I wrote in Magnet: âWhen she appeared on the Chicago scene, Oberlin art-history grad Liz Phair was an indie nerdâs wet dream. She wrote lacerating songs by the truckload, warbled them as dispassionately as Peppermint Patty on Prozac, could pull the pin on a well-placed f-bomb and skewered the male-dominated geek scene while simultaneously signifying that she was down with all the young dudes. Much was made of how her 1993 debut purportedly forms a song-by-song response to the Stonesâ Exile On Main St., but in hindsight, pitting Phairâs cunnilingus anthem âGloryâ against Slim Harpoâs âShake Your Hipsâ doesnât make for a very fair fight. Instead, the 18-song Guyville best displays Phairâs encyclopedic knowledge of indiedomâs most hard-baked stereotypes (smashed to bits on the devastating âDivorce Songâ) and a triumph of studio smarts over execution (as her pottymouth nod to art rock, âFlower,â makes clear). Before she became suburbiaâs trophy MILF, Phair served as scary godmother to a generation of angry grrls-in-waiting such as Alanis Morissette and Fiona Apple.â đ