Liz Phair was big while I was in college. Her album Exile in Guyville did a lot of frank language about hookups without emotional risk, and had melancholy cranked up to 11 on some songs like “Nashville.” (“Nashville” is not even that first album., so I’m full of it. Apparently I am no Liz Phair expert.)
I read this recent profile of her in New York magazine, and it’s interesting to hear about her history and how her music still has appeal. She talks about how she and her brother were adopted, and he was always a trouble who determined the course of their family. (There is always that one family member who defines the direction of the family. I wonder who it’s going to be in my group of five.) And she tells the interviewer that when she was born, she was not held for two weeks. That sure, there were nurses who probably picked her up, but none were regular, and now she is a mother and sees how crucial the beginning of a person’s life is, that she will never be able to fully trust anyone because of that time in her babyhood.
That made me so sad for her when I read that. There are adoptees who are happy and see their adoption as a sign of being wanted, but not Liz Phair.