My husband won tickets to the Janis Ian concert and I thought to myself "At 17" and "Cool! Now I have a date for Friday night!" Little did I know what was involved in a live performance given by Janis Ian.

We had some errands to run before the concert, so he picked me up at home at 5:15, and off we went. A couple of hours later, I was by now shaking with hunger, having not eaten since 11:00 that morning, we headed to the BEST place for filling one's empty stomach: Hal's. I had a #12 triple-decker, Husband had a Reuben. Bellies bursting with Jewish deli goodness, we waddled over to St. Paul's United Methodist Church for the show. I sincerely hoped I wouldn't fall asleep, given the large pillow of contentment that had settled in my stomach.

It's good to be surprised once in a while. And I was certainly surprised by the performance Janis Ian gave. What I expected was a somewhat subdued, mildly depressing concert, mostly soft tones and quiet guitar riffs. What I got was a a bundle of energy and opinions and a wide range of vocal styles. Some songs she whispered, some she belted out loudly accompanied by an amazing demonstration of fingerboard virtuosity.

She swept into the nave, guitar blazing, the presence she flung at the audience was much larger than her diminutive size would suggest. And the sound that emanated from that guitar, thanks to brilliant electronic effects, positively filled that church and echoed off the hardwood pews and balcony rails. She opened with "Dead Men Walking," stunning the crowd with a voice that is still just as strong as I remembered and still demands to be heard.

Ms. Ian played two sets and was thoroughly enjoying herself, as was evident by the huge grin that kept sneaking out between those depressing lyrics. She told stories with a mixture of self-depreciation and self-worship that balanced out nicely. She, of course, sang "At 17" -- it wouldn't have been Janis without it. Her voice ranged from the softest whisper to a soaring yell, quite appropriate given the setting. She confessed her sins, she prayed for the future, she cried out to God.

There were comic moments: she sang an unexpected Country/Western tune she had written in the hopes of performing at the Grand Ol' Opry someday. She managed to coax an orchestra, a circus band, a slide and bass guitar, a pipe organ out of the two tiny custom-made guitars linked to the soundboard by wireless. She took advantage of the freedom from cables to stroll around the stage and into the audience to "have a bit of fun" with a Celtic-jiggish solo.

After two sets, she strode purposefully out of the nave after a soft "good night," but of course the audience would have none of that. Five minutes of standing ovation, she was back (though I didn't see her approach the stage down the aisle; she's that short), and announced, for her last number, a sing-along "in that touchy-feely, hummus-y way." With that, she launched into the distinctive bass-line that introduces "These Boots Are Made for Walking." An oddly appropriate way to end an amazing evening.

Michelle Mogil has three children, a husband, four cats, a dog, a snake, and several chickens. Concerts give her ears a rest.