‘Exile in Guyville’ at 25: Still, if not more, relevant


This piece originally appeared on Bed Crumbs.

It feels like we’re living through the ‘90s all over again right now. Everywhere you look, reboots of shows like Twin Peaks and The X-Files, slip dresses and Dr. Martens in Urban Outfitters, and reunions of bands like the Breeders and Smashing Pumpkins dot the current pop culture landscape. This is not unusual; we’ve found ourselves in these throwback eras before (think the ‘70s obsession with the wholesome ‘50s, or the ‘90s homages to the swinging ‘60s). Pop culture is cyclical, and when faced with uncertainty and turbulence (which we have in abundance), recalling “simpler times” of decades past provides some sort of semblance of familiarity and comfort.

And so, in the midst of this ‘90s resurgence, Liz Phair’s explosive and divisive 18-song debut Exile in Guyville turns 25 years old. The album came at the right time and place: in the midst of the (mostly male) rise of indie rock and trailing on the riot grrrl movement. Nearly three years in the making, it emerged as a fully-formed articulate, confident, and cutting concept — a track-by-track response to the Rolling Stones’ 1972 tome Exile on Main St. — paired with unpolished and imperfect vocals and instrumentation. It was an enormous “fuck you,” as Phair once recalled in an oral history on its making, to “people say[ing] ‘you can’t do this, you aren’t good enough to do this, you don’t know what you are doing’” giving Phair “enough rage in me to say, ‘I have as much of a voice as anyone.’”

Guyville topped the Village Voice’s esteemed Pazz and Jop poll the year of its release and thrust Phair into the role of an artistic wunderkind, even though she never thought of herself as a one, much less as a serious musician. “I was just a neighborhood kid who wanted to show the boys I could do it, too,” she told Mojo in 1994. In the decades since its release, the album has served as both a boon and a ball and chain: a critically-lauded record most artists dream of making, but one all of her subsequent work would be unfairly measured against.

Marking its anniversary is a new, expanded box set and short U.S. tour that will revisit the series of demo tapes that informed the album’s sound and concept. Revisiting emblems of pop culture from years past, and celebrating their milestone anniversaries, often drips with rose-colored nostalgia. But Exile in Guyville’s anniversary is different. To revisit Exile in Guyville in 2018 is to reckon with something that is not nostalgic, but something that strangely still feels current and all too relevant.

Exile in Guyville is a coming of age album, one that grapples with what it’s like to be a modern 20-something American woman: supposedly liberated, but not much better off than her mother, facing an insurmountable amount of societal pressures to look, act, and think a certain way. Phair wrote the majority of the album in ‘90s suburban Chicago, which the band Urge Overkill had previously deemed “Guyville”: a wasteland of “alternative” bros who, for all their feigned enlightenment, made it more than clear that, even though women were, in theory, their equals, in practice, in they would never really be their equals.

What if, in the 25 years that have passed, Guyville didn’t change or even get better? What if it just moved and grew? Women face just as many threats as they did in the early-90s. Guyville still very much exists in 2018, only now it’s come to encompass other gentrified, creative communities, be it by geography (like Bushwick) or industry (like the studio film system), or even digitally (like Twitter) — pockets where women are oppressed in some way or another.

“There’s a million Guyvilles,” Phair told the Washington Post this April. “‘Guyville’ could be a catchphrase for any oblivious community that has no idea that they’re shoving people to the side. I don’t know where it isn’t.”

Listening to Exile in Guyville today, I constantly have to remind myself that this album is almost as old as I am. It is not lost on me that I’m the same age as Phair was when it was released. Its words feel like they easily could have been written by me, by a friend, by other young, female artists coming up today, like Angel Olsen, Snail Mail, Soccer Mommy, or Frankie Cosmos — all musical daughters (or maybe younger sisters) of Liz Phair. For me, and perhaps for many young women my age, Exile in Guyville is one of those albums that feels more fitting now than ever before.

Phair recently compared her album-making process to creating historical documents. “I’m doing these things to log on to history,” she told The Cut. “Like, ‘A woman lived in this time, and this is what it was like for her back then.’”

While Exile in Guyville does carry the weight of its time in some senses, its tie to a specific period lies mostly in the details: the paper map in “Divorce Song,” the stereo in “Help Me Mary,” the tight blue jeans styling of the titular “Soap Star Joe.” For the most part, Exile in Guyville seems to resist the trappings of history. Her words still sting, the taste of hurt and disgust and shame and anger in all of her words remain vivid, prescient, even. Art that both defines an era and transcends it is rare and worthy of discussion: What does that sort of status say about the art itself? More, perhaps, what does it say about our collective society?

In her 2014 book on Exile in Guyville for the 33 ⅓ series, critic Gina Arnold wrote: “Phair’s record brought out the uglier side of the indie rock scene, in the process highlighting the way that women artists, both there and elsewhere in the popular music world, are often undervalued as both listeners and consumers.”

Exile in Guyville pointed out that these problems existed then, but listening to the album now, I’m still hit with a stream of remembrances of offenses — some big, some small microaggressions that add up — that have come with being a woman in the music scene today.

I think about the conversation I once had with a male music writer who had just earlier asked me on a date. He ranted about why I was wrong to dislike a prolific male musician with a history of misogynistic behavior: “Most musicians are huge dicks,” he said. “Just put your gendered prejudices behind you.”

I think about the record store clerks who ask me if I’m looking for something “as a gift for my boyfriend.” The guy behind the counter at a used shop who rolled his eyes and told me to “just order a reissue at Urban to go with your Crosley” when I asked if they ever sell Sonic Youth.

I think about all the music dudes I meet at concerts, in record stores, and on dates, who always seem to test me, the ones who ask me what the rarest vinyl I own is, tell me that if I’ve never heard this or if I like X over Y, then I’m not serious, and I don’t know what I’m talking about. The ones who try to make me feel like I don’t belong.

I think about one of the most recent shitstorms of male @s I’ve brought upon myself on Twitter — the ones that happen every now and then when I casually denounce specific men or say simply that their art does not excuse their bad actions. Instantly, I recall the grown man telling me that a heavily researched piece I wrote wasn’t valid because I’m a woman, and that he saw my agenda as playing the victim card: “I get it. It’s the era of #MeToo and righting wrongs from 30 years ago. Getting justice for all those slighted for being female in a male world.”

“I was so disrespected,” Phair told Rolling Stone in 2010. “Being a woman in music back then, at least the level I was, was like being their bitch. Sit there, look pretty, bring us drinks and we’ll talk about what music is good and bad. And it was almost understood that women’s taste in music was inferior. […] I was so angry about being taken advantage of sexually, being overlooked intellectually.”

Did Phair know something as a 25-year-old then that those of us living out our mid-20s now still have yet to figure out? A way to rise above her situation, maybe? Did she think that calling it out then would maybe lead to a change for now? How many of us girls listen to her today and wish we could wrap our arms around her like a friend and say, “Oh, but Liz, things are going to get so much worse”?

They make rude remarks about me / They wonder just how wild I would be / As they egg me on and keep me mad / They play me like a pit bull in a basement, and for that / I lock my door at night / I keep my mouth shut tight / I practice all my moves / I memorize their stupid rules

It takes Phair barely over three minutes on Exile in Guyville before she rips into the types of men who have tried to keep her in her place in “Help Me Mary.” They’re the ones who overrun her home — in her case, Wicker Park’s indie scene — and trap her, reducing her to a mothering role. Their ridicule is just barely above that of a schoolyard “you can’t play with us” taunt, nagging her with “you can’t do this” and “you don’t belong here” to her face incessantly. Instead of biting back, she swallows her anger, internalizes it and uses it as a fuel to learn their game, to get so good at it that she ends up besting them in the end. But can she really best them in the end? No matter how good Liz Phair got, she is still, at the end of the day, a woman.

In a recent essay on the prominent gender biases present in music criticism for The Outline, critic Leah Finnegan argues that perspective when writing about art matters: “How does the journalist see the world, and how do they place art in it? If you’re paying attention, an article will reveal those biases. It will sometimes tell us more about the writer than what the writer is writing about.”

Early criticism of Exile in Guyville and profiles of Phair were primarily written by men who missed the point entirely. Rolling Stone’s initial review lumped it in with PJ Harvey’s not-really-all-that-similar Rid of Me, describing both as albums by angry women exacting a strange sort of revenge, exploring “the toxic consequences of intimacy with lacerating explicitness […] relationships don’t just end, they splatter. Yet listen closely, and you’ll hear these women laughing under their breath.” Meanwhile, Spin pushed their criticism further, calling Phair a “well-off Winnetka, Illinois brat” who wrote an album of “songs about all the boys she’s fucked and how soon they fucked her over.”

Attempting to follow an album that had set such a high standard would be difficult for anyone. Yet while many of Phair’s later records — Whip-Smart, whitechocolatespaceegg, and Liz Phair — were solid works, full of tender, piercing, tough, and smart songs about being a woman in this world, each faced subsequently fading reviews that placed more emphasis on her looks than her music — mostly written by male critics. Her career withered.

“Men can make middling, maudlin art and be celebrated, and women artists face harsher scrutiny while doing the same thing, and usually better,” Finnegan wrote in the same Outline piece. I can’t help but wonder how Phair’s career could have been altered if more women were writing about her back then. Women who understood what she was talking about, who didn’t reduce songs about complicated issues we face to maudlin drivel or the shallow venting of a girl who is simply angry.

But more distressing than the theme of how female artists continue to be mistreated is the theme that life as a young woman in America continues to be, more or less, the same. Maybe even worse.

Whatever happened to a boyfriend? / The kind of guy who tries to win you over. / Whatever happened to a boyfriend? / The kind of guy who makes love ‘cause he’s in it. / I want a boyfriend. / I want a boyfriend. / I want all that stupid old shit / Like letters and sodas / Letters and sodas

In 1968, Virginia Slims famously began marketing their cigarettes to women with a tagline “You’ve come a long way, baby!” The strides Gen X’s mothers had made for women’s liberation in the ‘60s and ‘70s had allowed women of the ‘90s to boldly own their sexuality as something casual, their wants and desires equal to a man’s. Except it wasn’t that simple, and on the song “Fuck and Run,” Phair laments the disposable turn that dating life had taken. Had we really come a long way? Hardly.

Twenty-five years later, on an unusually warm April night, a friend and I were explaining Tinder to two parental figures over dinner. This was not the first time we’ve had to break down the State Of Meeting Men in 2018 to people who are our elders, but the first time I was struck by how exhausting it is, how demoralizing, how my resigned, yet defensive, argument that this swiping and scheduling our way to hookups thing just is the way it is makes no sense.

“Guys don’t talk to us in real life,” I insisted. Sitting back in my chair, I dropped my fork on the plate in front of me as defeated punctuation. “The only way to meet a guy now is on an app, and they pretty much all just want to have sex and nothing else.” They looked at us incredulously.

Millennial women share a desire planted by Baby Boomers and driven home by Gen X: That we can be independent women who don’t need men in our lives. But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t times when independence becomes tiring; times when you know that even though you can do it all by yourself, you don’t really want to. Millennials are 48 percent more likely to have sex before even going on a first date with someone, even though we’re 40 percent more likely than Boomers to think sex is better with an emotional connection. Virtually having access to sex at any time is making us feel increasingly more hollow.

Sitting across from a couple who had been together for nearly half a century, Phair’s “Fuck and Run” lyrics came to mind. We both find ourselves wanting what the women who came before us have and had: stability, a relationship, affection, love. That admission terrifies us, in a way. It makes us feel like we’re betraying our generation and the freedoms we’ve earned, when, really, we’re just allowing ourselves to be vulnerable, allowing ourselves to be human.

So don’t look at me sideways / Don’t even look me straight on / And don’t look at my hands in my pockets, baby / I ain’t done anything wrong

In “Never Said,” Phair’s powerlessness against pervasive gossip and doubts recalls the strains of #MeToo. While Phair centers the track around adamance that nothing happened and #MeToo is focused on the insistence that something happened, what they both share is the painful sense that being a woman and being a person believed to be telling the truth are, at times, mutually exclusive.

When faced with doubts, both Phair and women today are forced to aggressively defend themselves as they see their reputations ruined. Past actions are called into question, personality traits turned against us, and our repeated insistences — done to keep our names “clean as a whistle” — are seen as lies or exaggerations, at best, admissions of guilt, at worst.

A recent study from the Pew Research Center found that a frustrating number of people think women are making false #MeToo claims: 31 percent categorized false claims as a major problem; 45 percent called them a minor issue. Do we really still think that women lie more often than not?

Why does it seem that men are believed unequivocally, but when women tell the truth, they are wrong until proven right? Why do we have to work extra hard to fight suspicions? It’s a frustrating sticking point. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. We’re not always seeking justice against aggressors, not always seeking revenge, as Phair may have been in “Never Said.” Sometimes, all we want is to be heard and accepted.

But for all its anger — and Exile in Guyville is an album full of a specific form of women’s rage — it still holds quiet moments of vulnerability. Its songs still depict evergreen, nuanced feelings so specific to this strange time period of delayed adult womanhood. The reflections on the city in which you live, the uncertain hope for a relationship with someone better than what you’re used to, the growing pains of doing and being what you want versus what is expected of you, and the encounters with the more realistic, perhaps sadder, side of elders you once considered heroic — all of those complicated situations live in the softer in-between moments of the album, from “Stratford-On-Guy” to “Shatter”, “Canary” and “Flower” to “Explain It To Me.”

It’s in these ebbs and flows that Exile in Guyville resonates. Guyville helped to usher in the transition between punks like Debbie and Viv and Siouxsie, who reached the bedrooms of young girls listening and made them feel like they weren’t so alone in their emotions and their anger, and alt-girls like Alanis and Fiona and Shirley, who built upon that rage, but let listeners know they, too, sometimes felt strange and misunderstood and were still struggling to figure everything out.

Listening to the album today can, on certain occasions, feel like listening to what the inside of your brain sounds like over the course of 24 hours, the rollercoaster of rushing thoughts and feelings that go through it. Angry. Excited. Sad. Hopeful. Complicated. So, maybe not much has changed in 25 years. Maybe being a 20-something girl still sucks in so many ways. But there’s a silver lining: At every step, we have this album in our ear, there to tell us that someone else, who is now older and wiser than we are at this moment, has been through all of this before and knows exactly how we feel.



Carrie Fisher is More Than Princess Leia


This piece originally appeared on Inspirer.

Actress and author Carrie Fisher reportedly suffered a “massive heart attack” on a flight from London to Los Angeles Friday afternoon. She was rushed to a Los Angeles hospital, where her brother, Todd Fisher, told Variety she is currently out of emergency and in ICU, in stable condition, though “there’s no good news or bad news.”

News of the episode sparked an outpouring of support on social media and in the press. A common thread in all the discussion? Star Wars.

Identification of public figures is an important part of reporting. It makes sense to note that Fisher is most well-known for her role as Princess Leia — it gives the general public an iconic, familiar role to put a face to the name. It makes sense to lead with that, but not to make it the entire focus.

In the nearly 40 years since Fisher became an overnight icon as an outspoken princess with a memorable hairstyle, her resume has expanded to cover multiple fields. She has written four novels, three memoirs, two plays, and two screenplays, including the screenplay for the Academy Award-nominated adaptation of her first novel, Postcards from the Edge. She has acted in several other films, from Hannah and Her Sisters to When Harry Met Sally.

In the 1990s, she was considered one of Hollywood’s best script doctors (a writer brought in to rewrite or polish an already existing script), having worked on films like Hook, Sister Act, and The Wedding Singer. Her autobiographical one woman show Wishful Drinking was adapted into both a memoir and an HBO special.

Having suffered bipolar disorder and addictions to cocaine and prescription medicines, her activism around mental health and addiction has been recognized by multiple organizations, most recently Harvard University.

I shouldn’t have to list the contents of Carrie Fisher’s resume here. I shouldn’t have to remind people that she has done more in 40 years than don a pair of cinnamon roll hair buns and a white dress.

If we were talking about her co-star Harrison Ford in this situation, I’m fairly certain media outlets would not be focusing on his role as Han Solo. The overwhelming amount of tweets would have more than photos of Indiana Jones. Fisher doesn’t deserve to be reduced to a single role. She doesn’t deserve press coverage including a still of her as “slave Leia” — a degrading outfit she has vocally spoken out against — in their articles.

Women are reduced to singular roles, relationships, and images again and again and again. Women are constantly identified as someone’s wife or girlfriend, a single line summarizing their entire career, a former sex symbol. It isn’t lost on me that this time last year, Fisher was making news after a New York Post writer wrote a misogynistic opinion piece that if she was unhappy about people commenting on how she’s aged, she “should quit acting.”

Fisher is just one recent example. This is not unique; it is not special. It just shines yet another light on a problem. Women are more than one singular identity. It’s about time we started acknowledging it.

Pat Benatar: ‘I’m Proud, So Secure and Even a Little Arrogant When It Comes to Being a Woman’


This piece originally appeared on Inspirer
by Desarae Gabrielle and Carrie Courogen

New York native soprano Pat Benatar came crashing onto the rock and roll scene ready to change the landscape of the male dominated music industry. Four time Grammy award winning Benatar kick-started her lengthy list of accomplishments by being the first female artist to be played on MTV — performing her hit “You Better Run” on August 1, 1981 — later becoming one of the most heavily featured artists on the network. Benatar was among the wave of female pioneers who took the Top 40 singles chart by storm – 15 of her songs were featured on the chart which included popular singles “Hit Me With Your Best Shot,” “We Belong,” and “Love is a Battlefield.” Benatar’s first single “Heartbreaker” propelled the rock star to platinum status with her debut album In The Heat of the Night.

After a tour date at the Greek Theatre in Los Angeles, co-headlining with Melissa Etheridge, we spoke to Benatar about her history in rock music as a feminist, her memoir Between a Heart and a Rock Place, her inspirations and more.

What was it like to be the first woman played on MTV?

Thrilling, odd, crazy and fun. We had no idea what was about to happen — we thought we were just doing another performance video that would be shown on TV. The idea that the video would be played 24 hours a day — was unfathomable. In one week, our lives were forever changed.

Did you feel any sort of pressure to play to the changing landscape of the music industry or play to that video star persona?

Absolutely not, we were part of that emerging landscape. We were creating the video star persona organically, we were just being ourselves.

Getting control of your career and fighting the over­-sexualization of your image wasn’t an easy thing to do. What was that battle like?

The struggle to take control of the image was difficult. When it was my idea, it worked, but it was very limiting and became tedious. But of course, by that time, the record company had a winning combination and fought hard to keep it, we fought constantly and bitterly for the rest of our time there.

Catch A Rising Star was a place where a lot of comics got their breaks. What attracted you to it as a singer?

I was living in Richmond, VA playing in a local band and going to school. I had read an article in the New York times about Catch, it mentioned that up and coming singers could audition there as well. I missed New York so much and wanted to go home, it was the perfect excuse.

How did The Zinger shape your transition into rock and roll from a more lounge ­inspired style?

The Zinger was such a campy production, it really was more musical theater than rock and roll. It didn’t really have much of an influence on my future career. Working with young songwriters at Catch, helped me find my voice. And of course, meeting my muse, Neil Giraldo, putting the band together and working side by side was the most important factor — the catalyst that propelled everything forward.


How do you think your career has influenced your daughters’ endeavors?

As for our youngest, Hana, who is the singer songwriter, she was born feisty! I’m sure some of it’s genetic, but she is a highly motivated, talented, tornado. Her genre of music is vastly different from ours. Our oldest daughter, Haley is a designer. I think — I hope– both of our daughters witnessed the power of hard work and commitment from both parents. They certainly saw first hand what can be accomplished as a female. They are both very smart, confident, kind and talented young women.

You were nominated for Best Female Rock Vocal Performance eight times are tied for most wins in the category. The category merge in 2005 came with a lot of scrutiny on both sides of the argument. On one side, there’s the idea that distinguishing male and female vocals is sexist and they should be judged together. But the other side is that, since the merge, only six women have been nominated, even though there’s certainly not a lack of outstanding female performances each
year. What are your thoughts?

This is always such a difficult topic. I have mixed feelings — I hate the idea of being singled out as a “Female Rocker.” It defeats the entire argument that we are all the equal. At the same time, the sheer number of males versus females will always tip the scale. Because of the era grew up in, it’s hard to shake that nagging rub, that being separated, labeled as “female” in some way is a slight, a way to subliminally suggest inferiority. It’s interesting, because personally, I don’t feel that way at all. I’m proud, so secure, and even a little arrogant when it comes to being a woman. I wait for the day when that feeling permeates everything!

How has your self­-identification as a feminist influenced your career and the ways you’ve given back to the music community?

Yes, definitely. Mentoring young women is where my heart is. Having two daughters has made it my mission.

What about the music industry would you like to see change, from a feminist perspective? Why were you reluctant to write your memoir Between a Heart and a Rock Place?

There has been so much progress in the music industry, but the old prejudices and ideas still exist. Old habits die hard! Thankfully, we now have laws and legislation to protect us, for the most part. There is still much to be done. I do feel confident that women today, are very aware and take a strong, passionate stance about their rights. I thoroughly enjoyed writing Between a Heart and a Rock Place. I was a little reluctant to write it because of the time necessary to get it done properly. I only said yes because they promised I’d have help. The co-writer, Patsi Bale Cox, came to me and said, ”You can do this. You should do this. It needs to be in your own voice.” So I did. She helped me organize the stories and all my thoughts and then she pushed me “out of the nest.” In the end, she was right and I loved every moment of the process.

You were on the We Live For Love Tour with your husband Neil and singer Melissa Etheridge through the summer. You chose to continue to play in states where anti-­LGBTQ laws were passed, such as Mississippi and North Carolina. Why is that?

Neil (Spyder) and I have been staunch advocates for LGBTQ rights for 37 years. We felt that we could better serve the community by continuing to support them the way we always have, by standing in defiance, to those who seek to squash their rights. We discussed this with Melissa and she agreed.

What social issues inspire you to try to make change in the world?

Hunger, children’s rights, the elderly’s rights, women’s rights, animal rights, racial and sexual equality — we don’t have enough time. We all have the ability to make changes in the world, everyone has the power to do good.

If you could give your 25­-year­-old self advice, what would it be?

My 25-year-old self? You are about to begin an amazing adventure, do not be afraid! Listen to your gut, it’s always right. Be kind, be loving, be smart. All you have at the end of the day is the people you love and who love you, and your integrity. Lighten up and try to have a little fun along the way.

To read our full interview with Pat Benatar, order Inspirer’s fall issue here!

Some thoughts on being a female runner


This piece originally appeared on Bed Crumbs.

I really wish this was the only message of its kind I got over the past few days, but it isn’t.

Three women who went out for runs in the past two weeks didn’t come back. All I can think about — and, apparently, all many of my friends, family, and loved ones can think about, too — is how easily that could have been me.

Running is, for the most part, a solitary sport. Maybe that’s why I like it so much. I can count the number of people I run with on one hand, and that’s by choice.

A running partner is a big commitment, at least, it is to me. You have to gel on an unspoken level: who sets the pace, who chooses the course, who moves behind when the path narrows. You have to know whether they’ll push you or force you to pace yourself or match your speed and endurance. You have to trust them enough to be okay with being around them when you’re bare and incredibly vulnerable — no makeup, just out of bed, sweaty and smelly, running on fumes. You have to be comfortable enough with them to know that most of your time together will be shrouded in silence.

Suffice to say, I run alone most of the time.

I run early in the morning, usually around 6:30 a.m., but in my 13 years of running, I’ve been out on a run practically every time of the day — 5 a.m., 3 p.m., 10 p.m., you name it. I run by the East River and the Hudson River and the outer loop of Central Park. I run busy New York streets and quiet suburban ones. I run my old cross country route through my hometown’s wooded park; I run the secluded trails of Central Park. I run in double layers of leggings and fleece tops and jackets and I run in spandex shorts and sports bras.

I am always afraid.

I am always afraid, even when my mother sternly tells me to stay away from the trails if I’m by myself and I laugh it off and tell her to stop being paranoid. I am always afraid because I’m neurotic and anxious and that’s just my nature. I am always afraid because things happen, because solitary women anywhere, doing anything, are always targets. I am always afraid because the female jogging victim seems like such a regular phenomenon that I don’t know why there aren’t actually statistics to source about how commonplace attacks on them are.

Sometimes I am more afraid than others. Sometimes I cut runs short or run faster than I can handle or just don’t run at all. Sometimes that fear quiets itself to just a very slight whisper, sometimes it only exists in the habits I’ve formed, like how I swapped my weightless iPod shuffle for a much heavier iPhone, because what if something happened?

You know what? I’m angry. I’m so, so angry, and this isn’t the first time I’ve said so. I’m angry because these brutal attacks keep happening to women and I’m angry because I’ve been criticized and made fun of for being upset. I’m angry because people have gone so far as to create an entire sub-reddit to mock my fear. I’m angry because this doesn’t happen to men.

All of this anger and fear, even if it usually just exists on a subconscious level, is exhausting. I’m tired. I want to walk out the door one day with nothing but my keys and just go. I want to know what that sort of freedom feels like. That doesn’t seem like too much to ask.

Beyoncé’s Lemonade is the Female Empowerment Album We Need


This piece originally appeared on Inspirer

The year is 2016, A.L. (“After Lemonade”). Years from now, our children may ask us where we were the moment Beyoncé unveiled her second surprise album in the form of a short film, possibly getting the most people to stay home on a Saturday night since the early days of SNL, before DVR and Hulu were things.

It’s easy to joke about Beyoncé, the cultural phenomenon. It’s easy to joke about anyone with that much power and that much control over their public image. It’s harder to talk about Beyoncé, the artist. It’s harder to talk about the deeper issues she tackles, the way she uses her power to shed light on topics that aren’t discussed in a meaningful manner in mainstream media.

Lemonade asserts Beyoncé’s position as reigning queen of the music industry, not that anyone really debated that. Musically, the album demonstrates mastery of a variety of styles, proving that the artist — and more importantly, black women in general — can handle any genre, be it rock and roll or country or soul or pop. But the cultural implications of Lemonade are what we really need to talk about.

Beyoncé has made a career out of being able to seamlessly blend well-crafted pop with empowering themes, and over the years, they’ve evolved: “Independent Women Part I” gave us “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It),” which became “Run the World (Girls),” and bled into “***Flawless.”

Lemonade — both in short film and album form — pulls no punches with continuing this evolution and tackling even more difficult, but important cultural and political issues: Black Lives Matter, intersectional feminism, female independence. More than anything else, these themes of female empowerment onLemonade are what Beyoncé addresses better than anyone else right now.

We’re at peak pop culture feminism right now. Women musicians have been singing empowering anthems for years, but it’s just now that people are really starting to pay attention. It’s also just now that some artists think making a song have a feminist slant is just as important as making it have a catchy hook.

Beyoncé isn’t trying to please people’s expectations that she blatantly be a feminist, though. She’s not trying to fit in; she’s not writing feminist songs to be trendy, and that’s why she does it so well. Her words are genuine and powerful. She’s not giggling about the media gossiping about her being a serial dater. She’s not shaming women in a pseudo-empowering anthem about curvy body types.

Instead, she combines her lyrics with words of Somali poet Warsan Shire to make statements about the societal difficulties of being a woman, misogyny, and the predicament of being in a relationship with a man who may be uncomfortable with such a powerful partner. Between songs, she delivers spoken word verses meditating on these topics:

I tried to change, closed my mouth more, tried to be soft, prettier, less awake. Fasted for sixty days, wore white, abstained from mirrors. Abstained from sex, slowly did not speak another word.

But the way she so assertively addresses female empowerment stands up on the songs themselves, the songs that will be played over the radio for everyone — not just Tidal subscribers — to hear. She delivers “Hold Up,” vilifying a cheating partner and handles a baseball bat in a way that’s more gleeful than that time Carrie Underwood smashed in the windows of her cheating boyfriend’s 4×4.


Because when Beyoncé does it, there’s deeper significance: she’s reclaiming the angry black woman trope by doing so. She acknowledges the stereotype — “What’s worse, looking jealous or crazy?” — and moves past it. She makes it clear that her feelings are valid, that any woman’s feelings are valid, and to reduce an angry woman to a stereotype is unacceptable.

“Don’t Hurt Yourself” takes the anger up a notch, but proves that she’s not playing around. It drives home the point of being confident in your power, knowing your worth, and never backing down to please someone else:

I am the dragon breathing fire
Beautiful man I’m the lion
Beautiful man I know you’re lying
I am not broken, I’m not crying, I’m not crying
You ain’t trying hard enough
You ain’t loving hard enough
You don’t love me deep enough
We not reaching feats enough
But I leave your love, I f*cks with you
‘Til I realize, I’m just too much for you
I’m just too much for you

She addresses income inequality by bragging about her wealth and status just like any man would. Women are still fighting for equal pay. Women have been made to feel like we should make ourselves smaller, like we shouldn’t show off our accomplishments, like we shouldn’t speak too loudly or draw too much attention to ourselves. Women are still being made to believe that we’re not worth asking for more. Beyoncé makes it a point on “6 Inch” to reject that notion. Your net worth may not be $450 million, but you “work for the money from start to finish” and you’re “worth every dollar and worth every minute.” Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not.

And this theme of working hard and fighting for the best for yourself is continued on “Formation,” which was the topic of about a million think pieces when it was released in March. While the overlying significance of the song is its role as a black power anthem, it’s still making a strong feminist point. Beyoncé reclaims sexuality and power, singing about men in a way that most men sing about women:

When he f*ck me good, I take his ass to Red Lobster, cause I slay
If he hit it right, I might take him on a flight on my chopper, cause I slay
Drop him off at the mall, let him buy some J’s, let him shop up, cause I slay
I might get your song played on the radio station, cause I slay

She opens up the possibility of reaching the level of revolutionary financial influence of Bill Gates to women, particularly women of color (who are the most discriminated women in America): “You just might be a black Bill Gates in the making — I just might be a black Bill Gates in the making.” Hear that, America? The future is female.

It’s incredibly easy to joke about Beyoncé being Illuminati or being a queen or question how she’s human. It’s easy to say that Lemonade is empowering AF and call it a day. It’s harder to talk about the deep meaning beneath the swagger. It’s harder to talk about how her lyrics have the ability to open up public discussions that are long overdue. And it’s time we start.

Listen to Lemonade exclusively on Tidal
Track List:
1. Pray You Catch Me
2. Hold Up
3. Don’t Hurt Yourself
4. Sorry
5. 6 Inch
6. Daddy Lessons
7. Love Drought
8. Sandcastles
9. Forward
10. Freedom
11. All Night
12. Formation