Ani DiFranco's my security blanket. I suppose she's a lot of folks' blankie. You know, you listen to her and feel comforted and warm and reassured that music can still speak to you, and you feel like you've arrived home. So maybe "ruby slippers" is a more appropriate comparison, but maybe not, 'cause those always looked too binding and glitzy, and Ani's all about the organic, sprawling, ebbing, flowing freedom of crafting and sharing music.

Ani's been offering up her punky-folk revolution songs for, like, 15 years, so when she comes out with a new disc, it doesn't inspire that same dizzy gaiety as when some sluggish artist like Cat Power finally releases something. But maybe it should. A friend pointed out that each Ani album has a handful of fiercely spectacular tracks and suggested that if she saved up these songs, instead of releasing at least an album a year, she could create one "great" album. I disagree. Part of what makes this righteous babe so damn venerable is her DIY, anti-corporate chutzpah.

She's got her own record label, shuns Clear Channel and Ticketmaster, and is unapologetically critical of American cultural institutions. Yet you can find her CDs at Target, and learning about Ani is part of every liberal arts' kid's education.

Now I'll finally mention Ani's new album, Knuckle Down. Is it good? Yeah. But what else were you expecting?

Part of what makes Knuckle Down noteworthy is that for the first time, instead of doing it solo, Ani brought in a co-producer -- some dude named Joe Henry -- who I've never heard of before; but All Music Guide says if I like Wilco and Po' Girl then I'll like him, so I might have to check him out.

Anyway, as y'all know, Ani's into constant evolution, and ever since 1998's Little Plastic Castle, her music has had a certain jazzy vibe. It's been brassier and bigger sounding, swingy and smoky and funk-tastic. And I've liked that about it. But Knuckle Down sheds the smooth operator-ness and relies heavily on the finger-picking guitar-and-vocals combo of earlier works, but with enough whistling, glockenspiel and unconventional percussion to keep things interesting.

Plus, Noe Venable, my favorite Bay Area folkie, sings out her pixie-like little heart on three tracks, including the filial ballad "Studying Stones," which has that undeniably gorgeous, soaring, "Welcome To:,"/"Garden of Simple" vibe. Then there's the closing track "Recoil," a pained, self-conscious elegy for Ani's recently deceased father, to whom the album is dedicated. Not all tracks are so delicate though -- "Lag Time" gets all visceral over love woes, and Ani plucks her guitar so hard on "Manhole" I wonder how many strings she broke in the studio.

Even though Ani writes a lot more about love and life and relationships than she did a decade ago, Knuckle Down does feature its fair share of unequivocally political tracks. There's the gratifying grassroots activism memoir, "Paradigm," as well as the obligatory spoken word piece -- the almost six-minute long, escape from sexual assault poem "Parameters," which finally beats Dar Williams' "Mortal City" in the race for the most haunting album inclusion.

Some people like to sneer at Ani for her albums that weaken their clutch on reproductive rights and government watch-dogging, but honestly, even bisexual, feminist, anti-capitalist activists have emotions other than anger (or, at least, what people like to call anger because it's easier than calling it awareness). What comes across on Knuckle Down, more than on the hungry confrontations of Not a Pretty Girl or Out of Range, is that Ani is a shouting, laughing, reveling, reckoning human being.

She may be my security blanket, she may be someone else's heroine and she may be Jerry Falwell's nightmare.

But still, in her words, she's just "sitting here in this sty, strewn with half-written songs, taking one breath at a time."

Yet every breath is beautiful and full of pulpy life, and every song is another resonant echo in her ever-expanding legacy.