Ani kicks fanny

Plus Stillsuit, One Ton Shotgun, and more

by Michael Caito

Despite Ani DiFranco's lighthearted banter ("This is turning into the Light Fixture Tour. You guys must have some kinda wild hysterical preservation society . . . look at all this scroll-y shit"), the crowd's vibe at PPAC Saturday was one of serious idolatry. Over the course of seven-plus recordings, DiFranco has won legions of fans through scrappy, effusive guitar playing and her gospel of self-actualization. It's a street-level sensibility born of a bitter Buffalo winter, intent on showing all those unfortunates (often, those cursed with external genitalia) just how foolish their presuppositions are in terms of relationships -- boy-girl, girl-girl, whatever.

Gentle lullabies are subsequently all the more shocking because they're so pastoral. So freakin' nice. One moment finds her singing about menstrual blood, packin' switchblades and leaving "a veiled invitation on your machine." The next song would be a mockery of every dilated-pupil love song ever written if DiFranco had one less iota of talent, and we're not talking about her storied force of will, the one which gleefully pimp-slapped every major American record label (not to mention MTV) when they came pandering. Her many quieter songs are loosely assembled into two flavors:the "wow, did you mess up a good thing" side and the kind that finds the love-giddy heroine riding home with "last night's underwear in my back pocket, sure sign of the morning after." Either way, she's about taking responsibility, literally warning all the soul-draining sexual and psychological predators in the world to look up some other tree for a stuck kitten. Righteous, yes, but self-righteous . . . never.

The April release of the 21/2-hour (!) live opus Living In Clip (Righteous Babe Records) does have some of her staunch advocates worried. Pricey (for an RBRdisc) at over $25, it will represent a crossroads for DiFranco, whose tours have pulled into markedly larger and larger houses for the past five years. One friend in attendance Saturday, herself a musician and long-time DiFranco fan, fretted at the almost overwhelming crowd pulse.

The idolatry is, in this case, warranted. Few modern artists can command such attention by simply paying attention -- to the sag of the mattress, odious power-trippin', the twists of the sheets, the silly come-ons. Fewer can convince while employing elements of spoken-word, hip-hop, trad folk and a dash o' funk. (The only thing even remotely "punk" about DiFranco's music is her record label.) Love songs describe the elusive, drug-free high which arrives in stop-action moments, when you feel more alive than you have in weeks, months or maybe even years. Being buzzed on life. For her, there's a certain satisfaction derived from putting idiots in their place, but it will always pale next to the joy of sharing a positive experience -- being able to let down your guard with someone whom you trust. Her ability to do both effectively is the mark of a superb folk artist.

By the same token, there is always backlash. It's pathetic and vicious and incredibly stupid, but true, and it has silenced (or worse, diluted) many a promising voice. Fame is, after all, a path of busted glass with awful purty scenery. Now facing up that similar bind is fellow traveler Beck, an incredible wordsmith, also young, hip, smart and successful. Only difference is, DiFranco sings about stuff that actually happens, separating the "you & me" -- which life is all about -- from Beck's flea market pastiche of free association, dazzling as that often is. Both owe a tremendous debt to hip-hop, but DiFranco keeps things grounded in everyday interactions, reminding us that our collective reality, despite field reports to the contrary, does not have to bite.

Enervated Ani fans react to this. They feel it ringing true, and if DiFranco has a problem that's it right there: Is she up for the tribulations of such falling-down adoration?Hope so, 'cause it's here, with Saturday being testimony to that. That's now four consecutive times DiFranco has improved on her last show; hope you went because commercial radio avoids her as if she's leprous, and they're being myopic because her records sell well. Does she do it for the adulation?Seven excruciatingly honest releases later it certainly doesn't seem so. DiFranco, whether angry, giggly, wistful, romantic or forlorn, is a comet in a sky full of squibs. And yes, we need her.

STARS &BARS: Stillsuit are a knockdown, legit NYChardcore band who evidently have spent much of their youth (average age: 21) tweakin' the phono to the likes of Television and King Crimson. They have a fine new one on TVTimprint Building Records, and appear at Lupo's Wednesday. TVT, which brought us the Emergency Broadcast Network's Telecommunication Breakdown, has released the soundtrack to Wes Craven's slice 'n' dicer Scream. It boasts Boston pop trio par excellence Birdbrain and the Last Hard Men, featuring Skid Row's Sebastian Bach with Kelley Deal and drummer Jimmy Chamberlain, formerly of Smashing Pumpkins. No comment. Meanwhile, the Breeders are at the Living Room Wednesday.

On a saner tip, The Book of Lists cites the Drifters as following only the Beatles, Stones, BeeGees (?) and Michael Jackson in U.S. record sales over the past few decades. That makes the Black Heritage Society's Cotton Club at the Double Tree in Newport the place to be Friday. Info at 751-3490. Newport heads north:One Ton Shotgun have two new seven-inchers; Songs for Sucks and Arena Days (on Sike and Negi-Youth); the Mark Tomis/Chris Knox guitar tandem is always a blast, and Chil Mott's still singing meaty, flippant tunes like their new "Pesticle," "Midget Matadors" and "Insurance Insurance." Forget the Force; never underestimate the power of the Shotgun, Luke. As their Mott(o) says "We'd take our own lives if we had one." Hear for yourself tonight (3/20) when they open for JChurch.

RIDECS (R.I. Diversity, Education &Community Service organization) is soliciting musicians, DJs, rappers and dancers for their April 26 festival in Roger Williams Park. It's a daily privilege to be able to stroll to the corner grocery and hear 4-5 languages in two blocks, and remains one of the most under-appreciated wonders of the Providence thang. RIDECS knows that, sponsoring this enticing event to reiterate the glories of solid education and to promote an appreciation of our daily cultural smorgasbord. Reps from numerous community service organizations will join forces at the all-day fest, and besides players and dancers they're looking for volunteers to help make it happen. Contact Peggy Sandoval of the sponsoring RIDECS/ Latin American Student Organization at 274-9794 or 456-8285.

Rhode Island College's Performing &Fine Arts Commission heats things up this week with a March 23rd appearance by the Greg Abaté Quartet, following that up with a rare area appearance by invented-instrument pioneers the Newband on the 26th at 8 p.m., with a free open rehearsal at 3 p.m. All shows are on campus at Roberts Auditorium; details at 456-8194.

Ronnie Earl &the Broadcasters appear with Paul Geremia Friday at Lupo's. Blues bliss from two genuine masters, and that isn't even a tiny exaggeration. The Broadcasters will prob'ly offer an ample purview of their imminent debut for Verve; Geremia's a respected player/archivist -- a delver into the deepest blues roots. Virtuosity times two, from Chicago to Biloxi to . . . uhhh . . . Johnston. Host Rob Clarkin has brought sparkling outfits to the cozy Café Mondo on Atwells Avenue in recent weeks, including V Majestic, the Indigo Jazz Ensemble and Erin McKeown. This in addition to his own bad self on guitar and, occasionally, djembe between sets. The What Is Music?spotlight shines this Friday on Paul Gabriel. Caffeine-seekers be forewarned: you know their after-dinner cappuccino is good or they'd be laughed off the Hill. New releases next week. Promise.