Liz Phair - It Wasn’t Great

 

 

I had a top 10 radio hit, a song called “Why Can't I?” [audiencehollers] And the Indie press was coming after me, accusing me of selling out. Up until then, I'd been known for my raw and gritty sound, my confrontational lyrics. I was famous for challenging the mainstream. I was the girl who sang Fuck and Run. [audience hollers] 

 

I was the girl who sang Supernova. But that was the 1990s. Now, it was the 2000s, and the music business had completely changed. Pop music was all the rage. This was the era of Britney Spears and NSYNC and Boyz II Men. My small Indie label had partnered with a major label to try to share in that success for their artists. But when that partnership failed and they divested, I became a negotiating point, almost collateral, and I was left behind at the major label, a company that really only cared about getting hits. 

 

On the one hand, I was excited to be playing in the big leagues. I'd grown up listening to radio, and I'd always wanted to hear myself on the airwaves, and I was ambitious. But on the other hand, I'd lost my anchor of the people who understood the kind of music I made and where I came from. I quickly learned that on a major label, there are only two speeds. You can idle in the backwaters and go unnoticed and unpromoted, or you can plunge into the rushing river of commercial success. It was sink or swim time for me, and I decided to swim. 

 

So, I worked with pop producers and we came up with a couple tracks that they thought would be commercially viable. I began to do back-to-back events, all of them scary. I sang God Bless America at the opening game of the World Series. I performed in amphitheaters. I did interviews, videos, and photo shoots. I was in a pop media circus. When I got an offer to sing Winter Wonderland at the Rockefeller Center Tree Lighting in New York City, I was so excited. 

 

I always loved Christmas time. I thought it was such a sparkly and magical season in a very long and oppressive Chicago winter. As a 13-year-old, I couldn't imagine any greater success than composing a classic Christmas carol, a song that would live forever. And even though this wasn't going to be my own song, in some small way, I felt I was fulfilling a lifelong dream. But the day of the performance, I was deathly ill. I had the flu and a temperature of 103 degrees. But I couldn't call in sick. I'd been announced this was a live broadcast. I had to show up for work. When I got there, everyone was asking me questions and giving me instructions and I was still learning the lyrics. 

 

I was going to be singing along to a backing track, a format that I wasn't particularly comfortable with and didn't totally trust. It seemed suspiciously like karaoke, and I totally suck at karaoke. So, I was distracted, and I didn't notice until I looked up into the mirror and saw my reflection and saw that the hair and makeup team had given me a news anchor face and Shirley Temple ringlets. And I was horrified. I didn't even recognize myself. I turned to my tour manager and I whispered, “How bad is it? Do you think anyone's going to notice?” And he laughed. He was like, “Truthfully, it's not great. [audience chuckles] I mean, it's a look.” 

 

But we didn't have time to fix it. I had to be out on set. So, they put this heavy blanket around my shoulders, and they walked me outside onto the plaza. We stood there in the freezing cold, waiting for the broadcast to go to a commercial break. I was shivering from head to toe. Tremors were moving up and down my body. My teeth were chattering so loudly that I was afraid it was going to be audible on air. 

 

They constructed this little isolation booth, like a little tent, and they ushered me inside and sat me down on a stool. The sound guy attached me to my microphone, the lighting guys had these beauty lights glaring in my face, making my eyes water, the camera guy was tracking his shot, the hair and makeup team were still tugging on my hair and blotting my face. I'd been the center of frenetic activity, a team of people, for hours. And then, they all backed away, and I was left by myself out there alone, facing the camera and five million people watching me live. 

 

I could hear the sound of my raspy breath and the thud of my heart. I knew I had to wait two bars before I started singing. That was my cue. As I listened in, my earpiece to, the anchors introduced me. I waited for the music to start playing, but I didn't hear anything. I started to panic and finally the track rose up in my ears. I counted, I waited the requisite time, and I started singing, “Sleigh bells ring, are you listening? In the lane, snow is glistening.” 

 

Something sounded a little off, but I thought, okay, it's the audio mix. It's just strange. I plunge ahead into the second verse, “Gone away is the bluebird.” Something's still not right “Here to stay is a new bird.” This sounds really off. “He sings a love song,” oh, fuck [audience laughter] “As we go along Walking in a winter wonderland.” And that's when I realize I'm in the wrong part of the song. 

 

The melody I'm singing is completely clashing with the chords. It sounds awful. It doesn't even sound recognizable. And so, I freeze. I stare straight ahead, listening intently as I try to find my way back into this song, listening for any clue as to what section I'm in. But what the audience sees is a stupefied woman, slack jawed, wide eyed, with 10 seconds of dead air, 15 seconds of dead air, 20 seconds of dead air. I can see my reflection in the camera lens, and it's those damn poodle curls again. [audience laughter] 

 

So, by the time I hear the bridge chords and I'm so elated that I actually know where I am, my mind has gone completely blank and I can't remember any of the lyrics. So, I just start singing gibberish. I'm pulling phrases and words from other parts of the song, repeating myself, until all of a sudden, it's just over. Everybody rushes back in, and they unhook all the equipment, and they put the heavy blanket around my shoulders, and they start walking me back inside. It's like I'm in a trance. I'm totally numb. I can't believe that just happened. I can't believe I just humiliated myself in front of the greater metropolitan area of New York on live television. Everybody feels incredibly sorry for me. They're all trying to reassure me that it wasn't as bad as I thought. And everyone at home is making food and they're drinking and talking, but I can tell from their faces that they're lying. 

 

I go back to my hotel room. And instead of all the congratulatory calls and emails that usually happen, nobody knows what to say. So, the next morning, my manager calls and I ask him, “How bad was it? Do you think anybody noticed?” [audience laughter] And he's like, “Truthfully, Liz, it wasn't great.” Howard Stern has been making fun of me all morning, speculating that I had a stroke [audience laughter] or that I was on drugs. And the Indie music press is having a field day. They've been waiting for me to fail. And this is almost too easy. It's low hanging fruit. 

 

I remember one joke, that my curls were so tight, oxygen couldn't get to my brain. [audience laughter] But I don't have time to feel sorry for myself and I don't have time to recover from my illness. I'm on to the next performance and the next. But that was the beginning of realizing that I didn't belong here. I didn't belong in this space. If I'm not connected to my instrument or to my band, if I don't feel passionately about the song that I'm singing, if I'm not coming from a place of true authenticity, it's going to be a disaster. So, I fulfilled my obligations and the season wound down, but that was the point at which I truly let go. Thank you.