Ani DiFranco

So I was having this inner ethical battle about whether I could review Knuckle Down objectively given my humiliating youthful adoration of, and subsequent distaste for, the Folk Singer when my friend said to me, “Maybe you don’t like her because she isn’t as good anymore.” Could it be? Ani D just ain’t what she used to be — novel, quirky, even good? Yes, it could be. A gazillion albums (and knockoffs) later, the novelty of the folk-punk grrl with a guitar she bangs like a drum (or an ex-lover) has more than worn off. And all the adorably pointed lyrics, bluntly figurative like a pair of sensible shoes, can’t take DiFranco back across the line between endearingly quirky and predictably cutesy. As for good ... DiFranco is still a skilled musician. But the impassioned oration her guitar has been giving for years is beginning to sound like the tired old neurotic narrative your Zoloft-happy auntie feeds you every Thanksgiving. The instrumentals dabble in freshness in the overbearingly metaphoric “Manhole,” but the vocals, running the gamut of Ani-isms (the ironic grumble, the bellow, the preciously syncopated !pop!), sound like overly well-worn terrain.

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