artist to a monochromatic stereotype. She plays the role of windblown troubadour to the hilt, but her rage and demeanor have more to do with punks than with folkies. In concert she uses press-on nails reinforced with electrical tape to hammer away at an acoustic guitar with only drummer Andy Stochansky for musical support. DiFranco is a wonder to behold: a spiky-haired volcano who first glows smoky and warm and then explodes in a splendor of anger. Her songs, though mostly about independence and romance (with both men and women), often take unexpected, jarring turns – such as when she recites a poem about an abortion or sings about being felt up on the subway.

The downside of working overtime to avoid becoming a cliché is that it exacts a price from DiFranco's otherwise excellent songs. In pursuit of honesty, DiFranco's do-it-yourself ethos unnecessarily hamstrings Not a Pretty Girl. The torrential passion and volatility of both her lyrics and percussive guitar, so arresting in concert, aren't fully realized by production that consciously spurns the kind of full fleshed arrangements associated with "commercial" projects. Though DiFranco clearly has a full emotional palette at her fingertips, it's as if she's opting to paint with just two colors, and big songs like "Cradle and All" and "Crime for Crime" wind up sounding more like demos than finished tracks.

So far, DiFranco is winning the battle for control of her career. It would be a shame if someone as breathtakingly talented as she is allows dogma to prevent her from giving her songs what they demand. She's one of the few artists around who can really paint the rainbows. (RS 715)

FRED GOODMAN