Jill Sobule kissed a girl first. Then when Katy Perry did, the couple-hit wonder showed her who's boss by calling the pop lesbian-poser a "little slut" to cultural online-pub The Rumpus. Smart move, Sobule: It gave the queer folkie a shot at stealing back some of the spotlight she's lost since releasing some hit songs in the mid-'90s – "I Kissed a Girl," of course, and the "Clueless" cut, "Supermodel."
Man, did it work.
Blogs and pop culture sites were abuzz with rants about whether Sobule was being a petty brat or Perry was a thief. It didn't matter in the first place; the songs share little else than a mere title – a pretty unoriginal one at that. Sobule's was a solid celebration of lesbianism; Perry's, a pretty lame girls-gone-wild joke.
It ended up working out in Sobule's favor: She did a crap-ton of press without having to do much at all. That she had a record out – the pretty vanilla "California Years," released in April – around the time she bitched out Perry was no coincidence.
It had already gained press momentum for her strategic way of getting it released – asking fans to pay for it. It made sense; she's been effed up the ass by labels, so she said eff-you to them. And if anyone could give her the footing to revive her career and record another disc, why not the ones who'd listen to it?
She collected $85,000 via a donation Web site and hired producer Don Was to assist with the recording – a telling, vignette-y piece of work situated around her move from New York City to California.
In this age of crashing labels, plummeting sales and illegal downloads, it's heartwarming to know that people still care enough about music to actually pay for it. But I'm conflicted: Do critics enjoy the music (most of the reviews have been fairly favorable), or are they admiring the fan-financed way she was able to record it? Because, let's be honest, "California Years" is overrated.
Think of it as elevator music – pleasant and hum-worthy, but ultimately uninteresting. Her little-girl voice isn't bold or varied enough to anchor this autobiographical bore, and so her adult story-songs are leaves on a windy fall day. "Nothing to Prove" sticks, but for all the wrong reasons – she comes off as pretentious, regardless of the intended satirical nature.
No boundaries are broken, and lyrically her life stories and warped observations are sprinkled with punch lines that are best when subtle – like, "When I got there, to the motel, it was different than on the Web site" – instead of jarring and over-thought. Her music industry jab on "Nothing to Prove" knows what I'm saying: "When they tell me they're in the industry/I ask, "Oh, are you in steel?" So funny. But not really.
Her aural snapshots on the free-spirited "Palm Springs" and lesbian-exploration song "San Francisco" (cool tidbit: the low-budget video was directed by Margaret Cho) ooze airy hopefulness, and both rank among the album's best.
The best being those cuts, a few others – including "Empty Glass" and "Sweetheart" – and, unfortunately, nothing else.
Erin McKeown and Jill Sobule
8 p.m. Nov. 4
The Ark
316 S. Main St., Ann Arbor
http://www.theark.org
$15
