Joni Mitchell, "Free Man in Paris" (1974)

Aug. 24, 1974, #22
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Of all the many musical masks worn by Joni Mitchell, it is her turn as pop tunesmith I most favor. Court and Spark is the best one-stop for it and "Free Man in Paris" could well be my favorite of all on that album, although I hate to be pinned down on these things. As a lustrous expression of joy, high-flown stepping into a big bottom, a jouncing exuberant blast of giddy sunshine, with those lush howling self-harmonies that make it snap (her knack for which is the best feature on the album, woven even into the sad songs), it has few parallels. Even Stevie Wonder might have to take a back seat on the joy front for a minute. It sounds like Paris, in spring, fresh air and flowers and the streets warm and easy and charming to stroll in the afternoon. It sounds like Paris, it sounds like spring, it sounds like liberty. It is captivating that way from the first time it's heard—an unbelievably sweet pop confection. Yet for all of the things it might have been about—think of that expression, free man in Paris—I must say it is a little disappointing that it is about David Geffen. But so go the ways of rock mythologizing. Don't pay attention to that. Try to put it out of your mind. Stop thinking about David Geffen. "There was nobody calling me up for favors / And no one's future to decide / You know I'd go back there tomorrow / But for the work I've taken on / Stoking the star maker machinery / Behind the popular song." I said STOP THAT.

Joni Mitchell, "Woodstock" (1970)

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Joni Mitchell was not actually at Woodstock, as either performer or attendee. Reports say she had already committed to a Dick Cavett TV appearance that weekend. But like so many she was obviously impressed by the scope of the event and in the aftermath wrote this song—which, in the US, became a #11 hit for Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young and then a #23 hit for Matthews' Southern Comfort. Joni Mitchell's version lives on the Ladies of the Canyon album, which took me some time to understand is actually one of her best. For "Woodstock"—which I judge about in the middle of the pack in terms of song quality on that album—she is in Joni at the piano keyboard mode, sounding pensive, resentful, and slightly adenoidal, as if crying recently (the next album Blue would serve up the largest portions of this). She's capable of pealing out with some big notes, but not always where you would expect them. I like how that undercuts the cosmic business and/or the triumphalism in the lyrics—"child of God," "stardust," "half a million strong," etc. The other element that sets this apart, of course, is the studio-bound production featuring multi-tracking of Mitchell on all the background vocals, which produces a weirdly beautiful and cerebral effect that at once personalizes and impersonalizes the song—more undercutting, as if afraid to actually commit to the vision (reflected as well in her increasing hesitation to play festival gigs). The various misgivings were more or less elided by the boys covering it, who happily (or willfully) failed to notice in favor of the rapturous notes. But gads this version by Joni Mitchell is lovely and alien. I think that's the main reason it's by far the most musically interesting of them.

"Help Me" (1974)

33. Joni Mitchell, "Help Me" (April 20, 1974, #7)

For some reason, every time I find myself considering this song (or the album from which it comes, Court and Spark) I want to appropriate the William Carlos Williams poem, and plaintively declare that so much depends upon the lady with a hole in her stocking. That image and the deceptively casual way that Joni Mitchell uses it are only one of the many poignant features that have pulled me into this since it was a radio hit. This song, this album, this period, is approximately the point that Mitchell stepped boldly away from her folkie origins to showcase her broader musical skills, which were always there, passing through this gorgeous pop period (don't blink too many times because you're apt to miss it) on her way to the more rarefied regions of jazz and points further. It's so guilelessly dedicated to the painful search for love and the fleeting pleasures, when attained, and it's just about as straightforward as it gets: "Help me I think I'm falling In love again When I get that crazy feeling again, I know I'm in trouble again I'm in trouble." And it comes with a pop sheen that positively glistens, an acoustic guitar leading the charge but quickly giving way to a lush arrangement full of little surprises: a tidy, clean-cut mix, sax and flute and guitar popping up to make statements, a melody that swoops to the high notes, some of them held good and long (you'll lose your breath singing along if you don't know what you're doing), angelic backing singers, and, yes, the lady with a hole in her stocking, who, you know—you dance with her. Didn't it feel good? (Didn't it feel good?)

Court and Spark (1974)

"Help Me" Joni, as her friends call her, rockets out of folk and briefly goes pop before veering jazz and, ultimately, to points within and beyond. But here is where it gets as good as it ever would, as far as I'm concerned (though Hejira, in yet another vein, is not far behind). This too is pure pop music for now people. For me, like William Carlos Williams and his red wheel barrow, so much has depended upon "Dance with the lady with a hole in her stocking." That moment and the song it comes from, "Help Me," along with "Free Man in Paris," are the tippity-top of the uttermost top for me. But then everything else here (save, perhaps, "Car on a Hill") is nearly as stellar. "People's Parties," "Trouble Child," "Down to You": all plumb the depths of a world with no SSRI antidepressants to shore up the levees. Drugs get you through times of no money and all that. Sometimes it's like watching a train wreck in slow motion, and sometimes like being at a rotting mellow LA party, but all wacked and perfectly goofy and loose and confident in oneself. And always, always bursting with terrific vibes.

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Blue (1971)

"The Last Time I Saw Richard" Awww, this is the sad album, and you can tell she'd been crying a lot. Either that or she had a terrible head cold, on some of these tracks. Fuck everything is her basic attitude and her most redeeming and exasperating feature. She blazes through the miasma with an iron spine, her songwriting and her singing both at a place where everything she touches turns gorgeous, and the sad stuff stays close to sad. She avoids (or shreds, or kicks ass of, or something) self-pity here in a way that she never quite could again. They're not all hanky moppers either, and it lives now forever pressed into vinyl, digitized, and played frequently at all hours of the day or night.

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Ladies of the Canyon (1970)

"Woodstock" Synchronicity. Just as Canadians Neil Young and most of the Band began to administer life lessons in their different ways to American boomers, fellow countryman Joni Mitchell comes along to round off some of the points. She settled in Laurel Canyon (Frank Zappa: "where the rock bands all live together"), warbled around, and became an amazing songwriter. Amazing singer too. Before it all went to her head, she was a pretty cool self-involved West Coast kinda chick, frolicking through the fun of "Big Yellow Taxi," laying down fat harmonies on the title song, and trumping all comers when she plays the plaintive card with "The Circle Game." This is solid.

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