Show Review

Ani DiFranco is growing up. She emerged not in a short skirt and the black, clunky silver buckled combat boots we’re used to seeing her in, but in a subdued, sophisticated pair of brown slacks and a fitted taupe leotard top. Her boots were black, but the heel much lower. Her latest hair style of long, dark, ashen dreadlocks hung like an aura beneath the spotlight, underscoring her gender-bending fan’s exaltation of her as a sexual, feminist messiah. She’s vehemently saved them from suicide, opened their closet doors, and resuscitated their self-esteem.

Her latest album, Evolve, points to her own evolution, this growing up apparent in a little less detonative guitar clawing angst and more sometimes whispered, poetic introspection about her internal world now as a woman in her thirties.

But she still blushes like a little girl as women holler, “We love you!” She still fills dead air with nervous laughs and quick, sometimes nonsensical rambling both endearing and annoyingly cutesy. But most importantly, she still rocks. Rumored to tape on fake fingernails for plucking strings, Ani paused to repair her rhythm-beaten hand as she narrated her adjustments: “I lost my pinky tape from sweaty hands! Ahhh, fuck me!” she grinned as the crowd cheered her use of a four letter word. “I’ve pounded it straight into my guitar night after night. There’s something like a tree growing out of it . . . “ and seemingly marveling at her age, a theme for the night, she sighed, “Whoa, thirty-three.”

Revered for living on her own terms, like busting out of the confines of the record industry by starting her own label, Righteous Babe Productions, Ani laughed, “You’re all standing up! Later I might force you to sit down. But I know how it is, once you’ve stood up . . . ” Cognizant of her irrepressibility and their determination to follow suit, collectively, the audience winked back.

Defiant of the culturally ingrained definitions of “feminine,” “American,” and “folk,” Ani ironically resembled a marionette on stage as her knees would buckle when she’d attack the guitar strings with her intricate, fitful finger-picking, kicking her leg out and jerking her head, her locks shaking like a mop.

Surprisingly, although “Evolve” consists of a five-piece band with funk, jazz, and Latin influences, Ani has recently reclaimed herself as a solo artist with more of just the folk, and funks up only a few songs with the addition of a wah-wah pedal.

It’s not clear how her performance has evolved although a moth background implies that it has. Several renditions, like that of show opener “Shy,” “Tip Toe,” “Cradle And All,” and “Second Intermission” were just like ones from previous years.

But she treated us to lots of new, still brilliant lyrics, many of them soon to be released on an album due out in February. At one point, she boldly abandoned her guitar and pulled some paper out of her pocket. “It’s a new poem burning a hole in my pocket,” she said. “I don’t know if it belongs on stage or maybe in a box in a closet.” It’s got to be one of the only times she’s given a public disclaimer for her art-a poem about confronting fear at thirty-three, perhaps as a more humble Ani.

Her announcement that she would play one cover was unheard of. “One of the few songs I know but didn’t write,” she laughed as one of music’s most prolific artists. She’s churned out about 25 albums of original songs. “My early songwriting teachers,” she said about the Beatles. “Blackbird” was the only song in which she put aside her jolty, emotionally loaded vocal fluctuations and just sang. It’s a shame she doesn’t more often with such a gorgeous singing voice; the song was mesmerizing, a sweet sip of tranquility.

Later, as if to say, “So, as I was saying . . . “ she jumped into politics, segwaying with the comment, “It’s hard to be a traveling American. It’s hard being an American lying in the comfort of your own home.” The pun seemed unintended but it fit. In another poem, she referred to America as “The land infested with millionaires,” and spoke of her passport and “The brutal imperial power it says I represent.”

In the end, she shared another poem, this time verbatim, opening with the sincere declaration, “I love my country,” her next breath disclaiming, “By that I mean I’m indebted to my ancestors who fought the government for what is right . . .” Fortunately this righteous wordsmith keeps fighting.

Alison Bulman is a freelance writer based in Portland, Maine. To view more of her work, visit: Portland Magazine or here.