“Mingus,” by Joni Mitchell

One summer many years ago when I was still single, two married friends of mine started inviting me to spend time with them: a lot of time. We usually had a great time: sharing delicious food and laughter: a lot of laughter. What I was slow to realize was that their marriage was ending, and I had served as a temporary balm for their pain that summer: a friendly face to provide respite from endless fights, frazzled emotions, and the agony of a marriage falling apart. I share this story because I picked up Joni Mitchell’s Mingus album that summer, at the height of our evenings together, and the music on Mingus perfectly captured the emotion of that summer: joyful, peculiar, fragile, sad, disjointed, raw, and fragmented, like a tentative conversation or an unfinished painting.

Mingus was Joni Mitchell’s tenth studio album and the result of legendary jazz bassist, Charles Mingus, contacting Mitchell through shared acquaintances. According to Mitchell’s website, Mingus “…had been introduced to her music by a friend of a friend. Mingus thought Mitchell was a gutsy artist with a sense of adventure, and he wanted Joni to consider working with him on an adaption of T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets…Joni thought the idea was quite original, but after reading Eliot's work, she nixed the project, saying that she'd much rather condense the Bible. A few weeks later, Mingus called and told her he'd written six melodies especially for her, and he wanted her to write lyrics to the tunes he'd named Joni I-VI."

Mitchell states that at their first meeting, Mingus’ face “…shone up at me with a joyous mischief. I liked him immediately. I had come to New York to hear six new songs he had written for me. I was honored! I was curious! It was as if I had been standing by a river – one toe in the water – feeling it out – an Charlie came by and pushed me in – ‘sink or swim’ – him laughing at me dog paddling around in the currents of Black classical music.”

The process of musical collaboration is fascinating to me. It’s no doubt a painstaking combination of inspiration and compromise. In the early days, Lennon and McCartney composed together, eyeball to eyeball. Taupin sent lyrics by mail to John, who composed melodies and sent them back to the author for review. And composer friends have told me that when they write, they’re never quite sure when to call a song “finished.” They fuss over a lyric, a chord change, or they completely scrap an idea and start over. Composers make choices, but sometimes circumstances create a condition where choices are made for them, like in the instance of a looming deadline. Decisions have to be made. The work has to be completed and turned-in.

And for this album, time was of essence, as Mingus’ health was quickly deteriorating in 1978, as he was immobilized from amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (Lou Gehrig's Disease) and Mitchell worked earnestly, composing words to Mingus’ melodies, hoping to complete them while he could hear the end results. “Time never ticked so loudly for me as it did this last year,” stated Mitchell. “I wanted Charlie to witness the project’s completion.” And Mitchell almost succeeded, playing for Mingus all but one finished song, the exuberant, “God Must Be A Boogie Man,” which was based upon his autobiography and was a song Mitchell suggested Mingus would have found hilarious.

Featuring only six songs (plus five tape recorded conversations with Mingus, or “raps” to provide filler) and only three of the melodies Mingus provided to Mitchell, as the other three songs on Mingus, including, “Goodbye Pork Pie Hat” and “The Wolf That Lives In Lindsay,” are older compositions by Mingus (to which Mitchell wrote new lyrics) and Mitchell, respectively. “God Must Be ABoogie Man” was composed by Mitchell and inspired by the first few pages of Mingus’ autobiography. It was long rumored that Mitchell’s experimentations with the other two new Mingus melodies were put down on tape, but deemed insufficient for the final release. Those recordings, reported either “lost” or “destroyed,” began surfacing online and remain rare collectibles for fans of both Mingus and Mitchell.

The experimental album contains just over 30 minutes of actual music. Mitchell calls the songs on Mingus, “audio paintings,” claiming, at the album’s release, to be satisfied with the final product (as well she should have been). On this album, more than any other of Mitchell’s previous, jazz-informed work, she used her voice like an instrument itself, blending her scatting with horns, bass, spare acoustic guitar, keyboards, cymbals and snares. Mingus received dismal reviews upon release, and even over time it seems to be one of Mitchell’s least appreciated albums, with Pitchfork even referring to the groundbreaking artist as, ”jazz dilatant.”

But I find Mingus enigmatic and enduring and return to it often, with my own “Mingus: Expanded Edition” compiled in Spotify, including Mingus’ original instrumental, “Goodbye Pork Pie Hat” as well as other Mitchell tunes reminiscent of the era and of the album’s mood (“Jericho” and “Overture/Cotton Avenue,” from Don Juan’s RecklessDaughter). I also can’t help but also recognize the time capsule that was the album, as un-commercial as it may have been, it was not completely a fish out of water in the late 70’s pop music landscape, as it reflected the musical zeitgeist of a major musical movement in 1979: jazzy, R&B-inflected pop music (e.g., Boz Skaggs, Earth, Wind, & Fire, Rickie Lee Jones, Chuck Mangione, Gerry Rafferty, etc.).

The Mingus album ended a bout of writer’s block Mitchell had suffered for the previous year and was a suitable comma at the end of her 1970’s stanza. The album also ended Mitchell’s period of overtly jazzy studio albums, as the 1980’s and 1990’s would find her trying out rock-and-roll, synthesizers, adult-oriented pop, and returning to acoustic guitar basics. Mingus is full of unfinished fragments, unexpected musical turns, and mystery. Mitchell writes in her liner notes for the album, “Charles Mingus, a musical mystic, died in Mexico, January 5, 1979, at the age of 56. He was cremated the next day. The same day 56 sperm whales beached themselves on the Mexican coastline and were removed by fire.  These are the coincidences that thrill my imagination.” Thrilling, indeed.

Must-hear Holiday-Themed, Non-Holiday Songs

People seem particularly drawn to mournful, weepy, nostalgic songs to get them through the holidays. Maybe it’s the zeitgeist of these violent times, maybe it’s just being reflective as another year comes to a close, or perhaps just gluttony for punishment, but who hasn’t lost a friend or loved-one along the way, and aren’t the holidays the mandatory time for remembering the joy and pain that accompanies these complicated memories? Whatever your seasonal symptom, the songs collected here follow this motif. And to the best of my knowledge, not one of these tunes was written as a holiday song, specifically, although some have wriggled their ways into the canon, and all have found their ways onto my Yuletide playlist. So take a listen with me, gentle readers, grab a glass of eggnog, and let the holidays begin…

“Photographs and Memories,” by Jim Croce: I think had Croce lived, he might be on his third or fourth holiday album by now. In many ways, his mellow, acoustic-driven song stylings are perfect for bummed-out tributes to the Yuletide. “Photographs and Memories” is taken from Croce’s 1972 album, You Don’t Mess Around With Jim, and while never released as a single (it was the B-side to the title track for the album, which was released as a single and reached #8 on the Hot 100), it remains a perennial holiday favorite. Croce had a penchant for writing tunes that, while not Christmas songs, per se, embraced the season, like the melancholy, “It Doesn’t Have To Be That Way,” which sets the tone in the first line: “Snowy nights and Christmas lights, icy windowpanes, make me wish that we could be together again.” Sigh…

“Barandgrill,” by Joni Mitchell: Mitchell’s “River,” from her legendary 1971 album, Blue, would have been the obvious choice for this list, but it’s become so commonly covered by artists for their holiday collections in the last few decades (e.g., James Taylor, Sarah McLachlan, Shawn Colvin, and Linda Rondstadt, to name but a few), that the song is now effectively co-opted for the season. But “Barandgrill,” taken from Mitchell’s overlooked 1972 masterpiece, For The Roses, provides a stream-of-consciousness, lyrical snapshot of time spent in a local truck stop café around the holidays, where waitresses are talking about zombies and exotic cocktails and “…the guy at the gas pump, he's got a lot of soul; he sings Merry Christmas for you just like Nat King Cole.”

“Love Is Stronger Than Pride,” by Sade: Taken from her super chill, lighter than air 1988 album, Stronger Than Pride, this icy breakup song was culled as a single in the spring of that year, but (sadly) failed to gain much radio play, losing ground to disposable radio crap like “Never Gonna Give You Up,” “Could’ve Been,” and “Get Outa My Dreams, Get Into My Car.” Tragic, that, as the lugubrious, frost-bitten lyrics fashion the perfect atmosphere for heartbreak: “Sitting here waiting for you would be like waiting for winter, and it's gonna be cold; there may even be snow…”

“The Hounds of Winter,” by Sting: Taken from his 1996 album, Mercury Falling, this wintery, tormented song about lost love is perfect for the holiday season. Sting thinks so, too; he re-recorded the track as a Renaissance period madrigal for his own holiday collection, If On A Winter’s Night, 13 years later. The album sounds like it was recorded in a candle-lit, haunted castle by the ocean and, at times, seems more fitting for a Celtic Samhain celebration than for Christmas. 

“Brick,” by Ben Folds Five: Catchy as it is, this is the only pop hit in my recollection that recounts the impact of abortion for two young people: in this case, Folds and his high school girlfriend (and the procedure in question happens to take place on the day after Christmas, the day for returning unwanted gifts…). Not exactly something you’d expect to hear from the Biebs or Katy these days, but in 1997 it was a moderate hit for the band, reaching the top 20 on a number of charts. I saw Ben Folds in concert (remarkably good) in the early 2000s, and if my memory serves me correctly, he made a point to disavow any political leanings when he introduced the tune. Huh.

“Late-Great Johnny Ace,” by Paul Simon: Where were you when John Lennon died? I was 9 years old and at home on that frigid December evening in 1980. I remember hearing about the assassination on television that night after dinner and the radio being flooded with Lennon songs after that for the next several months. I really wasn’t such a John Lennon fan, but I felt bad all the same. And I still do. “…On a cold December evening I was walking through the Christmas tide, when a stranger came up and asked me if I'd heard John Lennon had died. And the two of us went to this bar and we stayed to close the place - and every song we played was for The Late Great Johnny Ace…”

“Same Old Lang Syne,” by Dan Fogelberg: “Met my old lover in the grocery store. The snow was falling Christmas Eve…” So begins one of the most bummed-out, nostalgic odes to ghosts of lovers past ever. A bold move for Fogelberg, to use the frozen foods section of a grocery store as the setting for a holiday-themed love song, but that’s how it actually went down on that Christmas Eve night in the convenience store at the top of Abington Hill in Peoria, Illinois in the mid-1970’s. The actual “old lover” came out of the shadows decades later, after Fogelberg’s death and after the end of her own, ill-fated marriage to the architect, a man of whom she’d like to have said she loved, but she didn’t like to lie. 

“Levon,” by Elton John: “He was born a pauper to a pawn on Christmas Day, when the New York Times said, ‘God is dead,’ and the wars begun…” A peripheral reference to Christmas, to be sure, but Levon’s son turns out to be named “Jesus,” after all, (apparently Levon really liked the name). And sadly, as it so often goes, the boy wants to leave home, leaving Levon far behind…to slowly die, which, again, pretty much sums up the holiday season; am I right? *I kid, I kid; I’m a kidder...

“My Favorite Things,” from The Sound Of Music: In the film adaption of the play, the song is sung to the Von Trapp children to calm their fears during a scary thunderstorm. “Favorite Things” suggests the best way to find peace in difficult times is simply to think about your favorites. In this case, things like, “warm woolen mittens, brown paper packages tied up with string, sleigh bells…silver white winters…snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes.” While never mentioning the holidays outright, the imagery is a nice fit for the season, which is, no doubt, why the song started finding its way onto holiday albums as early as 1964, a year before the film was even released. While the original version is upbeat, the melancholy lyrics and the wistful melody were highlighted in even the earliest cover versions, accentuating the inherent sadness in what has become a perennial holiday classic. 

“What A Wonderful World,” by Louis Armstrong: Released in October of 1967, in the midst of the Vietnam conflict and an ever-tumultuous North American political landscape, “Wonderful World,” like “Favorite Things,” spoke of optimism and hope in difficult times, definitely a theme for the season. Not initially a hit upon release, this unforgettable track was impossible to ignore, finally making it’s way onto a pivotal scene in the 1988 film, Good Morning, Vietnam, where it struck a chord with listeners and reached #32 on the pop charts that year, over 20 years after its initial release.

“Don’t Miss You At All,” Norah Jones: Norah Jones took the world by storm with her self-titled debut album, which sold a bajillion copies in 2002, swept the Grammys, and catapulted the musician kicking and screaming into superstardom. This heartrending song drips with irony, with Jones singing, “As I sit and watch the snow falling down…I don’t miss you at all.” This song closes her second album, Feels Like Home, and provides a perfect postscript to this endearing collection of songs. It also works perfectly on my “Melancholy Holly” iPod playlist and is my go-to song on the years when I can’t make it back to the farm for Christmas. 

“Taming The Tiger,” by Joni Mitchell

Musically, Joni Mitchell’s 1998 album, Taming The Tiger, feels ethereal and dreamy, almost formless. Reminiscent of classic albums by Pat Metheny, Brian Eno, or even Beck’s heartbreaking, 2002 album, Sea Change. Ditching catchy pop hooks and melodies for atmospherics, on Taming The Tiger, Mitchell weaves a dramatic, often mournful, and sometimes mysterious sonic tapestry. The “samey” tone of the album might make one prematurely dismissive, but that would be a mistake, as Taming The Tiger holds some of Mitchell’s most creative lyrics and striking social commentary. And the similar, sorrowful hues of the album make sense: Tiger tells the story of Joni Mitchell at that particular moment in her life: a woman in her middle age, at the top of her craft - easily producing masterworks on a backstroke, reflecting on her wondrous experiences, reveling in the joys of the present, continuing her thoughtful critique of a civilization in decline, and ultimately, strangely, miraculously feeling peaceful about the entire enterprise.

In the joyous album opener, “Harlem In Havana,” Mitchell depicts a childhood memory of visiting the African-Cuban burlesque review that some suggest to be the beginning of rock-and-roll. Mitchell’s lyrics describe the “forbidden" sights and sounds on the midway, where they played so “snakey,” you couldn’t help how you felt: “Silver spangles, See 'em dangle in the farm boy's eyes...hootchie kootchie, Auntie Ruthie would've died if she knew we were on the inside!” In “Love Puts On A New Face,” Mitchell perfectly depicts the tranquility of a quiet moment with a loved one, “No telephone ringing, no company coming, just the lap of the lake and the firelight, and the lonely loon and the crescent moon, what a pocket of heavenly grace.” Indeed. And in “The Crazy Cries Of Love,” Mitchell joyously recounts two frenzied lovers losing themselves to reckless abandon, with “No paper thin walls, no folks above, no one else can hear the crazy cries of love,” and later in the café, “…they smile ear to ear and eye to eye, ice cream is melting on a piece of pie, oh, my my…” Playful. Truthful. Tender.

Mitchell summons English poet and painter William Blake (her kindred spirit and consistent source of inspiration) in the title track, an apt summation of the music industry in the mid-1990s, as personified, no doubt, by her victorious night at the Grammys a few years earlier, collecting a surprise trophy for “Best Pop Album.” The surprise being that the album, Turbulent Indigo, sold relatively few copies that year, and none of the teenagers buying records in 1994 could have hummed even one of its tunes. Inspired by lyrics from Blake’s poem, “The Tyger,” I’ve often wondered if the song describes her experience at the award ceremony that night as she must have, no doubt, reflected upon how her latest “golden egg” compared to the music of that moment (e.g., Ace Of Base, Coolio, Crash Test Dummies, etc.): a strange juxtaposition.

Another song, I suspect, about her experiences in the dog-eat-dog music industry, “Lead Balloon,” is probably her hardest rocking song, ever. It sounds eerily similar to the well-known story of Mitchell throwing her drink into the face of Rolling Stone Svengali, Jan Wenner, in the early 1970’s, sparking a grudge between the two that lasts to this day. The notorious incident incited what some have suggested a moratorium on all things "Joni Mitchell" in his popular magazine in the 1970’s. In fact, the publication routinely berated Mitchell’s late 1970’s masterworks, which were vindicated over time and are now widely regarded as some of her very best and enduring albums (incidentally, recent Rolling Stone publications have self-consciously corrected these scathing notices).

Taming The Tiger boasts some of Mitchell’s most tender poetry, including a remake of her heartbreaking “Man From Mars,” which was originally featured on a few thousand copies of the soundtrack to the obscure 1996 film, Grace Of My Heart, which borrowed its name from Mitchell's song and presented a fictionalized version of Carole King’s early career in pop music. In it, Mitchell sings about a lost love: “I fall apart every time I think of you swallowed by the dark. There is no center to my life now, no grace in my heart. Man from Mars: this time you went too far…” The version on Tiger is updated and of a piece with the sonic palette of the rest of the album. In the tender cajoling of “Facelift,” Mitchell affectionately recalls an argument with her mother, who disapproved of her “love without a license,” and in “Stay In Touch,” Mitchell describes the excitement, doubt, and hopeful tentativeness of navigating a burgeoning relationship with her (then) new-found daughter, whom she’d given up for adoption decades earlier: “Part of this is permanent, part of this is passing, so we must be loyal and wary
 - not to give away too much, until we build a firm foundation and empty out old habits:
 old habits. Stay in touch. We should stay in touch.”

Mitchell’s sooty vocals have been the brunt of harsh criticism since the early 1990’s, with one reviewer writing of this album, “Meanwhile, her voice has lost nearly all its power: thin and breathy, restricted to the middle of her former range - I wanted to cry listening to it.” Yes, Mitchell’s voice has changed over time, as have all singers still active after many decades, but I believe this is only problematic for artists known for a distinct vocal style or range. Mitchell has never been that kind of artist. Take Whitney Houston, for example. In the 1980’s, her voice could thrill with a whisper and then soar to unfathomable heights, but by the last decade of her tragic life, her once astounding instrument sounded raspy and lacked power, as if fighting back a coughing fit on every note. Mitchell’s voice has been evolving since her earliest, cold-water vocals from the Canyon, her sultrier, jazzy singing through the 1970’s, and her beautifully smoky-voiced style of the 1980’s and 1990’s.

What I love about Mitchell’s voice today is that it’s perfectly attuned to her music and lyrics in the present. She’s no longer the flower-beaded ingénue of the 1960’s or the 1970’s darling of the Hollywood elite. She’s not only survived, but she’s thrived through decades of disposable fashion and pop music trends, creating a classification all her own. In fact, Mitchell’s seasoned voice is now even better suited for some of her classic songs from decades past (e.g., “Circle Game,” “Both Sides Now,” “Big Yellow Taxi,” etc.). Taming The Tiger received middling to favorable reviews upon release, but all rather tepid from my perspective. That was 15 years ago, and the musical climate was steeped in the “juvenile junk food” of Spice Girls, ‘N Sync, Backstreet Boys, and even rock legend, Elton John’s awkwardly reworked (yet again) “Candle In The Wind,” performed at Princess Diana’s funeral and selling millions of copies along the way. It’s 2013, and like her late-1970’s work, I suspect Taming The Tiger will no doubt be vindicated with time, standing out as one of Mitchell's very best works.

"For The Roses," by Joni Mitchell

Not that I needed any encouragement, but my 2012 summer jam, John Mayer’s Born and Raised, has plunged me even more deeply into an ongoing preoccupation with all things “early 1970’s rock-and-roll” and all things Laurel Canyon. And one can’t discuss the Laurel Canyon rock-and-roll period without significant homage to the “Queen of California,” herself, Joni Mitchell. In fact, Mitchell’s early legacy is synonymous with that legendary zip code. Joni Mitchell has evolved through myriad musical phases in her remarkable career, taking fans along for the staggering ride: starting with her hippie-chick, Joan Baez/Judy Collins-influenced singer-songwriter phase during the late 1960’s (singer-songwriter: a job that Mitchell, arguably, invented) into the early 1970’s pop-jazz chanteuse, into the later part of that decade’s jazz experimentalist, the 1980’s prog-pop innovator (the Thomas Dolby produced album, Dog Eat Dog was sorely under-heard and under-appreciated - oh, and the inventive video was produced by Jim Blashfield, who created Tears For Fears' "Sowing The Seeds Of Love" clip), and into the 1990’s adult contemporary smooth-jazz (muzac?) and current elder stateswoman of rock and roll. Mitchell is no less revered in her current incarnation as the smoky-voiced, pop interpreter of recent years, and there’s even talk in 2013 of a David Geffen-induced career “comeback.” As if she ever left.

And everybody talks about either Blue or Court and Spark when they discuss Mitchell’s best work, and deservedly so, but I posit that the album Mitchell produced between those two classics, For The Roses, is a forgotten masterpiece. Blue was exquisite, to be sure, with it’s spare arrangements, cringe-inducing, horrifyingly-personal lyrics, and stupefying, heartbreaking themes (indeed, it may be the quintessential break-up album) and Court And Spark, which covered similar themes but did so while immersing itself in smooth jazz (before it became it’s own, Velveeta-flavored genre) remains my favorite Mitchell album, but For The Roses serves as the perfect transition album between Mitchell’s folky musings and her superb, genre-expanding jazz phase. While it contained one of Mitchell’s precious few top 40 hits (“You Turn Me On, I’m A Radio,” #25 in 1973), in 2007, For The Roses was one of 50 recordings chosen by the Library of Congress to be added to the National Recording Registry (it is Mitchell's first and, so far, only album to make that list).

The themes of the songs on For The Roses are classic, early-Joni Mitchell: cutting open her love-life arteries for all to see. While Mitchell leveraged the same approach for Blue, the songs on For The Roses were less universal and more specific to Mitchell’s own narrative. Interestingly, I recently had opportunity to attend a recording of a Taylor Swift concert for Vh1: Storytellers, promoting her latest album, Red (Red, huh? Kinda like another album title, Blue, no? Nah, it couldn’t be that calculating...). Not being familiar with Swift’s music before the show, I found myself struggling with her shtick, and then I found myself struggling with my own skepticism. Why was I so disbelieving towards Swift’s “art,” when, essentially, she holds many parallels with Mitchell, who herself started as a young, pretty, long haired blond, playing guitar and dulcimer (Swift’s other instrument is the banjo), whose first few albums were, essentially, full of songs about breaking-up with boyfriends? As I watched the peppy, sparkly, staged spectacle, it dawned on me that, besides the silly lyrics (to wit, “Cause I love the gap between your teeth; And I love the riddles that you speak; And any snide remarks from my father about your tattoos will be ignored; Cause my heart is yours” – sorry ‘bout that, gentle readers, but now you understand...), it was the crass commercialism surrounding the spectacle: the concert was sponsored by a pizza company giving out boxes painted with Swift’s face as well as Swift-inspired greeting cards and Swift-inspired “make-overs” and the giggly, “I’ve-sold-millions-of-albums-and-am-still-insecure-oh-my!” palms to her cheeks banter between her songs. Miss Swift is a product line; Joni Mitchell is a musician.

But I digress; back to For The Roses. So I hate the album cover, which features Mitchell, squatting in the woods on her Canadian property, wearing moccasin boots and a green velvet “hippie” shirt, which would fit perfectly at modern-day, “Renaissance Fairs.” The album’s inside cover featured Mitchell in the nude, staring into the ocean (Which, I guess, stands to reason, as her lyrics left nothing to the imagination; so why not just put everything out there?). If you’re not already Joni’s, this album may be a great place to begin. Stylistically, For The Roses is leaps and bounds beyond Blue, blending her folk-rock musings to her jazz influences and beautifully so.

The lead-off song, “Banquet,” predates Obama’s notion of “spreading the wealth” by almost 40 years, pointing out the inequality of Capitalism, "Cold Blue Steel and Sweet Fire" describes harrowing heroin addiction, growing in prevalence in the L.A. scene in the early 1970’s, which is part of the reason Mitchell took refuge in her native Canada as she wrote this magnificent follow-up to Blue. "Barangrill," about the charms of a Canadian roadside truck stop, is my favorite track, because it takes me back to the sound of the early 70’s, singer-songwriter, “Schoolhouse Rock” vibe. In fact, if my memory serves me correctly, everything sounded like a “Schoolhouse Rock” jingle, back then. Blossom Dearie is greatly missed... The rest of the album continues the early 1970’s groove, vacillating from love song to social observation and exquisitely so, hinting to listeners what lie ahead in her next few releases.

Recently, Joni Mitchell has expressed frustration that all her fans ever want to hear from her is more songs about her love life, and I’ll grant her that complaint, but in our defense, I posit that her best writing is about that very topic. In fact, I find her best work connected to times of personal turmoil, and some of her most tepid work was produced when she was happily in love...go figure. So, yeah, I suspect I speak for most Mitchell fans when I say that we’re still holding out for Blue, Too.” That said, Mitchell’s most recent release, 2007’s Shine, might just be THAT record. Critics were all over the map, but I thought the album was sublime, proving that Mitchell, after all these years, has still got it. Please record again, Joni Mitchell; we’re still turned on.