~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ eye WEEKLY March 2 1995 Toronto's arts newspaper .....free every Thursday ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ INDIE EYE INDIE EYE
Someday, moppets, we will rue the day. Shuffling 'round our plexiglas holding pens, flapping identically-branded arms bearing the Sony logo through the Nutri-Max sensor for our daily ration of Food, we will lift our voiceboxes to curse the day we were chumped by Indie Rock. "Just one Offspring album!" we'll bleat. "That's all I ever bought! And a Bad Religion one, too!" And just before the ritual blurping of the state anthem "Come Out And Play" and the hourly prostration before the winking, light-up Dexter Holland idol, we will wonder ... what if that DiFranco woman were right all along?!
Twenty-four in '95, she was: young, maybe, but head of her own indie label (Righteous Babe Records, in her native Buffalo) and author of her own ever- weirding destiny. Six CDs in four years, she did, brimming with sweat and snot and sexual flow and the empowering YOW! of being the nearest living equivalent to The Clash, Billy Bragg and Judy Tenuta jammed into one smallish woman and her acoustic guitar. She wrote about politics, lust, anger, legalities and (of course) love in an estimated 523 varieties, and about doing what she wanted however the fuck she felt like doing it, and in no time the majors were flocking to "help" her with it. Piss off, said she. Even wrote a song about it -- "Blood In The Boardroom," and if its woman-leaving-her-mark-on-corporate-acquisitiveness ain't a true life- lesson to rival the Inger Lorre Desk Piss of '92 ... well, it oughta be.
'Cept in all this, someone forgot to mention how nice she can be, how willing to answer any question put to her. With a wicked grin, too. Listen ...
Ani, about those major labels?
"Well, I'm a socialist and an anarchist," she says. "I'm kinda straddling the fence there. So I can't bring myself to work for Warners or any such entity. I won't fool myself for a second into thinking that people in the industry even give a shit about music, let alone society: that's totally not the point for them. I've been getting all sorts of offers for a long time, but I just don't find the music industry -- or any huge corporate capitalist system -- very interesting. And the growth of my career might ultimately be stunted by that, but I don't care. I'd rather be able to face myself in the bathroom mirror than to be rich and famous."
Tho' (enter that cold bastard, Irony ...) "rich and famous" are closing in a mite quicker each day. Righteous Babe doesn't zealously tabulate Units Shifted (ain't that kind of operation), but last time I eyeballed HMV's Top 10 indie CDs, two of them were Ani's, one perched at the highly non-anarchic No. 1 spot. And fame? Eight hundred fans tweezered into the El Mo last whip thru town, try. So ... ever get dubious-minded about all this, Ani?
"Absolutely! The good side is that at least people have some idea of where I'm coming from, which is nice when I do interviews. I don't have to pick up the phone and hear somebody asking (lapses into Howell-ese), `So ... uh ... so, you play `Women's Music,' then, do you?' It's like, `AAAAGH!'
"I try not to complain, because how am I supposed to tell that to someone working in an office? I mean, I'm really fortunate to be doing what I love."
That's what the line in "Face Up And Sing" means? "It's nice that you listen/ It'd be nicer if you joined in"? That just listening ...
"... isn't good enough!" she laughs. "I'd like to be an encouragement -- that's wonderful -- but then, I can't do it all. That's where it ends. Then each one of us has to become ourselves. With most of my music, the message is you can do this, we can do this, we are in this together, so let's do it."
But doesn't some stuff have to remain yours?
"That line's different for everyone," she muses. "I don't keep stuff to myself that's `private.' I think that's a cop-out, people's way of not talking -- `Oh! That's personal!' Well, as a matter of fact, it's universal, and you probably share it with half the people in this room, but you're not gonna talk about it `cos it's difficult, and scary and `inappropriate.' I've got nothing to hide: I'll tell anybody anything because ..."
Ani laughs, bright and warm.
"... we've gotta fucking talk to each other before we'll ever get anything done in this old world."
Ani DiFranco plays the Danforth Music Hall (with Veda Hille) March 3.
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