rolling stone

For more than three decades, Liz Phair and Sleater-Kinney existed in parallel without ever quite meeting. They admired one another from afar, brushed shoulders only in passing, and, in some ways, represented opposing ways of challenging the limits placed on women in indie rock. Phair, who found novel and peerlessly smart ways to write about heterosexual skirmishes, used her ambitions to edge closer to the mainstream; Sleater-Kinney, one of the great duos of American rock, have succeeded in becoming the last band standing from the underground scene in which they emerged.

Both acts are about to share the stage for the first time, co-headlining a tour they’ve cheekily and earnestly named the Flannel and the Fury, with stops across the country, from El Cajon, Calif., to Ocean City, Md., and a night at Los Angeles’ Greek Theatre on Tuesday.

Yet, despite having spent more than 30 years orbiting the same world, they have had surprisingly little time together. This interview is one of a few substantial conversations they’ve ever had. It is, at first, slightly stilted. Carrie Brownstein and Corin Tucker (Sleater-Kinney) are in sync as always; Phair is clearly excited, but seemingly unsure of where to place herself in the dynamic. Now all in their 50s, the women have been asking similar questions of the same culture, and are only now getting the chance to compare answers.

“Sorry, I know you’re like, ‘Why aren’t you better friends?’ For me, that’s the point. I’m trying to be better friends,” says Brownstein. “Yeah, talk to us again when tour’s over,” Tucker adds.

Brownstein is sitting in a parking lot in Los Angeles, wearing a cardigan and glasses, people walking past her window, unaware of who’s inside. Tucker calls from her home, a blurred background behind her, wearing a white blouse and lipstick. Phair is at home too, makeup on and hair straightened, various musical instruments on the wall behind her. It’s a few weeks before their co-headlining tour, and Tucker has already loaded up all the equipment. She’s packed her suitcase too, full of socks she’ll throw away by the end of tour, and a wardrobe almost entirely of black.

“This is news to me,” says Brownstein. “I was thinking more of a chocolate brown. I will be all brown town.”

Phair is going for wine-like jewel tones. “A Cab Sav,” to be specific.

Phair, who’s had an on-and-off relationship with touring, is noticeably more nervous than Brownstein and Tucker. “It takes me two or three shows to get into it. At first I’m like, why are you all staring at me?”

Phair had been sitting on the idea of a co-headlining tour with Sleater-Kinney for a few years. She sheepishly says that she didn’t reach out herself, but got her manager to do it while she was working on the second half of her memoir. She’s been keen to share a bill with Sleater-Kinney ever since she heard their 1996 album “Call the Doctor.”

“By then, I’d started to pull back from indie rock,” says Phair. “I had gotten married, and I didn’t know I was pregnant at the time, but I was starting to drift out of this scene, and then they put out this kick-ass record, and I just remember thinking, I kind of want to be back in the game. It inspired me. It stuck with me.”

Phair felt she was atomized from the female coalitions of the ’90s, and that this co-bill might be a way to rectify that. “I’d love to be able to go back and sew it together again,” she says. “Here’s a band I was a fan of that meant something to me and now I can play with them.”

For Sleater-Kinney, Phair has long been more than a neighboring act. Tucker and Brownstein describe her as one of their “biggest inspirations.” Both have the same Phair favorite song: “Divorce Song.” “It’s a perfect song,” says Tucker. “I think I’ve put it on every mixtape I’ve ever made,” Brownstein adds.

By the time Phair released her debut album, “Exile in Guyville,” in 1993, she was the one of the two acts edging toward the mainstream. Within a year, she was on the cover of Rolling Stone.

“I still have a copy of the magazine,” says Brownstein. “We were all so excited. Like, an actual artist made the cover.”

Nirvana had made this small corporate alliance permissible a couple of years earlier, finding a loophole as Cobain wore a T-shirt that read “Corporate Magazines Still Suck” on their Rolling Stone cover. It was a time when an antiauthoritarian stance was the only artistically credible one. Before we started calling one another “performative,” Tucker, Brownstein and Phair came from a time when “poser” was the worst insult and sin. They came from a scene of ideological puritanism.

“You know when people die their life flashes before their eyes, sometimes, it’s like that when I do a deep dive, and I’m like, God, there were a lot of rules. There was a lot of fear. And I don’t think anyone who wasn’t there would be able to picture it,” says Brownstein. “It took us a long time to get over it.”

“OK, can I ask the question? Can I get right in here? Because I want to know,” Phair chimes. “Do you think that’s because there weren’t enough women? You think women would have brought the inclusivity to inclusivity?”

“Unfortunately, no,” replies Tucker.

“We had these all-female festivals in Olympia, and we had our own publicist, and they were like, how dare we?” says Brownstein. “You know, it was just gatekeeping, that now seems sort of repugnant. But it was also a way to establish yourself in opposition to what felt like the only way to be.”

It’s part of why Sleater-Kinney declined an invite to play Lilith Fair, the mainstream precedent for so-called female solidarity in music. One of history’s most famous traveling all-female festivals, Lilith Fair was considered by many in the Riot Grrrl movement to be an early symbol of the commodification of “girl power,” female solidarity aligned with corporate ideals.

Sleater Kinney

(Robin Laananen)

“It seems like they haven’t really given credit to women in an independent milieu who have organized a lot of female-only shows for years,” Brownstein told the Dallas Observer in 1998.

“I think at the time we thought we were too cool to play Lilith,” Tucker reflects.

“I’ll just leave your answer,” says Brownstein.

Then she changes her mind four seconds later.

“I saw the Lilith Fair documentary last year and got FOMO, I kind of regretted not playing” she says. “But at the same time we had a handicap from a small indie punk community that was kind of didactic, there was a real rigidity to what you were and weren’t allowed to do. Even us signing with Matador in the U.K. was considered too big.”

Selling out, they all conclude, is no longer a concern for anyone. Phair’s son, who is Gen Z, often says the phrase “it’s time to get the bag.”

“You know, every artist has the right to get their bag,” says Phair. “I always felt that way and I was especially vilified for it.”

That vilification reached its apex when she released her mainstream-aspiring self-titled album in 2003, an album Sleater-Kinney said they hated in an interview with Rolling Stone that year, and which Pitchfork gave a rare 0.0 score in one of its most notorious reviews.

“I’d be on tour doing 10 interviews a day back-to-back, and I almost had to give these interviewers therapy, because they were so sad about my turn from indie rock,” says Phair.

Phair is adamant she made her mark on “every one of those songs, except maybe ‘Favorite,’” she says, referencing the chintzy, awkwardly phrased track where she sings about her underwear. Maybe it’s a metaphor, but more likely, it is just a song about her underwear. Safe to say it won’t be on the show’s setlist: “I will never play it live.”

The old argument about selling out now sits inside a very different touring economy. Sleater-Kinney and Phair’s co-headlining tour happens to follow a flood of co-headlining tours this year, from indie acts like Waxahatchee and MJ Lenderman to big marquee names like Usher and Chris Brown. With higher ticket prices and more competition — not only with other touring bands but with the allures of home comforts — audiences need a bigger draw. Artists want an opportunity to play to big audiences, as well as a better chance of “getting the bag.”

All three artists insist they won’t necessarily bring home the bag, nor is that why they’re doing this.

“All our budget’s gone on to the lighting designer,” jokes Brownstein.

“When I do these interviews with you guys, I get kind of excited and nervous because I feel challenged in the best way,” says Phair. “I think co-headlining bills, it does let you go into bigger venues than you could by yourself. But it also, for me, gives me creative food, like nutrition. It makes me grow.”

Jack White stepped in when Charley Crockett accidentally hired, then fired, a satanic doo-wop duo. Happens to everyone, right?

The outlaw country singer apparently thought the husband-and-wife duo known as Twin Temple were like Black Sabbath when he invited them to open two shows for him this week, a July 14 date in Troutdale, Ore., and another on July 18 in Paso Robles. With songs including “Satan’s a Woman,” “Lucifer, My Love,” “Let’s Have a Satanic Orgy” and “Burn Your Bible,” it’s anyone’s guess how Crockett missed the duo’s shtick.

“Today we were informed that Charley Crockett has decided to remove Twin Temple from his upcoming shows next week due to our Satanic imagery,” the musicians wrote on Instagram last week.

“Unfortunately, that means we will not be able to perform for you next week as planned. We are really disappointed as we were looking forward to getting back out and seeing you, and also what it meant as far as bringing different types of people and music lovers together. We are sorry to everyone who was planning to see us.

“We’re grateful for your support, not only of Twin Temple, but more importantly of artistic freedom. HAIL SATAN! 93/93”

Crockett, who dropped his 16th studio album, “Age of the Ram,” in April, posted his own since-deleted message on social media, writing, “Hail Satan? Not me Jack.”

Twin Temple, composed of married couple Alexandra and Zachary James, weren’t out of work for long. White, the former White Stripes frontman, who happened to be kicking off a world tour in support of his new album, “Frozen Charlotte,” caught wind of the debacle and stepped in.

“Twin Temple, Would you like to open my show in L.A. on September 29th at the Hollywood Palladium? Let me know,” White posted on Friday, adding, “Get in front of me Satan!”

The duo was quick to accept, commenting on White’s invite, “Unholy hell…. Sir Jack, you have no idea what this means to us. Lifelong fans- dead leaves on the dirty ground was one of the first songs I (Alex) ever learned on guitar. We were actually planning on coming to this show. It would be a most infernal pleasure to play the devils music with you.”

On Tuesday, Twin Temple announced their third record, “Doomed Lovers,” produced by Shooter Jennings (who also produced Crockett’s “Age of the Ram” and other recent albums). The album will drop Oct. 9 via their own Pentagrammaton Records. The duo told Rolling Stone on Tuesday that they were sad about the turn of events with Crockett but confirmed that their swanky Satan-loving doo-wop isn’t a sham.

“Satan’s the original outlaw, right? He’s a rebel angel,” Alexandra told the outlet. “He’s the one who questioned authority, fought for himself, refused to bow down or conform, and was like non serviam. That was a metaphor that resonated very strongly with me.”

She added, “It’s really fun to go shopping for a human skull and a Ronettes record in the same day, and we get to do that with our band.”

While Twin Temple has been booking shows and working on the album announcement, Crockett has continued to post about the drama from the road. “Well, now I know how it feels when they try to cancel you on the right AND the left,” he wrote on Facebook on Monday. “The thing is, I never subscribed. America can be a One Eyed Jack, but I’ve seen your other side.”