with help from Melodie Younce
Growing Up With Ani
Ani DiFranco
Red Letter Year
Righteous Babe Records
2008, $16.98
One of the effects of having an enormous influence on a culture is that people will forever associate you with that moment in time. For those who came of age during the radical feminism of the early-to-mid-90s, Ani DiFranco has very specific connotations. Ani equals independent feminist folk-punk self-releases, snappy political lyrics, empowerment, and righteous queer rebellion. She also brings up memories of hyperactive finger-picking, and a singing style that emphasizes the rrrs more than the vowels, which gave rise to a whole generation of feminist folk singers who emulate her quirks.
Red Letter Year has a beautiful, full, and exquisitely orchestrated sound, at times more like present-day indie rock than the folk she is known for (with a little bit of Stevie Wonder-ish funk thrown in the mix, on "Emancipated Minor"). The album feels like change and birth and staying present: an ode to New Orleans, to growing up, and most of all to her young daughter, Petah Lucia.
The album opens with the vivid image of a New Year's Eve party, dancing around the house, unprepared for what is about to happen in the coming year -- a "Red Letter Year." A big one. She describes water rising and coming in everywhere, the president flying over and looking down on the damage, and the cops on the bridge keeping people from leaving, resolving with the quiet statement, "For one unnerving moment they're gonna show the truth on TV." (Apparently, New Orleans has become one of her home bases, along with the proverbial road and the converted church in Buffalo that serves as headquarters for her record label, Righteous Babe Records.)
You can tell she's had a child -- there is less angst, less jitteriness, more space and depth. But don't worry; you will hear the old-school Ani you love on this album. Songs like "Way Tight" and "Round a Pole" recall her sweet folksy side, while "Alla This" asserts that she is still not going to conform to our culture's expectations of her, that she is going to be a tough, rebellious role model for her child, and that she will "keep [her] mind and body free."
The two most striking songs on this album are cosmic opposites. The sweetest love song to her then-unborn baby, "Landing Gear," is intimate and endearing, with one of the best lines ever written to an unborn child: "You're gonna love this world, if it's the last thing I do.... For someone who ain't even here yet, look how much the world loves you."
"The Atom" is a testament to one of Ani's inarguable gifts: the ability to articulate spirituality and politics and the intersections between them in a way that feels relatable and true. This is a prayer to the holiness of the atom, uniter of all matter and life, and the foolishness of those who try to mess with it. True to form, she manages to be as specific as she is universal, speaking of her great-great uncle who worked on the atomic bomb and won a Nobel Prize in physics "and a place in this song." With the grand swelling of music, she speaks of melting polar icecaps and says, "We've got ourselves a serious situation down here." This is mix tape material. It deserves to be heard.
This is an artist who has put out close to 30 albums and who has no shortage of ideas. Unfortunately, not every song hits its mark. "Smiling Underneath" is a love song about how nothing really bothers her as long as she is with her love (her partner, her baby, or both). Unfortunately, it sounds more like a list of things that annoy her. Her lyrics about the details of everyday life (sandwich eating, for example) are endearing, but the line "I don't mind spilling hot sauce on my white shirt" doesn't seem to fit. Who doesn't mind that?
Ani took two years to record this album, and you can feel the time passing. It starts off feeling almost like a holiday album -- lots of big, bing-bongy chimes, references to New Year's Eve, sugar plums, and flaming Christmas wreaths. It takes us through a process, her own humble commitment to understanding herself, as in the lovely "Present/Infant" where she talks about facing her own insecurities by appreciating the perfection of her new baby. And the album concludes in total jubilation with "Red Letter Year Reprise," a booty-shaking instrumental (featuring Louisiana's Rebirth Brass Band, Richard Comeaux and C.C. Adcock) that sounds live and largely improvisational, and ends in laughter.
The packaging is beautiful, too. The cover, and the CD itself, depict the simple, striking image of the full moon. And when the CD fits into the sleeve that holds it, only a sliver remains: a new moon.
