An Hour Alone With Joni Mitchell
In 1974, Court and Spark came out which became part of our collective consciousness. Before this, of my most vivid memories was my young uncle crying tears of joy because he'd touched Joni Mitchell in a club. This story became part of family lore. Joni's lyrics were scribbled on notebooks, mother and my uncle strumming her songs. I developed early love for her music and the vicarious adventures it provided. So it comes as no surprise that yesterday I was walking around my house singing "California." When I got to "I'd even kiss a Sunset pig" the phone rang. "Do you want to pick up Joni Mitchell?" I had to sit down. Goosebumps. Within 60 seconds I texted everyone who mattered and told them what was about to happen.
I was streaming a 90 minute Joni interview as I ironed my white dress shirt and slacks. All cares had melted away. Just then I heard domestic violence across the street from the stunning building filled with the beautiful people. She screamed for help, almost shimmying down a palm tree from her top-floor flat--we all ran, cops came, even a helicopter. Her abuser was arrested, an ambulance came for her. I wondered what Joni would write about this. I searched my memory banks for anything resembling this situation and couldn't think of anything. Why hadn't she? I'd get my answer.
I've driven a LOT of celebrities including some really big ones. I usually forget about them in a couple days. I wondered how it was going to be with Joni. I rehearsed imaginary conversations we might have on a variety of different subjects. I thought of my uncle who, despite his occupation which has allowed him to work with...everyone, would kill to be alone with Joni. Decades of my love for her music--working out 2-part harmonies to all her songs, thinking of all the moments in my life that were defined by or accompanied by her music. Even if way in the background, she's always there. She always has been.
"I'll be aboat 10 minutes" said the alto voice on the gate speaker box. She sounds very Canadian in person. I sat there, nervous. I was worried as I'd heard stories: she'd gone crazy, she was dying, she wouldn't go in public anymore, she'd scream in pain if you touched her. The little kid who listened to Court and Spark for the first time with his uncle said "PLEASE let her still be Joni Mitchell." I needn't have worried, and I was about to learn who Joni was.
She gave me a big smile. Her hair is lush and gorgeous. Didn't introduce herself so I figured I'd shut up and drive. Then she started talking. I learned all about her neighbors, the bumps in the road, tracking down the guy who was remodeling her house at a bar and telling him to finish the job and then how she'd let herself be taken away by the fantasy of the old Sinbad movie she was watching. "I love fantasy, I love old movies. New ones are so violent." She spilled out a lovely narrative of the Sinbad movie, making me want to watch it. "I'm going to finish it when I get home." I found out she doesn't like violence in her art. She has a lovely quality I'm sure some find alarming: no filter. She's like a little girl who blurts out whatever she's thinking. I used to do the same thing before the world made me self-conscious. She doesn't give a shit and does it anyway. Also, conversations a kind of journey I find familiar. She switches channels on a dime, going from subject to subject, something my family does but few people are able (or willing) to follow. When I caught this, I realized we're from the same flock, whatever that might be. I'm well equipped to float down that river with her.
She was doing an interview with a radio station, surrounded by people who all looked under 30. I hoped they appreciated her. How could they? I watched though the expansive glass wall. I couldn't hear her but could see her laughing and gesturing and...being Joni Mitchell. While I sat there in the car, I didn't rehearse any more conversation. I'd just had a solid 30 minutes with her talking my ear off. I made myself one promise: I wasn't going to gush. It played in my head like a movie, "omigawd Miz Mitchell, I've always...and you're...and...." As I watched her in pantomime, I tried in vain to think of a good adjective. Celebrity? Nah. Legend? Yeah, but I'd never call her that to her face. My friend Tish nailed it yesterday: she expanded our collective consciousness.
On the way back she told me all about her naughty Jack Russell Terrier and what a handful she is. Joni has been watching Cesar Millan religiously hoping it will help. She divides time between LA and her house in Canada she describes as an "endless remodel." She's also not a morning person, "I only see a sunrise from the other end, but I'd like to be reincarnated as a morning person. Do you believe in reincarnation? It's the colors, I love the colors in the morning, they're so beautiful." Did I use any of my prepared lines? Nope. Just having natural, casual conversation with her was amazing. I haven't engaged someone that free in a long time. When we got to her house, she shared the book with me she's about to release, explaining some of the art. She was in no rush to leave me and seemed to genuinely enjoy our time together. And then I did what I promised myself I wouldn't. I gushed. Her expression: "aw, how cute." By this point I wasn't afraid of her thinking I was crazy. I knew I could talk about just about anything.
In getting to know her for a little while, I got to know her art. Joni's not an enigma. Her lyrics are literal--in the moment. She tells the story without regard to what people might think. Her songs are the way she speaks. In my own art, this has been my prison. Joni gave me a gift--create freely. I know this sounds dramatic but I'm changed from meeting her. She wasn't what I expected but she's definitely Joni Mitchell.
At the very end, I decided to tell her what I'd been holding back. I was no longer worried about her thinking I was crazy. I told her of the serendipity of singing "California" and getting the call to pick her up. "Do you know what a Sunset pig is?" she chuckled. "Of course" I said.
I was streaming a 90 minute Joni interview as I ironed my white dress shirt and slacks. All cares had melted away. Just then I heard domestic violence across the street from the stunning building filled with the beautiful people. She screamed for help, almost shimmying down a palm tree from her top-floor flat--we all ran, cops came, even a helicopter. Her abuser was arrested, an ambulance came for her. I wondered what Joni would write about this. I searched my memory banks for anything resembling this situation and couldn't think of anything. Why hadn't she? I'd get my answer.
I've driven a LOT of celebrities including some really big ones. I usually forget about them in a couple days. I wondered how it was going to be with Joni. I rehearsed imaginary conversations we might have on a variety of different subjects. I thought of my uncle who, despite his occupation which has allowed him to work with...everyone, would kill to be alone with Joni. Decades of my love for her music--working out 2-part harmonies to all her songs, thinking of all the moments in my life that were defined by or accompanied by her music. Even if way in the background, she's always there. She always has been.
"I'll be aboat 10 minutes" said the alto voice on the gate speaker box. She sounds very Canadian in person. I sat there, nervous. I was worried as I'd heard stories: she'd gone crazy, she was dying, she wouldn't go in public anymore, she'd scream in pain if you touched her. The little kid who listened to Court and Spark for the first time with his uncle said "PLEASE let her still be Joni Mitchell." I needn't have worried, and I was about to learn who Joni was.
She gave me a big smile. Her hair is lush and gorgeous. Didn't introduce herself so I figured I'd shut up and drive. Then she started talking. I learned all about her neighbors, the bumps in the road, tracking down the guy who was remodeling her house at a bar and telling him to finish the job and then how she'd let herself be taken away by the fantasy of the old Sinbad movie she was watching. "I love fantasy, I love old movies. New ones are so violent." She spilled out a lovely narrative of the Sinbad movie, making me want to watch it. "I'm going to finish it when I get home." I found out she doesn't like violence in her art. She has a lovely quality I'm sure some find alarming: no filter. She's like a little girl who blurts out whatever she's thinking. I used to do the same thing before the world made me self-conscious. She doesn't give a shit and does it anyway. Also, conversations a kind of journey I find familiar. She switches channels on a dime, going from subject to subject, something my family does but few people are able (or willing) to follow. When I caught this, I realized we're from the same flock, whatever that might be. I'm well equipped to float down that river with her.
She was doing an interview with a radio station, surrounded by people who all looked under 30. I hoped they appreciated her. How could they? I watched though the expansive glass wall. I couldn't hear her but could see her laughing and gesturing and...being Joni Mitchell. While I sat there in the car, I didn't rehearse any more conversation. I'd just had a solid 30 minutes with her talking my ear off. I made myself one promise: I wasn't going to gush. It played in my head like a movie, "omigawd Miz Mitchell, I've always...and you're...and...." As I watched her in pantomime, I tried in vain to think of a good adjective. Celebrity? Nah. Legend? Yeah, but I'd never call her that to her face. My friend Tish nailed it yesterday: she expanded our collective consciousness.
On the way back she told me all about her naughty Jack Russell Terrier and what a handful she is. Joni has been watching Cesar Millan religiously hoping it will help. She divides time between LA and her house in Canada she describes as an "endless remodel." She's also not a morning person, "I only see a sunrise from the other end, but I'd like to be reincarnated as a morning person. Do you believe in reincarnation? It's the colors, I love the colors in the morning, they're so beautiful." Did I use any of my prepared lines? Nope. Just having natural, casual conversation with her was amazing. I haven't engaged someone that free in a long time. When we got to her house, she shared the book with me she's about to release, explaining some of the art. She was in no rush to leave me and seemed to genuinely enjoy our time together. And then I did what I promised myself I wouldn't. I gushed. Her expression: "aw, how cute." By this point I wasn't afraid of her thinking I was crazy. I knew I could talk about just about anything.
In getting to know her for a little while, I got to know her art. Joni's not an enigma. Her lyrics are literal--in the moment. She tells the story without regard to what people might think. Her songs are the way she speaks. In my own art, this has been my prison. Joni gave me a gift--create freely. I know this sounds dramatic but I'm changed from meeting her. She wasn't what I expected but she's definitely Joni Mitchell.
At the very end, I decided to tell her what I'd been holding back. I was no longer worried about her thinking I was crazy. I told her of the serendipity of singing "California" and getting the call to pick her up. "Do you know what a Sunset pig is?" she chuckled. "Of course" I said.
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