#13 Stories from the Edge of Music: Ani DiFranco Pt. 1
How a 19-year-old "baby dyke" began her career
Ani DiFranco’s big break came at a Canadian folk festival
Way back in the day, I was (for four years 1989-1992) the artistic director of the Mariposa Folk Festival. My job: choose 35-40 artists, and programme them in a cohesive manner. Cover all the bases — equal numbers of male and female performers and from all parts of Canada, ensure that the major genres of the “folk” world are represented and that First Nations, Quebec, British and American are there too.
And, in previous years, I had studiously avoided hiring any artists that I wasn’t familiar with (either via live performances or on record). And, no, I didn’t even open the hundreds of applications from “unknowns” — in those days, cassette tapes, 8x10 photographs, press kits and begging letters.
Mariposa’s board of directors insisted in 1991 that I should listen to all those tapes, check those press kits, and read all those letters. I might find some exciting new talent, and it would be good public relations to respond to them all. Long before YouTube and video links had been invented, a pile of some 400 packages awaited. I went through them all, every last one of them; it took three weeks.
Out of the 400 I chose two. One was an African American police officer from upstate New York who played old-school acoustic blues. Back then, few black artists were playing acoustic versions of old blues — Taj Mahal was a rare and wonderful exception. The second came to me via a note from Dale Anderson, a reporter on The Buffalo Evening News, whom I’d accredited a few years before when I was handling publicity for the festival.
He asked me: Would I listen to a cassette by a young singer he was managing called Ani DiFranco? And so I did. How, I wondered, did a young girl — she was 19 at that point — know so much? How could she be so tough and smart and gentle and wise, all at once, at such a young age? And all this decades before #MeToo, with active feminism still not even close to the mainstream.
She was hired on the spot.
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As an unknown, Ani DiFranco’s name paled compared to the other artists who had agreed to appear at the festival — among them John Prine, Los Lobos, Canadian successes Barenaked Ladies and Moxy Früvous, gospel stars the Staple Singers and the Fairfield Four, folk veterans Ramblin’ Jack, Elliott and Dave Van Ronk, Guy Clark, the Sun Rhythm Section and Lucinda Williams, who was making her first appearance in Canada.
To use her own phrase (from her excellent memoir, No Walls and the Recurring Dream), Ani was a head-shaved baby dyke, with a beat-up guitar, a hippie’s fashion sense, a friendly but reserved attitude and a Volkswagen Beetle covered in decals.
Like most newcomers, Ani didn’t get a mainstage spot at her festival debut. She did take part in three workshops, however: “Women on Love, Life and Lovers” teamed her with Lucie Blue Tremblay and Anne Lederman, and there was a memorable collaboration with Texas singer-songwriter Butch Hancock and First Nations artist Shingoose. Toronto singers Laura Hubert and Sara Craig shared the stage with her for a session called “Women at Work.”
With her own self-directed label, Righteous Babe, Ani sold more records and tapes than any other artist at the festival. The festival’s hastily written programme note read: “Now only 20, she is a remarkable talent, and we will be hearing much more from her in the future.”
That was certainly an understatement. I’d called Jim Fleming, one of the most respected agents in the business, to tell him of her success — I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who suggested he represent her — and shortly afterwards he added her to his roster, and remained her agent until his retirement a few years ago.
Since festival organizers all talk to each other, the word got around fast. And Jim, as enthusiastic as I was, called every major folk festival in Canada, and Ani played almost all of them the following summer. Gary Cristall, who headed the Vancouver Folk Music Festival, told people that Ani had been the only artist he had ever hired for $500 (plus travel and accommodations) — and paid out close to $6,000 for her record and cassette sales.
In Toronto, after her festival success, she returned to the city time and time again, first playing small club venues, where her audiences consisted almost exclusively of gay women. Later, having gained a wider fan base, she packed the Diamond, then the hottest club in town, and then sold out the Danforth Music Hall, a 1,200-seat theatre.
Always reserved, she tended to avoid meeting fans directly both before and after shows; I recall the “don’t interrupt” look she gave me when I went to the dim recesses of the restaurant next door to tell her there were 10 minutes before show time.
Within five years. Ani DiFranco had become the most surprising, unique and unlikely folk music star in North America.
(Part 2 of the Ani DiFranco will continue next week)
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QUOTE OF THE WEEK
“…The thing about watching veterans: if they’re still at it, they’re likely really fucking good at what they do. Music evolves and standards change, but there’s a lot to be said for watching really great performers with decades of experience…” —
, from his Nov. 27 Substack, on the music of Gowan.+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
FINALLY, THREE ANI VIDEOS TO GET YOU THRU THE WEEKEND
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NOTES ABOUT THIS WEEK’S SUBSTACK
A couple of quick notes about this week’s Stories from the Edge of Music. Last week I promised a story about Gino Empry, the best known (and best self-promoted) entertainment publicist in Canadian history — sorry, it’ll be here in a couple of weeks.
Secondly, this is the first time I’ve written separate material for the PAID subscribers to these Stories from the Edge of Music. They’ll get some off-the-wall material about this writer’s background, details of a weird dream, and a surprise about Canadian novelist/icon Margaret Atwood, and a short postscript to the Ani DiFranco story. This time, not a lot about music.
If that seems interesting, please consider taking a paid subscription — it’ll cost you $6.00 a month, the price of a couple of cups of coffee. And it’ll top up my pension, make me smile, and give me the inspiration and energy to keep writing.
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