Parents are amused that their kid wants a pink or orange mohawk and yet it isn’t so long ago that that was offensive, shocking or an insane thing to do. There is a school of philosophy that says life works just like that, taking what appears to shock the world, then neuters it. Through history radicals absorbed by life, a process that enfeebles them. Now ripped jeans at Prada or cuddly Sex Pistol stuffies. The Budda, Jesus, Lao Tsu, Lydia Maria Childs, once threatening messages to the status quo, poof, life absorbs and dilutes. But certain artists move forward despite predictable rejections and attacks, certain artists understand how truth changes and whatever they said yesterday might not hold meaning in the same way today, probably they want to honour their new growth, paramount to their creative connection but the more they veer the more they receive hostility. Often, those are favourite moments. Dylan going Christian, Joni going Mingus, Leonard going midi, Neil (take your pick) and that’s what I’m thinking while singing Liz Phair while walking home. Confounds me how many don’t grasp the awesome songwriting that is hers, “he’s just a hero in a long line of hero’s, looking for something attractive to save” or “but mom, i’m sending you this photograph, i swear this one is gonna last and all those other bastards were only practice”. I don’t know as many Liz Phair fans as I do for the others but her works are as gold as “love is a rose but you better not pick it it only grows when its on the vine” or “when he’s gone me and those lonesome blues collide the bed’s too big the frying pan’s too wide”.