Reading the latest issue of Harp magazine yesterday, I came across a feature on Amy Rigby that reminded me that I wrote a review of her latest disc, Little Fugitive, that hasn't run anywhere yet. It sort of slipped through the cracks at a couple of places, and I forgot about it. The Harp piece, one of those deals where an artist listens to songs and comments on them, reveals that Rigby has joined with the under-utilized Marti Jones to form the new group the Cynical Girls for a string of live dates, and that she has been on the road with pub-rocker Wreckless Eric (whose web site includes interesting essays about some of his best-loved songs, including the classic "Whole Wide World").


Amy Rigby
Little Fugitive
Signature Sounds

The cover of Amy Rigby's disc, Little Fugitive, shows seven different photos of Rigby on various forms of ID over the course of several years. It’s the first tip off you get that not only is this a woman with some miles to her credit, but that she's fine with laying it all out bare for examination.

Rock musicians don't talk about getting older. The entire enterprise is built on youth. Problem is, though music is targeted at the young, this misses a huge segment of the listening population. It also cuts out about 95 percent of the possible lyrical topics. While it makes for a pretty stultifying listen any time one turns on the radio, it means there is a wealth of material to be mined by artists with real-life experience to draw upon and the talent to render such situations cleverly within the confines of a three-minute pop song.

Male artists don't deal with this at all; women, more so. Lucinda Williams has made a career in part by being a mature woman who is willing to talk about it, and younger artists like Kathleen Edwards seems poised to do the same, writing about real-life triumphs and troubles. Most maturing women write esoteric songs that don't seem to handle aging real well; Shawn Colvin and the rest of the NPR-loved coterie come to mind. When they do venture into such uncharted waters, the results usually are drenched in sap to make them seem more palatable.

That's what makes Rigby such a treasure. She is willing to talk about aging and the challenges it brings, but isn't content to cloak her tales in the requisite quiet folk trappings. She likes to rock, and does it well. That has been clear from the outset. Her solo debut, Diary of a Mod Housewife, practically invented a genre, and she has continued to successfully cover that same territory for five discs over a decade.

Her latest, Little Fugitive, offers more of the same, but that's no slight. Rigby learned early on what works and sticks with the mix of confessional lyrics, gritty rock arrangements and sweet pop hooks. If the disc isn't her best, it's also not much of a fall-off from the top, providing a solid batch of great tunes.

She starts strong by listing the ways in which she is "Like Rasputin," the early 20th Century Russian advisor to the Tsarist regime who was ultimately killed by those close to the Tsar. Again, this is not your typical pop song lyrical fodder, but with it Rigby has found a way to re-position the well-worn "I'm down but got back up again" sentiment.

The second track will likely be the make-or-break point for many listeners. On "The Trouble with Jeannie," Rigby laments the fact that her new husband's ex-wife is nice. It's a light, catchy pop tune with a lyrical bite that makes it a meatier song than it would first appear. "I even tried to hate her like I thought I should, but since we met she's been nothing but good," she sings. It's a situation millions have faced, but seen from a perspective rarely addressed in song. Like it, and you'll no doubt love this record. Dismiss it and this isn't for you.

Elsewhere she offers a sweet tribute to the deceased Ramones singer in "Dancing with Joey Ramone," rattling off a list of classic pop songs to which she imagines two-stepping with the departed Brudder, and offers a litany of things she'd rather talk about -- from the hybrid car to the mason jar -- other than love in "I Don't Wanna Talk About Love No More."

And while Rigby has by now developed her own sound, she messes with the formula enough here to keep things interesting. She offers an homage to drone of the Beatles' "Rain" and "Tomorrow Never Knows" on the trippy "So You Know Now," and approximates a girl group sing-along on the sweet "Girls Got it Bad."

Not all of those experiments work. Only a couple of the songs here drag, and one is "Always With Me," a spacey keyboard-driven tune that sounds like a failed latter-day R.E.M. arrangement. The somewhat hokey "Needy Men" is able to transcend its limitations if you're in the right mood.

The disc rallies from the momentum killer of "Always With Me" with the perfect closer, "The Things You Leave Behind." The song, by Lenny Kaye, is the only one not to come from Rigby's pen, yet her performance -- on what ends up sounding not unlike a (good) latter day Tom Petty tune -- makes it fit the rest of the set perfectly. It's a bittersweet song about, if not making due, certainly making the best of the hand you're dealt. It's almost a thesis statement for the disc, if not Rigby's career.