Amy Rigby is the class clown in the school of hard knocks. Since 1996, she's fizzed up her Crenshaw-styled neoclassical solo pop with such wonderful bubbles of Tracey Ullman spunk that she deserves to be a fixture in most alt-contemporary CD collections. Despite two solid albums, though, she hasn't quite secured such an esteemed position. That's due, in some part, to her plucky refusal to be what she's not--an everywoman. Not to say that Rigby isn't archetypal. You know her. She's the East Village equivalent of the hip Uptown Minneapolis chick next door with the dizzy grin, wistful wit, and Day-Glo inner life. And in 1996, before the Handicam invasion of every nook... More >>>