By Jimmy Draper

' It's nice to be liked, but it's better by far to get paid," Liz Phair infamously sang on "Shitloads of Money," from her 1998 album, whitechocolatespaceegg. At the time, five years after Exile in Guyville made her the DIY boudoir rocker du jour, the sentiment was largely regarded as an indie in-joke. This was, after all, a woman who sort of fell into the spotlight: her Matador record deal was based on a pair of heavily bootlegged home demos, she refused to do extensive touring, and she dragged her feet so long on her third album that, when it hit shelves in 1998, more impressive than the actual music was that she even bothered to finish it.

Not exactly the auspicious, ambitious beginnings of a millionaire-in-the-making. When Phair signed to Capitol, jumped on the Lilith Fair bandwagon, and started showing up in Levi's ads and singing on Sheryl Crow songs, suddenly her ode to brass in pocket seemed more prescient than anyone ever suspected.

Who knows yet whether it'll make her shitloads of money, but the former indie queen's self-titled fourth album (due June 24 on Capitol) is an all-out bid for America's pocketbooks. A rock-to-pop makeover sure to go down as one of music's most unexpected, embarrassing, and disappointing reinventions, the full-length finds Phair recasting herself as a pushing-40 Avril Lavigne. "I remember hearing [Lavigne's] 'Complicated' and being almost jealous," she recently told the New York Times. "I thought, 'Aw, that's what I want to sound like.' "

Be careful what you wish for. With help from Lavigne's pop chaperones, the songwriting-production team the Matrix (along with Michael Penn, R. Walt Vincent, and others), Phair now sounds uncomfortably similar to that skinny-tied sk8er girl.

Tuned out

On the ridiculously polished Liz Phair, you can practically hear the producers pushing the auto-tune button, morphing her casual-cool delivery into an obnoxious, unrecognizable trill. And whereas she once wrote smart, subversive verses, here Phair spouts dumb, Celine Dion-style drivel like, "Always going nowhere, afraid of going somewhere / And somewhere's a place in your heart." She also resorts to vapid love songs ("It's Sweet," the "Complicated" clone, "Why Can't I?"), cringe-worthy come-ons ("Rock Me," "Extraordinary"), and unintentional self-parodies such as "Bionic Eyes" and "H.W.C.," wherein Phair gets jizzy with it as she espouses the beauty-enhancing qualities of – no joke – hot white cum. In short, despite her onetime wish to be our "blow job queen," she's become everything we once loved her for not being.

While undeniably catchy, Liz Phair's bid for Lavigne's Top 40 fan base is as pathetic as it is ill-fated: Does anyone really think teens want to hear a woman nearly their mom's age sing, "I wanna play Xbox on your floor ... I want you to rock me all night"? Madonna's piece-of-shit new album is 10 times better than Phair's piece-of-shit new album, and even she can't get anyone younger than 25 to care. Who, then, is gonna fund Phair's new pop-star lifestyle? Certainly not her Guyville-era fans, who understandably have turned on Phair in droves.

Aware that she's opening herself up to an onslaught of indie-centric ridicule, she responds with lyrical narcissism that conveniently if unintentionally doubles as a plea for mainstream approval. "I am extraordinary if you'd ever get to know me," she boasts on the very ordinary "Extraordinary," a pop rock banality better suited to Meredith Brooks. Elsewhere, during "It's Sweet," she simply tries brainwashing new listeners: "It's sweet how you believe you're in love with me." On "Firewalker," she defends her right to change direction. "I can grow in spite of all you know, you might not recognize me tomorrow," she proclaims, seemingly oblivious to the fact that no one recognizes her today.

Bland ambition

In interviews, Phair dismisses criticism of her new sound as indie elitism. The scandal surrounding Liz Phair, however, isn't an indie-versus-major label debate. It's not about hits, producers, bigger budgets, wider audiences, or even a switch to pop; it's about Phair (co)writing the blandest songs of her career. Without a trace of her once-stellar songwriting and subversive spirit, why should anyone care if she finally gets on the airwaves? By joining, not infiltrating, radio's ranks, she offers nothing new to the mainstream.

Contrary to what the numbingly by-the-numbers album leads you to believe, however, Phair can still write damn great songs – she just isn't releasing 'em. Bootlegs of new demos and live recordings have surfaced in recent years, and anyone longing for more old-style Phair should seek out unreleased tracks like "Conversation Overheard Between Two Bouncers," "Blood Keeper," and the marital reality check "Bars of the Bed." Intimate, intense, and emotionally unflinching, these are the sort of songs her fans have come to expect and respect. That they were passed over in favor of dumbed-down, commercial-minded hideosities such as "Rock Me" and the first single, "Why Can't I?," is so tragic it's almost funny.

Still, it's hard to simply laugh at the punch line that Phair has become. As illustrated by looking too closely at Courtney Love's cut 'n' paste face, what's initially mockable about an artist's descent into schmaltz quickly becomes sad and unnerving. Poking fun at Phair's almost campy absurdity seems easy and inevitable, but the joke is infinitely less entertaining when it sets in that she's sacrificed her art for the possibility of fame and fortune.

No one's saying Phair isn't allowed to grow, evolve, change, whatever. After all, it must have been tough bearing the burden of everyone's indie dreams, and there are probably rational, real-life reasons – mortgages, kids, People profiles – prompting her to turn her gaze toward the top of the pops. Artists such as Polly Jean Harvey, Sleater-Kinney, and Aimee Mann have proved that moving on doesn't have to mean total industry assimilation, so it's disheartening that Phair has willingly chosen the road more traveled.