At present, there is no better definition of American folk music than the work of Ani DiFranco. Her celebrated success in the 1990s led to her founding her own independent label (Righteous Babe Records), which today includes not only Ani's releases, but spoken-word artists, innovative instrumentalists, and select singer-songwriters. While her lyrics, and her recent release Fear of Water deserve separate critique, this description of her May 6, 2014 at the Paramount Theater in Rutland, Vermont tries to lend some cultural and sociological context to her work.
In January of 2014, David Graham tried to make sense of the legacy of Pete Seeger, writing in The Atlantic magazine: "In Seeger’s eyes, the ideas the Communist Party stood for were quintessentially American: It sought to protect the little guy and to defend him against avaricious attacks from the powerful. He and his comrades believed they were defending the ideals the country was founded on, and if they were wrong—the country was, after all, founded by wealthy landowners—that was because they were foolish enough to naively believe the national myth. It’s harder than ever to imagine a truly leftist America today. Labor unions are on the wane, faith in government programs is at a low, and even an elaborate, market-based plan to expand healthcare is decried as socialism."
Into Graham's quandray enters Ani and her flock: accessing experiences with her music and its subversive lyrical themes through more-or-less capitalist conventions. But how does one attack, or even lampoon, the literal and metaphorical vehicles that got each of us to the show, or to having the means to acquire her album? Taking the stage at the Paramount Theater (a non-profit), Ani brought with her no less than eight guitars, including one unique four-string instrument; all of these were tuned by her tech, who stood ever at the ready on the side of the stage. The Paramount not only sells beer, but allows it to be carried into the theater, and enjoyed during the performance. For many, and not just for the naive among us, it helped wash down the national myth, for long enough to enjoy her performance.
The sociological and cultural impacts of concerts and live events are often more broad than they appear; Ani's ability to sing the line "fuck you/and your untouchable face" and not alienate any specific individual or group represented in the audience is a testament to her relevance. It'd be oversimplifying to call her show all good vibes and positivity, but it was close: in a languid, less-than-patient backwash of rhetoric, the crowd swelled with delight as she strummed furiously (hence the need for a freshly-tuned instrument between every song).
Ani had played a few dates in upstate New York previously that week, and was headed for Maine on the next night, so the crowd seemed remarkably full of Vermonters, those that hail from the state that was first in the country to acknowledge civil unions, the first to capitalize on its destinationism and to have its own magazine funded by state tax revenue, created specifically with the intention of promoting travel and tourism to Vermont. While the effects of such governmental efforts may be the lifeblood in many Vermont communities, a sense of marketing-- 'imaging,' they call it, in the cities-- seems to be pulsing even more forcefully through our collective veins. Ani introduced a song about solar power, and quickly realized her praise for solar production facilities wasn't going to get a resounding "yes-we-can" response from the crowd, as many in the Green Mountains have already sought, or at least thought about, alternative and renewable forms of energy. While in other venues, Ani may have used the song as an opportunity for activism from the stage, she made a hasty dedication: "this song is for you, Vermont, about how the other half lives."
Later, she asked, "how do you feel about nuclear power?," perhaps not realizing that Vermont's only nuclear facility had announced its closure one week prior to the performance, after a long and public battle.
Ani DiFranco is an American original and consummate performer, one who trusts and relies on her audience to enjoy themselves. Her storytelling was self-effacing; the political and social challenges inside her lyrics were tempered by her heartfelt storytelling (including a time when she prepared red beans and rice and brought it to a concert for Willie Nelson, only to find his bus gone). She may be called a great American folk singer, not for her ability to write about "truly leftist America," but for her simultaneous humility and boldness, qualities that seldom exist inside of the same person on stage.
