile in Guyville turned 30 years old the very same week. (Thirty! How?!)

I was very young when Phair released Exile in Guyville, so young that I couldn't relate at all to the lyrics about divorce, desire, and dalliances. But I loved "Never Said," which was all over the radio in Cleveland where I grew up. Laconic and mischievous, "Never Said" poured out of the speakers like a rush of cool air on a hot day; Phair's groovy alto delivery only added to the song's appeal. ¹

Although I didn't relate to Exile in Guyville, I did gravitate toward many other artists back in 1993: Juliana Hatfield, Belly, Björk and the Breeders. (I'm sure Tori Amos' Little Earthquakes, released in 1992, was also hanging strong in my head.) Coincidentally enough, all of those artists have albums that have turned—or are turning—30 years old this year. I don't quite know how that's possible, as I still feel deeply connected to these records. They're old friends who knew me then—and have stuck by me through the years. 

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Björk was a '90s favorite of mine, owing to towering yowls such as "Bachelorette" and "Joga." But my fandom was gradual: I owned Debut on cassette, as I fell in love with the otherworldly "Human Behaviour" song and video, but didn't warm to it right away. To my teenage ears, the entire cassette felt a bit strange, its clubby ambience and quirky balladry too esoteric for where I was in life then. I still rarely go back to Debut, but I see more now how it fits into Björk's career—its carefully manicured bursts presaging her more experimental work.

The Juliana Hatfield Three's Become What You Are is a different story. Reissued on vinyl earlier this year, that LP is one of my favorite albums of all time. (Did I once nervously tell Juliana that during one of the times I interviewed her? Yes. I usually try and play it cool when chatting with musicians, but I couldn't help myself.) I liked the album for many reasons, in no small part due to Juliana's guitar work. You hear echoes of her approach and tone today in countless bands—she favored both scorched jangle and delicate riffage, cut through with melodic heft. But bassist Dean Fisher and drummer Todd Philips provided equally forceful rhythmic backbone—giving Juliana's parts a firm place to land.

I also loved Become What You Are precisely because it was brutally honest about physical insecurities—the protagonist of "I Got No Idols" admitted disliking being touched—or spotlighted daydreamers who were yearning for bigger things ("Feelin' Massachusetts") Beyond that, Become What You Are's lyrics contained disappointment, awkwardness, restlessness, shyness, emotional emptiness—all things far more relatable to me than being treated poorly by someone else. My emotional turbulence was self-inflicted. 

Star—the debut album from another Boston artist, Belly—turned 30 earlier this year. Back in the '90s, I adored "Feed the Tree" and "Gepetto"—two sparkling, buoyant pop songs bolstered by (respectively) tornadic guitars and lace-edged riffs. Listening to Star today, it's even more adventurous, highlighted by the sugarcoated Pixies rambunctiousness of "Slow Dog"' bewitching, sinister "Low Red Moon"; grungy "Every Word"; and turbulent nightmare-pop of "Dusted." Vocalist Tanya Donelly—fresh off helping shape Throwing Muses' sound and co-founding the Breeders—could sound ghostly or beestung, desperate or aloof. On final track "Stay," she was a keening torch singer drawing on deep aches. 

As for the Breeders? Well, when you're from Ohio, you automatically have a spiritual connection with other people from Ohio. (There's also a sartorial connection: I dressed like the Deal sisters back in 1993—and I still dress like the Deal sisters now.) "Cannonball" is of course god-tier, but "Saints" was a glorious indie lurch, and "Divine Hammer" was all white-hot, quivering optimism and desire. Last Splash itself is gloriously rough around the edges, all fuzzy, sloppy and gleeful. Here, I'll quote the 20th anniversary piece on Last Splash I wrote for The A.V. Club: 

But Last Splash is also flexible because Deal’s lyrics are more atmospheric than concrete. She sketches out stories and traumas with few details, leaving listeners to draw their own conclusions, while conveying emotions (anger, lust, betrayal, joy) without context. The absent figure in “Invisible Man” stirs up sadness and regret, while on “Do You Love Me Now?” (co-written with Kelley), the loaded question (“You’ve loved me before / Do you love me now?”) to a shadowy person devolves into a full-blown demand: “Come back to me right now!” If anything, these outlines make Last Splash’s direct statements that much more effective. “If you’re so special, why aren’t you dead?” (in “I Just Wanna Get Along”) cuts, while a single line of “No Aloha”—“Motherhood means mental freeze”—is especially poignant and thought-provoking, considering the Deals’ Midwestern roots.

That last lyric in particular zeroes in on why The Breeders and Last Splash are now more relevant than ever, and beloved not only because of rampant ’90s nostalgia. A lyric scornful of motherhood remains a radical declaration, perhaps even more extreme now than it was then. The Deals spoke to—and, at times, for—women who weren’t necessarily taking a marriage-then-kids route to find happiness. (On Last Splash, they make being creative, goofing off, lusting after cute guys, and rocking out seem much more appealing, anyway.) In a broader sense, the sisters reinforced that it was perfectly acceptable to flout convention and expectations.

Good job, 2013 me! 

In hindsight, all of these artists showed me different ways to be a human being. I don't have kids (and I'm okay with that) and I'm not fond of gender stereotypes (or conforming to gendered expectations, for that matter). Growing up, however, I had all sorts of examples of how I could live my life or dress—maybe one day rocking old flannel shirts and band tees, another day dressing like Kay Hanley in the "Here and Now" video. I didn't have to have dating or relationships figured out, and I didn't have to be confident or put-together. I could be weird and messy. 

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Memory's a funny thing, however. I've always considered the '90s to be a halcyon time for women in rock music—a refreshing change from the '80s, where mainstream rock let Stevie Nicks/Quarterflash/Pretenders into the party and then closed and locked the door tight. And while the '90s were galvanizing in many respects—Alanis, Lilith Fair, pop innovations—looking back at 1993 charts reveals, well, lots and lots of men. Modern rock radio—which was supposedly more hip, alternative or enlightened than regular rock radio—was still male-dominated. Even today, the then-alternative songs that remain in rock radio rotation are by men. Since so many of these tunes are now considered classic rock (sob) that format's male-centric presence shuts women out, perpetuating that gender imbalance.

When Belly was at No. 1…

When The Juliana Hatfield Three was at No. 1…

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I'm also in the middle of reading Miki Berenyi's excellent memoir, Fingers Crossed: How Music Saved Me from Success, and she also detonates the stereotypes around Britpop being some halcyon time for everyone. An excerpt from The Guardian sums it up nicely:

I tag along to the NME Brats awards and the only women to take the stage all night are some semi-clad dancing girls and Candida Doyle, keyboard player in Pulp. Of the 17 categories, with 10 entries each, there are just seven women included and four of those are in the solo artist category: Madonna, Björk, PJ Harvey and Alanis Morissette (Paul Weller wins). The claim that Britpop celebrates sassy women in bands is a veneer. I saw it before with riot grrrl, where (in the UK, at least) the press consisted mainly of pitting women against each other. 

It spawned a host of “women in rock” debates that to my shame, I got dragged into, badmouthing Kylie Minogue when it was the men comparing every other female musician disparagingly to her sexy pop-poppet image that I should have attacked. I’m not going to be fooled again. The female-led Britpop bands sold a fraction of what the successful bloke bands did. Sure, the girls got a fair bit of attention, but it’s the blokes who ruled the roost. 

I'm thrilled Berenyi's memoir is out there in the world, because we need more women in music telling their own stories. When books are written about rock music history—movements, scenes, achievements—male voices more often than not dominate the conversation and narrative. That's because men dominated the scenes then—so they're called on to chronicle that history now. Plus ça change.

But I've been thinking a lot lately about the voices that are elevated when we discuss history, particularly music history—and which voices are diminished or forgotten. And I've also been thinking about who tells the stories of these forgotten or marginalized figures. I'm thrilled to see books like Audrey Golden's I Thought I Heard You Speak: Women at Factory Records, Danyel Smith's Shine Bright, Caryn Rose's Why Patti Smith Matters, Jude Rogers' The Sound of Being Human—all of which center on authoritative analysis and smart storytelling. And I consider it a deep honor to also chronicle the stories of women in music—not just Liz Phair, but also Lady Gaga and Pink. We need more books like this out in the world—and more authors doing work like this.

1. You should always read Niko Stratis and her newsletter Anxiety Shark, but her recent essay on Liz Phair is especially incisive, and I'm so glad she's in the process of writing several books. Kay Hanley's Los Angeles magazine Exile in Guyville remembrance is also a fantastic must-read—and, aside, I really, really hope Kay writes a book one day! Her writing is so vivid and insightful.