Stephen Yeargin

Tonight we went to a concert at the Ryman Auditorium, the Mother Church of Country Music and a large cornerstone in the Music City, USA moniker that sets Nashville apart. But our pilgrimage was not for a country performance but instead for a rock-folk fusion packaged in a short woman named Ani DiFranco. I thought it might be a second opening act, given that she was jumping around the stage with the energy of teenager. In case I lost you there, Rolling Stone describes her as such:

Ani DiFranco learned early to live by her wits. As a teenager, she worked her way around Buffalo, NY, folk clubs and relocated to NYC before she turned 20. Two things made her become a folksinger: It was cheap (all the overhead she needed was an acoustic guitar), and it didn’t get in the way of her saying her piece. And she had a lot to say — when she cut her first homemade tape, something to sell at the clubs she played, her guitar wasn’t much more than a prop that she assaulted between breaths, but her words were fully formed, deeply personal, and rigorously political, and there were a lot of them. But she wasn’t a folkie, and despite her looks, she wasn’t a punk, either — she was a complete, irreducible original.

When Samantha first made plans for this concert many months ago, I was not sure exactly what to expect. DiFranco’s following is typically the female college radio demographic, not the heterosexual pale guy camp to which I belong. In an effort to help make sure I was not totally lost, Samantha picked out a few songs from her somewhat extensive library to give me an idea. We picked up dinner at Jack’s Bar-B-Que, frequent caterers of events at Samantha’s employer and literally located in the alleyway next to the Ryman.

Samantha went upstairs to track down the other merchandise table while I was charged with getting a bottled water and something for myself to drink. I had intended for that to be a soft drink, but only the bar accepted credit cards. My head is still a bit fuzzy.

The auditorium was not nearly as full as she expected, but it was a lively bunch. Over the Rhine, the opening act, played a few selections that more aptly fit the venue, with songs about whiskey and forlorn love. A song titled “If A Song Could Be President” was particularly memorable. In the intermission I learned that the pianist’s joke about being the CD salesman was not a stretch of the truth. They are on iTunes and worth a listen.

Ani’s fans are an interesting bunch. I can say that with a bit of authority as I am married to one. The young lady in front of me had tattoos covering her arms and back. The group behind us held a five minute discussion of whether the image on her back was of a phoenix or a dragon. I am still not sure I knew the answer either. When the lady of the evening took stage, there were a number of times that I wondered if the balcony seats were going to come down on top of us, wagering that the venue was not accustomed to such an excitable group. Then again, I have to remember that the first few chords of Whiskey River had probably had a similar effect over the last few decades.

I will skip the part about birthday cakes and a guy wearing a sock and a smile.

Samantha’s playlist ended up only having one song from Ani’s set (”Evolve”), but unlike some artists, the new material stays true to the old even if you cannot sing (or in my case, hum) along. We had a great time and hope the tour can make a stop in Nashville in the years to come.