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Joni Mitchell, looking a bit frail but otherwise amazingly-robust considering her health issues of the past few years (and believe me, I sympathize with health issues) gave a lovely performance at the Grammys recently. And for me her voice is like a tramline to my past, and conjures up all sorts of emotions that watching and hearing her is like stepping into a Doc Brown-modified DeLorean and going back to 1974.
When I think of my past, it’s in eras. I suppose this is true for most people, and in my case even more so because I seemed to physically move someplace new after each on. My early childhood was in New England and on Long Island—I was born there and lived there until I started grammar school. Then at 12, just after I finished grammar school, we moved to the California East Bay, and I was here through middle and high school. I went to college in Santa Cruz and stayed for seven years after that, marking the “young adult” era. After which I got engaged and moved to San Jose for 8 years. And finally Austin Texas, where we lived for my own kids’ school years and their aftermath. These are my eras, and they are about places just as much as times and events.
One thing that I heavily associate with my grammar school years is the music my parents were playing on the stereo while I was growing up. Both of them liked to listen to music all the time, having it on in the background while they worked, or cooked, or cleaned, or we were all just sitting around in the living room. It was almost like my life had a soundtrack. And I was amazed years later to find how deeply into my brain this music had sunk, when I was able to sing along to music that I didn’t even remember hearing. (I don’t remember my parents ever playing Beatles records, but they must have, because I know all the lyrics to all the songs.)
And for me, this was an almost idyllic period. My parents were together, and young. We lived in a place where I had good friends. Like many of my generation, I grew up partly feral, being told to “go out and play” and not returning until dinnertime, even during the school year and especially in the summer. I was good at school and my teachers liked me. I played soccer, and Little League; was on the swim team and joined the Boy Scouts; rampaged around the neighborhood with my friends getting in trouble while trying to not get caught. Aside from the weather (abysmal in the summer) and the constant threat of friends moving away (it was just outside of Washington, DC, and many people in our suburban neighborhood were in the military and likely to get transferred any time), it was pretty wonderful.
On the radio and in our house there was Simon and Garfunkel, and Paul Simon on his own, and Carly Simon, and the soundtrack for Jesus Christ Superstar, (and comedy albums by Bill Cosby and George Carlin and Lenny Bruce at my friend David’s house), and in 1974 Joni Mitchell’s epic, incredible, Court and Spark.
To this day I can’t listen to Court and Spark and not think of the summer and fall of 1974 in Northern Virginia, where the summer air was so damn thick with humidity it felt as if you had to lean forward and actually push your way through it, and the fall was a riot of falling leaves piling up in people’s yards. I was starting my last year of grammar school, I was surrounded by friends and stuff I really enjoyed doing, I had two parents who clearly loved me, I had a little sister I totally adored and a younger brother who annoyed the living crap out of me to the degree where my dad actually sub-divided our family room so they could separate us. My favorite cousin—then a young, afro-ed, guitar-playing college hippy just turned 20—came down and actually roomed with me (in my tiny room) for part of the summer. It was joyous. Joyous, I tell you!
So when Joni sings—and most of all I queue up Court and Spark—I’m amazed all over again by the power and versatility of her amazing voice, the way it weaves itself in and out of the lyrics. I’m astounded by the power of those lyrics, the way you could picture in your mind the scenes she is describing, the people she’s talking about, and wonder if they map onto your own life. And most of all I’m a little boy again, cooling myself by one our four window air-conditioners (we blew out fuses so often I think my dad bought them in lots of 100) in a tiny suburban brick house in Northern Virginia, trying to con my mom into letting me stay inside a bit long, hearing Joni on the turntable again.
The house in question; my dad planted the pine tree on the right in the front yard
Joni is the creator of some of the music of my life, and it was tremendous seeing her there singing again. What is the music of yours?