A Candid Conversation Between Liz Phair and Snail Mail’s Lindsey Jordan

Lindsey Jordan, the prodigious songwriter and guitar player behind Snail Mail, once performed in a Liz Phair cover band. This isn’t a revelation that the 18-year-old offers up sheepishly—it’s the first thing she says as she settles into breakfast with Phair herself at a sprawling, boho restaurant in Venice, California.

“We were called Lizard Phair,” Jordan reveals in a caffeinated rush. “I would have thought of something better if I knew I would have had to say it to your face.” Regrettable puns aside, though, Jordan isn’t the type to be easily stymied by shame.

Sitting across from her idol, the excitable young frontwoman speaks in an eclectic, internet-informed parlance, dropping the phrase “shrug emoji” and trimming the word “very” to just its first letter. Her native tongue charms Phair, who is placid but warm as she nurses a green juice and soy-matcha latte following a late night celebrating her 51st birthday.

Although Phair and Jordan were born generations apart, their songwriting shares the same spirit of anarchy and honesty; they also share a record label, in indie stalwart Matador. Phair’s revolutionary debut album, Exile in Guyville, released 25 years ago, smashed the staid sexuality and male dominance of indie rock in the ’90s. Earlier this month, Guyville was reissued alongside Phair’s formative demos, released under the Girly-Sound moniker, and the restored bedroom tapes offer a testimony to doing things your own way. The lyrics—about one night stands, bad reputations, and the often tawdry feelings of wanting real love—are frank, the riffs peculiar and personal.

With her own upcoming first full-length, Lush, Jordan ups indie rock’s threshold for emotional transparency. She sings about wanting to be wanted just for being herself, no pedestal required. It’s a radical move that stands in contrast to so many of her peers, who can be overly concerned with collaging together bulletproof identities online. Jordan’s unapologetic commitment to putting out songs that tell the world what she really knows and feels is how she sustains her vision as a musician—it’s also one of the things that make her and Phair so alike.

Jordan just played her first Coachella set a couple of days earlier, and she can’t help but gush about the abundance of junk food available backstage. “I got four scoops of vanilla ice cream and put them between two slices of pizza and used Cool Whip to adhere it together,” she says. Phair is delighted by the Frankenstein snack: “This conversation is going to turn into a comparison of what happens when your body is 18 and what happens when your body is 51.”

Creative desserts aside, Jordan admits she had trouble matching the festival’s carefree vibe. “Everybody was having such a good time, and I was sitting there in the shade,” she says with a pout. “That’s why the high point for me was stacking pizza and ice cream; it was definitely not watching other people have a good time.”

“I think I just fell in love with you right then,” Phair says, mimicking Jordan’s pursed lips.