When we’re trying to find out what’s wrong with Liz Phair, it might make sense to start out by delineating what’s so right with her. Is there even a problem with her music? Her solo debut Exile In Guyville is certified RIAA gold, so she’s likely made some money from music, which is hard to do! And especially for a woman. And she has real rock credibility. Exile In Guyville was ranked the 328th best album of all-time by rock luminaries Rolling Stone magazine, beating out such supposed classics as Sonic Youth’s Daydream Nation, Moby’s Play, and Def Leppard’s Pyromania.  Phair doesn’t have only the establishment approval, either. PitchforkMedia.com, the popular indie music website, rated the re-issue of Exile In Guyville a solid 9.6, surpassed only by other reissues such as Galaxie 500’s On Fire, Pavement’s Greatest Hits album, REM’s debut album, Spiritualized’s limited-to-1,000 edition of Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space, many Neil Young reissues, The Stone Roses debut album, and nearly every Beatles reissue. Still, it was rated higher than the the official soundtrack to Shaft and every iteration of the recent run of releases by poplar African guitarists. They have—rightly so, I think—ranked Phair’s classic below every other rock/indie classic reissue and above every reissue made by a person of color.

It’s clear, then, that Exile In Guyville gets a lot of credit. And it deserves so much credit! Back in the early 90s, when Phair originally began her career, there had been very few or no women in rock music. It would be four years until Meredith Brooks would spur with her hit single “Bitch” the golden age of Women in Rock. Up until then, most female musicians have been unstable or made unsellable rock music. Some, like Yoko Ono, combined these two common traits. When Phair released Exile In Guyville, then, she was really blazing a new trail. But just what sort of trail was she blazing?

It seems like Exile In Guyville is supposed to be about many things: It’s about how frustrating it is sometimes to break so many guys’ hearts. It’s also about having really crappy roommates. I can see why the album was so popular on college radio! No, but really. It’s also about really serious things like how men and women have a difficult time communicating. “Mesmerizing,” with its literally mesmerizing guitar riff and poppy hand claps, seems like it’s about how the singer is really in love with a guy, how she’s mesmerized by him, and she wants him to like her, too. She wants to be mesmerizing, too, to him. And so she seems to be participating in a sort of magic act or something (catching an egg? digging ditches to re-irrigate farmland?) But it’s not all fun ‘n games. In the song “Girls! Girls! Girls!,” Phair cops to being pretty manipulative. She get’s away with murder (not literally!) and other girls call her out on it. It seems like a pretty straightforward expression of how women are ‘catty.’ The song seems pretty simple, but if you listen to it enough, you start to see how the singer is having a difficult time in love and life. Her friends (the other girls?) don’t even support her. But sometimes Phair’s relationships seem to go pretty well. The song “Canary” describes how she’s in a loving relationship with another man. While’s he’s probably out at work or in school, the singer gets to write (maybe she wrote these songs!), straighten up around the house, and make art. She’s free like a bird, which is what the title means. The kind of simple chorus describes the motion of the sun and moon—one on fire and the other dead before each dawn—which governs the gently cyclical nature of her life. It seems really nice and simple, like the sort of life any woman would want to have.

Not all the songs portray such domestic stability, though. The controversially-named “Fuck And Run” expresses Phair’s desire to have a boyfriend. But the singer seems to be in a state of self-conflict, because she has sex with lots of guys who aren’t her boyfriend. If she just became the girlfriend of on the men she’s slept with, she could have a stable domestic relationship, like in the song “Canary.” The song sounds very upbeat, and it’s definitely catchy. It seems to be like one of those popular ‘slacker’ songs from the 90s. Phair talks about how she wants a boyfriend, letters, and sodas, but she doesn’t seem very committed to the idea when she calls it “stupid old shit.” It seems like her heart isn’t in it.

Maybe Phair wants a boyfriend like she describes in “Soap Star Joe.” (Not incidentally, the title of this song—which portrays an imaginary boyfriend and not a real boyfriend—seems to be alluded to in popular sitcom 30 Rock when Liz Lemon refers to her imaginary boyfriend, Astronaut Mike Dexter.) The song—another catchy one with bursts of distorted mouth harp and lilting rhythm guitar flourishes—describes an idealized version of the American male: He owns a pickup truck, is handsome, and looks good in bluejeans. It’s also kind of realistic since it talks about how his hair is “thinning,” which is a condition that unfortunately strikes many men. This is obviously the kind of man Phair is after, but it seems like she more frequently gets involved with men like the one described in “Dance Of The Seven Veils.” In fact, she doesn’t even really describe Johnny in the song. Phair creates a sort of imagistic story about marrying someone who’s already dead, likely Johnny. Maybe the song, which is unaccompanied by any sort of rhythm section or other adornment, is a kind of lament about her lover dying. She obviously feels very guilty, since she calls herself nasty names and she’s compelled to do odd things like shoot Johnny’s dead body. The song—which alludes to a Rita Hayworth film wherein the old film starlet does a lascivious dance—is a tribute to Phair’s deceased lover. It seems pretty clear why Phair is often so morose.

On some of the more upbeat songs, such as “Never Said,” Phair offers an empowering message. “Never Said” is about staying on the straight and narrow path where you have nothing to hide. It seems to be in direct opposition to songs like “Fuck And Run,” which express kind of shameful activities like sleeping with lots of men. The singer in “Never Said” is obviously very happy—as portrayed by the upbeat music and catchy, repetitive chorus—about her decision to be “clean as a whistle.” Unfortunately, Phair can’t keep up a consistently upbeat message—even on the more upbeat songs. “Johnny Sunshine” seems like a really happy song until you really examine the lyrics. It’s almost a new take on the canon or round, where there are sometimes different verses being sung simultaneously. The music is rollicking and fun-seeking, but the words are about how she’s been left by her boyfriend. It’s kind of like the stereotypical country song where the guy loses his woman, his house, and even his dog. It is interesting to hear women able to finally express a similar sentiment, and for men to be empowered (like women have been) to leave their partner. It is sad, though, that the singer is left all alone by the end of the song. It seems like it’s time for another boyfriend!

Not all of the songs are as expressly rocking as “Johnny Sunshine,” and those ones are actually some of the strangest ones on the album. “Shatter” which starts off with another hypnotic, chorus-laden guitar part that’s actually quite pretty in isolation. Strains of feedback and noise color the sound like a My Bloody Valentine song. But then Phair starts singing about sexually explicit material like “messing with” guys in cars (which seems like a metaphor for having sex, probably) and how this material is damaging to her. The once-interesting musical part suddenly sounds kind of foreboding. It is interesting, though, that by the end of the song, Phair’s vocal register goes from its usually rather pedestrian range to an almost-expansive sounding sound. Unfortunately, the song ends on kind of an off note where she says “maybe” like she thinks she could get back together with her boyfriend, but the listener has a feeling she won’t. One of the main reasons why, is the very next song, “Flower.” “Flower” is, for lack of a better word, a very slutty-sounding song. It’s very sexually explicit and seems like it should have earned the album a Parental Advisory rating. The singer sings about how she wants to have sex with a man in very graphic detail. It comes off as overly aggressive and kind of off-putting. You wonder if this is what she says to the characters in the above-mentioned “Fuck And Run.” It’s doubtful, though, because men are usually not attracted to women who are so sluttish. She even invokes an image of bestiality!

The more sexually explicit songs are exactly where Exile In Guyville starts to go wrong. The album is very good at describing some pretty common feelings as seen by a woman, including wanting to have a boyfriend and having a stable domestic life. But the songs that are more about sex seem like they would scare off any men that would want to be Phair’s boyfriend or start a home with her. It seems like the album was sort of made to show men how women really feel. That might be controversial, but why else would Phair use typically male symbols like rock ‘n’ roll music and even the title of one of the greatest rock music albums of all-time unless she wanted to be accepted by men? But if men are her primary audience, then she doesn’t do a very good job of appealing to them. Her more angry songs are very off-putting, and the songs about sex are also kind of repugnant. It seems like she doesn’t necessarily have a good sense of humor about sex like (I know you’re going to groan, but it’s true) Ke$ha or even the singer in Yeah Yeah Yeahs who can sing aggressive lyrics but also write a really sweet love song to her boyfriend (“Maps”).

It seems like in many ways, Liz Phair’s music is very manipulative. It is very sensual, but then it’s also angry so it’s confusing for men to listen to. Also, if women listen to the album, they are also likely to get angered by her crass portrayal of women and sex. The best song on the album—hands down—is “Divorce Song.” It has a very catchy sound and a full band backing her. In the song, the singer talks about how she wishes she hadn’t divorced from her husband because she is still in love with him. You get the sense that she did something wrong, since she says she has to take his word that she’s not even “worth talking to.” It seems like she wishes she had him back since she keeps singing, “You’ve never been a waste of my time.” It’s ironic that the best song on the album kind of shows the major problems in Phair’s own life: She seems cognizant that she wishes she had a good husband, and she’s contrite about missing out on him. If only she could recognize her own shortcomings here and be more even-mannered.

Exile In Guyville is undeniably a good album. But its major flaws—that it’s off-putting and abrasive to men, gives bad advice to women, and fails to notice many of its own flaws—kind of mirrors the state of men and women, today. It is definitely a contemporary-seeming album. Right now, we see more and more women taking chancing with their sexuality and risking STD or worse by being sexually promiscuous, and all during a Great Recession. It would be easier for them if they were more contrite, like the character in “Divorce Song” or at least hopeful for a good home like the character in “Canary.” In a way, then, Exile In Guyville offers a lot of good advice for women; they just have to do the opposite.