On my last night at this year’s Sundance Film Festival, I managed to ride the coattails of two guest-listers into Park City’s “hottest” night spot, Harry O’s, where Liz Phair was performing with Ben Folds (Five? Four? Three?). Before ostensibly sneaking in, I was told that this was a private party—”VIPs only, guy”—by a disdainful bouncer who seemed rather proud to maintain the social hierarchy placing his guest-list celebrities far from the reach of the rest of us nobodies. In general, this exclusivity typifies what Sundance has become: an endless series of private parties and invitation-only, Hollywood-type events.

But thanks to Nate and Matt and a dubious press pass, I got into the show and was genuinely enthused, not merely to be out of the cold and into a “VIP” affair with free alcohol, but hoping to be wooed—at least for a night—back to Liz…

You see, while I have never been a fan of Ben Folds, for one glorious album I was captivated by Liz Phair’s debut, Exile in Guyville. I remember that album being so tough and spare and real and sexy (and not sexy) and feminist (and anti-feminist) all at once. Since the days of Guyville, many have documented Phair’s fall (or rise, if you’re counting number of records sold or contributions to bad film soundtracks). Personally, I stopped paying attention after whitechocolatespaceegg, a disappointing yet not-embarrassing sophomore effort (embarrassing title, excepted).

Anyway, at Harry O’s, she played an acoustic set comprising new and old songs. She even played my favorite, “Divorce Song,” as well as “Fuck and Run”—though only after Matt (ahem) politely requested it by bellowing “Fuck and Run! Fuck and RUN! FUCK AND RUN!” with increasing volume, prompting several annoyed and/or bemused head-turns. These two songs, both on Guyville, were intriguing and relevant because they rejected the syrupy breakup songs littering Top-40 Radio. Though I wouldn’t call Phair a great lyricist, she once had an edge and seemed unafraid to use it.

Her more recent efforts, though, clearly renounce that earlier edge, which finally became obvious to me at this show, making me wonder: what the fuck happened?

Basically, Phair played one disappointing song after another (with a few earlier standards sprinkled in), but the real symbolic moment for me occurred when one of her recent videos appeared on the five or six large-screen TVs positioned around the venue. I had seen the video before, a slick production depicting Phair and her band performing in an abandoned warehouse (i.e., indoors) while, somehow, being drenched with rain. It’s the kind of atmosphere that would seem gritty and industrial and tough, except the rain seems like just a means of getting Phair’s shirt wet. She even called attention to the video during her set, half-embarrassed by it, and for good reason, since the song’s chorus sounds like the bad poetry of a 13-year-old girl:

Do you really know me at all?
Would you take the time to catch me if I fall?
Are you ever gonna be that real to me?
Everything to me.

(Seriously?) I wish I could commit my English-major explication skills to an analysis of these lines; however, for obvious reasons, that just isn’t necessary or even possible. But perhaps it is worth noting that the exact line, “catch me if I fall,” has an illustrious provenance, claimed by Bob Dylan’s “Nine Days,” R.E.M.’s “Texarcana,” The Monkees’ “Counting on You,” The Barenaked Ladies’ “When I Fall,” Lifehouse’s “Storm,” and Oasis’ “Lyla.” Dylan, R.E.M., and Po-Mo intertexuality notwithstanding, Phair’s newer lyrics, of course, reveal that she is either attempting to wrestle marketshare from Avril Lavigne, Ashlee Simpson, and Evanescence, or creating some weird parody of a formerly relevant artist trying to become a teen pop idol as she approaches the age of, gasp!, 40.

While all of this might seem incredibly obvious to anyone who has been similarly let down by the arc of her career, it dawned on me, sometime during her performance, that what pains me about Liz Phair as an artist is almost exactly what now disappoints me about the Sundance Film Festival. Formerly independent and risky and immensely cool, Sundance has become an embarrassment, a festival of excess that flaunts its A-list Hollywood movie stars and blue-chip corporate sponsors, an event teeming with mainstream aspirations, and populated by industry players and infamous party girls and generic wannabes. There is just too much gloss, too much sheen, too many private lounges and VIP parties. And even though the festival promotes some films that are independent and interesting, these same films seem like afterthoughts to the stars and star-vehicles that drive Sundance marketing (Jennifer Aniston, Robin Williams, and even Justin Timberlake(!) had films at Sundance this year).

Given the focus on all of these peripheral distractions, I find it hard to buy into the idea that the festival is really even about film anymore, much less good independent film. (Incidentally, does anyone believe that annual-attendee Paris Hilton has actually ever been to a Sundance film?)

Ultimately, though, I find it even harder to believe that, somehow, I still care enough to whine whenever an indie favorite goes mainstream. Haven’t I learned my lesson by now?

Ah, well, maybe I’ll see you all next year… at Slamdance.