Liz Phair

1	Extraordinary 3:25
2	Red Light Fever 4:52
3	Why Can't I? 3:28
4	It's Sweet 2:55
5	Rock Me 3:21
6	Take a Look 3:29
7	Little Digger 3:36
8	Firewalker 4:29
9	Favorite 3:24
10	Love/Hate 3:43
11	H.W.C. 2:56
12	My Bionic Eyes 3:52
13	Friend of Mine 3:44
14	Good Love Never Dies 3:00

Barnes & Noble

News flash: Liz Phair, the sexually provocative lo-fi alterna-rocker, has morphed into an even more sexually provocative hi-fi pop singer on her fourth album. Adorned by a racy photo of Phair spreading her legs for a guitar, the self-titled disc is as catchy as it is confounding, as the 36-year-old singer presents a new Vivid-vixen image to match her pumped-up sound. Her longtime fans may be surprised -- especially by her radio-ready work with The Matrix, the production team that boosted Avril Lavigne onto the charts -- but it shouldn't turn them off. The songs here are supercharged Phair fare: They rock and shock, with graphic lyrics and driving guitar riffs; to borrow from Ms. Lavigne, Phair is indeed complicated. The hook-happy "Extraordinary" inserts a deliciously anthemic girl-power chorus ("I am extraordinary / if you ever get to know me"), but the song itself isn't about empowerment; it's about an unhealthy boy-obsession. "Rock Me," a carnal celebration of an X-box-playing twentysomething guy ("Oh baby, you're young, but that's okay /What's give or take nine years anyway"), finds Phair once again traversing standard male rock star territory -- just imagine AC/DC fronted by a woman. Then there's her outrageous ode to semen, "H.W.C.," which spikes truly spunky power-pop with sweetly sung, X-rated lyrics and a curious take on skin care. Is the song a joke, a too-much-information confessional, or a sex fantasy sculpted to match Phair's pornstress image? Only Phair (or her shrink) knows for sure. Liz Phair is filled with voyeuristic moments like this -- painful, funny, naked moments that make you ponder her motives. You may not always want to watch, but it's hard not to listen. Seth Kaufman

All Music Guide

Who knew that all Liz Phair ever wanted was to be a pop star? Surely, her debut, Exile in Guyville, with its cinematic lo-fi production and frankness, never suggested as much, nor did its cleaner sequel, Whip-Smart, even if her appearance in negligee on the cover of Rolling Stone did imply she wanted a wider audience. In retrospect, perhaps the streamlined surfaces of Whitechocolatespaceegg were a bid for the big time, but it was undercut by songs of motherhood, marriage, and remnants of her time as an indie queen. All of that is a distant memory on her long-delayed eponymous fourth album, where she makes a long-delayed stab at superstardom, glamming herself up like a Maxim MILF of the Month and pitching herself somewhere between Sheryl Crow and Avril Lavigne, on one side working with Michael Penn and adult alternative singer/songwriter Pete Yorn and on the other hooking up with 2003's hitmakers du jour the Matrix (not wanting to lose her aging core audience, she began her support tour for the album opening for the thirty-something darlings of the early 2000s, the Flaming Lips, even if her new music was a far cry from indie). As "Extraordinary" starts the album with a heavy guitar downstroke, it's clear that Phair has piled nearly all her chips on making it as a pop act, delivering music that not just fits comfortably with Lavigne's, but follows her sounds and stance. Yet Exile in Guyville had such a lasting impact, it's impossible to shake its memory when hearing newer work such as this. Liz Phair is running away from that shadow on Liz Phair, creating a record that is pretty much the polar opposite of that album, a shiny bright affair that wants nothing more than to be taken as a confection, even when it tries to dig deeper. Stephen Thomas Erlewine

Entertainment Weekly

An honestly fun summer disc with plenty of dark crevices. (A-) Chris Willman

Blender

The best songs on Liz Phair cut through the bullshit to portray a hot young mom reflecting on lust and guilt. Let's hope people can hear the smarts behind the sheen. Ann Powers