Posts Tagged ‘Blue’

Last year Joni Mitchell and Rhino stunned fans with the announcement of the Joni Mitchell Archives, an ongoing series of releases that look back at the career of the multifaceted songwriter, singer, producer, and visual artist. 

Joni Mitchell and Rhino announced the next volume in the series: “The Reprise Albums (1968-1971)”, to be released June 25th, just fifty years and three days after she released the classic album “Blue” on June 22nd, 1971.  This 4-CD or 4-LP set collects her first four albums, which feature some of her most enduring work:Song To A Seagull (featuring the essential tracks “Cactus Tree” and “Marcie”), Clouds (“Chelsea Morning” and “Both Sides Now”), Ladies of the Canyon (“Big Yellow Taxi,” “The Circle Game,” “Woodstock”) and the timeless Blue (featuring “River” and “A Case of You”), which recently landed on Rolling Stone‘s list of 500 Greatest Albums of All Time.

Joni Mitchell released Blue, concluding her prolific four album run for Reprise Records with an album considered by many to be one of the greatest of all time. Its stirring, confessional songs have been celebrated by music lovers and critics alike for decades while inspiring a wide variety of artists as diverse as Prince and Taylor Swift. Even today, its stature as a masterpiece continues to grow. Just last year, the album was named #3 on Rolling Stone’s list of the “500 Greatest Albums of All Time.” To celebrate the album’s 50th anniversary, Rhino is releasing “The Reprise Albums (1968-1971)” the next installment of the Joni Mitchell Archives series, featuring newly remastered versions of Blue (1971) and the three albums that came before it: Song To A Seagull (1968), Clouds (1969), and Ladies Of The Canyon (1970).

In the case of Song To A Seagull, the original mix has been recently updated by Mitchell and mixer Matt Lee. The cover art for “The Reprise Albums (1968-1971)” features a previously unseen self-portrait Mitchell sketched during the time period. The collection also includes an essay by Grammy winning singer-songwriter Brandi Carlile, another artist who’s been influenced greatly by Mitchell.

All the music on The Reprise Albums (1968-1971)has been newly remastered by Bernie Grundman and it also premieres a new mix ofSong To A Seagull”  by Matt Lee and Joni Mitchell.  In interviews, Joni has applauded her producer David Crosby’s choice to keep her songs sparse as in her live shows, but also expressed dissatisfaction over the chamber reverb that it had been said was baked into the tapes.    The new mix honours the sonic fingerprint of the original while dialling back some of that reverb.  For fans, it will be a whole new way of experiencing Joni’s first artistic statement.

The box set is handsomely packaged in a deluxe slipcase and adorned with a newly discovered self-portrait of the artist from the era.  You’ll also find new liner notes by Brandi Carlile, a friend and admirer of Joni Mitchell and 6-time Grammy winner in her own right. If you purchase directly from Joni Mitchell’s online shop (in the U.S. or through the new EU storefront launched today), you’ll get a 7″x7″ print of the album artwork – one per copy purchased, no matter the format.  But vinyl enthusiasts will want to act quickly on this one, as the LP edition of The Reprise Albums (1968-1971) is limited to just 10,000 copies.

And speaking of Mitchell’s online store, today marks the launch of the first official Joni Mitchell merchandise line.  You’ll find a plethora of exclusive Joni Mitchell Archives-emblazoned memorabilia, as well as album cover T-shirts.

As for the vault material that fans are craving?  Joni and Rhino promise that Joni Mitchell Archives Vol.2: The Reprise Years (1968-1971) will follow later this year with a wealth of unreleased studio and live recordings.  “Mitchell continues to be intimately involved in producing these collections, lending her vision and personal touch to every element of the projects,” Rhino representatives said in the press release.  “Future releases in the Archives series will arrive in a similar manner, with a boxed set focused on studio albums from a specific era, followed by an official Archives release looking at unreleased audio from the same period.”

As Brandi Carlile writes in her notes, “No matter what we are dealing with in these times we can rejoice and know that of all the ages we could have lived through, we lived in the time of Joni Mitchell.”  The four albums on The Reprise Albums (1968-1971) remind us how lucky we are with a stunning portrait of an artist finding her voice.

The Reprise Albums (1968-1971) arrives on 4-CD, limited edition 4-LP, and digital on June 25th.  You can pre-order your set from the links below and preview the set with the new remaster of “A Case of You.”

Joni Mitchell, The Reprise Albums (1968-1971) (Rhino, 2021)

Mitchell in the early 70s.

Just over 50 years ago, in May 1969, Rolling Stone published a Ben Fong-Torres profile about Canadian singer and songwriter Joni Mitchell, its subheading declaring that she “makes folk music hip again.” Mitchell’s second album, “Clouds”, had just been released, and she was living with Graham Nash in a cozy Laurel Canyon house with stained glass windows. As rock journalists sometimes do, Fong-Torres compared the then 25-year-old musician to a trio of better-known artists: Joan Baez, for the fluid way Mitchell played acoustic guitar; Judy Collins, due to Mitchell’s ability to shift to piano; and Leonard Cohen, presumed to be Mitchell’s favourite poet.

“Joni Mitchell is a fresh, incredibly beautiful innocent/experienced girl/woman,” gushed Fong-Torres, also noting her collection of antique handbags, her Priestley piano and effortless ability to toss together a rhubarb pie during the interview. (It’s a blessing that the phrase “manic pixie dream girl” didn’t exist in 1969.) But given the dismissive, sexist review of Mitchell’s debut album by another writer in the same magazine a year earlier (“Here is Joni Mitchell. A penny yellow blonde with a vanilla voice”), Fong-Torres‘ enthusiasm was a welcome change.

Revisiting that Rolling Stone profile in the 21st century is Fong-Torres’s earnest, explanatory comparison of the musician to Baez, Collins and Cohen; today, virtually every profile of an emerging female singer songwriter’s inevitably includes a comparison to Joni Mitchell. Whether the artist has been Laura Marling, Norah Jones, Feist, Taylor Swift, Corinne Bailey Rae, Neko Case or a thousand other women playing guitar or seated before pianos, all have been tagged over the years—rightly or wrongly—as Mitchell acolytes. What’s often overlooked, when assessing fellow artists who revere Mitchell, is the infinite list of male musicians who cite her song writing, perceptive guitar tunings, harmonics, and adventurous, uncompromising vision as their catalyst; her many fervent admirers have included Prince, James Blake, Herbie Hancock, Bob Dylan, and Rufus Wainwright. Mitchell’s impact on other artists is seismic: a musician’s musician, she redefined song writing and a creative individual’s need for proclivity and self-production. She found thematic parity between genders in her lyrics, musing upon relationships, romance, wanderlust, and ambition—and was even shamed for that candid scrutiny of her own life.

If you’d seen Joni Mitchell in the early 60s, playing in small coffeehouses and nightclubs in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada, you may have assumed she was one of many other wannabe folk singers, with her delicate voice and gentle guitar numbers. Would it have been possible to imagine just how rich and varied a career she would have as a songwriter?

Certainly, there were some people present in the early years who recognised the promise Roberta Joan Anderson had – not least other folk musicians – including Judy Collins, Fairport Convention and Tom Rush – who heard her self-penned songs, including Chelsea Morning, The Circle Game and Both Sides, Now, and knew the value of what they heard. Mitchell’s song writing talent alone would draw intrigue, and lead to her signing to Reprise for her debut album, Song To A Seagull.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0O3DDx0ogwA

“In search of love and music, my whole life has been,” sings Mitchell on “Black Crow” A song from 1976’s Hejira and the universality of her pursuit seems to be what draws generations of new listeners to her music. Although her early champion David Crosby would produce her debut, “Song to a Seagull”, Mitchell took the reins quickly as her own producer. That control was key to her evolution. Her melodies are deceptively delicate, open-tuned powerhouses of emotional complexity, sustained by the poetic incisiveness of her lyrics.

Mitchell’s prolific albums of the late ’60s and ’70s hopscotched between styles, focus, moods and forms—1970’s Ladies of the Canyon shimmered with a Sunday morning hippie cool, but a mere year later on 1971’s Blue, which marked its 45th anniversary in June, she plunged into twilight ruminations of broken love and loneliness. By 1972, she was free but wary on For The Roses and edging towards jazz, a style which eventually drove Court and Spark (1974), backed by the L.A. Express. A fuller committment to jazz emerged on The Hissing of Summer Lawns in 1975. That album not only bridged the fusion of rock and jazz, but sampled the Drummers of Burundi on the Henri Rousseau-inspired “The Jungle Line.” Her own misunderstood exodus, Hejira, written on a road trip from Maine to California, was a reckoning of some life decisions (briskly underlined by Jaco Pastorius’s restless bass) and concluded the first half of her artistic odyssey. By the completion of those masterpieces alone, an astonishing eight studio albums in eight consecutive years, Mitchell was only 33.

Like Miles Davis who had infuriated his more traditionally-minded jazz fans by embracing rock, Mitchell has willingly estranged her devotees too, following paths that still perplex her Woodstock-era, coffee shop folk fans. The jazz fusion of her 1977 double album, Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter, and her remarkable, adventurous collaboration with a dying Charles Mingus on 1979’s Mingus (again working with members of Weather Report, like Pastorius and Wayne Shorter, plus Herbie Hancock) were ahead of their time, provocative and expansive. But she was still reluctant to go permanently off the pop grid: by 1982 Mitchell shifted back to that genre with Wild Things Run Fast, her first collaboration with her future co-producer and husband (and eventually ex-husband), the bassist Larry Klein.

“Chalk Mark in a Rainstorm”, released in 1988, was a sleek, all-star affair featuring collaborations with Peter Gabriel, Tom Petty, Willie Nelson, Don Henley and others, but 1991’s Night Ride Home was a meditative return to the elegant jazz fusion she loved. “Turbulent Indigo”, which won Mitchell a 1995 Grammy for Best Pop Album, shivered with loss and laments, like the beautiful “The Sire of Sorrow (Job’s Sad Song).” She even performed “Love Puts on a New Face,” from 1998’s Taming the Tiger, on “The Tonight Show with Jay Leno” — not a place you’d expect to find Mitchell. Her latter releases, 1998’s Taming the Tiger and 2007’s Shine, seethe with unsettled questions, global despair, and relentless self-examination, but possess flourishes of humour and contentment too.

Mitchell has always been a warrior—a phoenix rising from the ashes of childhood polio, foundered love affairs, cocaine use, a fickle music industry, the pitfalls of fame and live performance, the wrath of male music journalists, and the secret of a daughter given up for adoption (they were eventually reunited in the late ’90s). In recent years, she has battled grave health issues too, most traumatically a brain aneurysm in 2015. Although her current medical situation might extinguish the chance of another collection of new songs, Mitchell’s breath-taking quality catalogue of albums, released over the course of six decades, continues to instruct, illuminate, comfort and empower. At this very moment, somewhere in the world, a person with a freshly shattered heart is listening to Blue, wiping away tears and finding solace in “A Case of You” or perhaps Mitchell’s greatest song, “River.”

On October 14th, 2019 one of those great admirers of Blue, Mitchell’s friend Brandi Carlile, performed the album in its entirety in a sold-out concert at Los Angeles’ Walt Disney Concert Hall. Carlile had been part of 2018’s  two-night concert, “Joni 75: A Birthday Celebration,” at the Music Center’s Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in Los Angeles (featuring all-star line-up of artists covering Mitchell’s songs, like Norah Jones, Rufus Wainwright, James Taylor, Emmylou Harris, Seal, Kris Kristofferson, Chaka Khan, Graham Nash, Diana Krall, and Los Lobos). At that 2018 event, she says that she made the decision to perform Blue in its entiretyBut Carlile didn’t just cover Blue; she unlocked Mitchell’s 1971 masterpiece as a way of experiencing the album live once more. Most daunting of all, Carlile performed it before Mitchell herself and VIP guests.

“None of us get the chance to see Blue live,” Carlile explained to the audience. “So I’m listening right alongside you tonight and enjoying this classic and amazing album, just like you are. And I’m not here to reinvent the wheel. I really haven’t put my own spin on hardly any of this music. I’ve just worked my ass off to try and learn and sing it to the best of my ability… So tonight isn’t about me; it’s not about ego: It’s about you getting to hear Blue live.”

Since releasing her first album in 1968, Joni Mitchell has been a singularly influential force in popular music, offering a blueprint for both enlightenment and rebellion.

When Joni Mitchell first appears in Martin Scorsese’s 1976 concert film The Last Waltz, she’s in silhouette offstage, adding vocals to Neil Young’s “Helpless.” Young stands in the spotlight with the Band’s Robbie Robertson and Rick Danko; grinning like fools, they look like they’re in on some off-topic joke. Mitchell, on the other hand, is serious, listening intently. Her features are obscured in shadow, the clean lines of her long neck and strong chin reinforcing the posture that always makes her seem to be bound skyward, like an egret.

Like Young, Mitchell grew up in a chilly part of Canada, and the stark dreaminess of “Helpless,” its evocation of a place where creativity grows from lonely ground, is hers, too. When Mitchell enters the song with her high, nearly wild yet perfectly modulated wail, it doesn’t blend; instead, her voice hits the others like a weather event, an intangible and irresistible current. Kept out of the spotlight, she still claims it—yet she also charts her own path, beyond anyone else’s grasp.

Joni Mitchell’s central, singular role in rock’s evolution. When she began her career in the mid-1960s as part of the folk revival, eventually, social significance. Leading a new cohort of more openly poetic and introspective peers—Young, James Taylor, Jackson Browne, Carole KingMitchell turned rock into an adult pursuit, and folk into a personal one. From breakthrough ballads like “Both Sides, Now” to irreducible epics like “Coyote” and “Paprika Plains,” she showed that songs in the rock and soul era could be both deeply idiosyncratic and vastly observational. They could move through blues tunings, jazz changes, Latin and African rhythms, torch-song intimacies, and prophetic declarations.

Mitchell’s early work, especially 1971’s “Blue” but also the uncategorizable masterpieces that soon followed it—”Court and Spark”, “The Hissing of Summer Lawns”, “Hejira”—inspire the kind of deep identification that makes a listener feel like a song is reaching inside her and digging out what she’s left unspoken. She also found her stride just as second-wave feminism emerged, politicizing the notion that women can and must take their brains seriously. Mitchell’s songs do this work, detailing the inner life of someone risking unbound thought: the high-flying dreams and the crashes into sadness, the struggles between “the power of reason and the flowers of deep feeling”—the way, as she sang in Hejira’s “Song for Sharon,” these ruminations “seem to serve me, only to deceive me.” What makes Mitchell’s exploration of the inner life so powerful lyrics unravel the conventional structures of the self, her vantage point shifting from male to female to animal to angelic with a phrase’s turn.

Her submersion into jazz, beginning with Court and Spark and reaching an apex on Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter and Mingus, was controversial in the ’70s. She’s been vindicated since, over and over, not only in celebration by her jazz peers but in new generations of listeners. Her 1980s explorations of synthesizer-driven rock and her Grammy-winning 1993 recalibration at midlife, Turbulent Indigo, have fared the same.

Panic struck the pop world when Mitchell suffered a brain aneurysm in 2015. She has taken time to recover, but recently she’s been turning up at tributes, or hand-in-hand with the painter David Hockney at a Los Angeles art gallery. Joni lives! Her ongoing presence feels so important; throngs rejoice at every gossip item that bodes well for her health. This is how uncommonly close people feel to this voice that has spoken in so many ways. But here’s the thing: What Joni Mitchell’s music really offers each listener is a model for finding, growing, and maintaining a voice,

Second Fret Sets -1968

Set to an extended metaphor about the cycling seasons inspired by the extreme weather in Joni Mitchell’s hometown of Saskatoon, Canada, “Urge for Going” is a fitting genesis point for an artist who’d spend decades changing in pursuit of herself. She wrote the track in the mid-’60s during her brief marriage to fellow songwriter Chuck Mitchell, and she got a significant boost after it was covered by the Massachusetts folk singer Tom Rush. She performed the song for years but didn’t release her own recording of it until 1972, when it served as the B-side to “You Turn Me On, I’m a Radio.” Still, “Urge for Going” is the sound of a beginning, of an adventure gaining steam. It is a germinal idea from the musician who invented the romantic notion of the female bohemian wanderer.

Song to a Seagull – 1968

“Song to a Seagull,” the title track of Mitchell’s 1968 debut album, formally introduced her to the world. Judy Collins and Buffy Sainte-Marie had already released hit covers of her songs, but this was her own gentle, poetic meditation on feeling halved by the natural and manmade world. Mitchell’s vocals on Song to a Seagull were recorded by singing directly into the body of a grand piano to produce replicated notes in the strings; it was a trick suggested by David Crosby, with whom she was in a hazy, ill-fated romance at the time. This auditory process flattened the master recordings with a layer of tape hiss, rendering much of the album stiff and shallow; Mitchell would never outsource production guidance to another person again. Yet the album’s title track stands apart, an airy, fingerpicked glimpse into where Mitchell’s gestating career was headed: adapting folk idioms in her own image to detail the ephemerality of life.

It wasn’t a perfect start. The album was produced by The Byrds’ David Crosby, suffered from tape hiss, the poor audio quality underselling Joni’s talent and taking some of the shine off the pearls within. Reprise didn’t realise that the birds on the album cover spelt out the title, Song To A Seagull, and cut the sleeves too small, leaving first pressings reading “Son To A Seagu”.

Mitchell once remarked that her chords are depictions of emotions, that there is always a question mark to be found within them. To understand what she means, begin with her searing debut – a record that questions far more than it answers. The opening track, I Had a King, is an ethereal lament that depicts her disastrous marriage to Chuck Mitchell with devastating lyrical honesty. “I can’t go back there any more / You know my keys won’t fit the door,” she sings. “You know my thoughts don’t fit the man / They never can.”

Still, it didn’t Joni hold back. The beautiful sleeve design – one of the best 60s album covers – would set the bar for all Mitchell’s subsequent records. And if there’s one thing fans should note, it’s the credit she gives on the album to her English teacher: “… dedicated to Mr Kratzmen, who taught me to love words”. Because by 1968, we had barely seen Joni’s love of words.

Clouds – 1969

From the start, Joni Mitchell was obsessed with the way that time changes us, how helpless we are to its sweep. It seems fitting that her signature song—the one she carried with her from the beginning of her career—addresses this fascination head-on. The arrangement is all sunny ’60s folk—ice cream castles and feather canyons made real—but Mitchell’s delivery exposes a helplessness in that light. “So many things I would have done,” she sings. “But clouds got in my way.”

Taut, sparse and exposed, listening to “Clouds” is a magical, immersive experience. Mitchell’s second studio album weaves a strange and off-kilter landscape with rippling guitars, hypnotic vocals and a mysticism you can’t quite define. It is worth noting that she produced nearly all of the album’s songs, roping in the guitar skills of Stephen Stills to add depth to the instrumentation. And although Clouds is best known for the hit songs “Chelsea Morning” and “Both Sides Now”, the lesser known Roses Blue and Tin Angel are spellbinding creations worth lingering on.

The spark of “Both Sides, Now” arrived when Mitchell was on a plane, reading Henderson the Rain King by Saul Bellow. When she came to a line about the miracle of air travel, she put the novel down, looked out the window, and turned to her own thoughts. In her head, she was trying to parse the fine line between regret and wisdom, embracing mystery and seeking enlightenment—all topics she would return to in the ensuing decades. The song would become a hit for Judy Collins and appear on two of Mitchell’s own albums, including a 2000 collection that bore its name. Its beauty is contained in this transience: Like Mitchell herself, it has never stopped moving.

Ladies of the Canyon – 1970

Ladies of the Canyon is the most idealistic of Mitchell’s albums, fuelled by her distrust of money and power, and populated by the romantic characters of Laurel Canyon, the bohemian L.A. neighbourhood where she lived with Graham Nash. Fittingly, its biggest hit—and one of Mitchell’s most enduring songs—is a track The New York Times described as “the first entry in a new genre that might be called ecology-folk.” Like her masterpiece, Blue, Mitchell’s third offering shows just how rich and luscious her piano-driven arrangements can be – mournfully played, yet always seeking the light. Equal parts forlorn and hopeful with Rainy Night House and For Free, its lilting title track is a glorious – and unashamedly romantic – tribute to the magical hillside of Hollywood’s Laurel Canyon. Oh, and there’s a little-known track called Woodstock thrown in there, too.

“Big Yellow Taxi” was inspired by a trip Mitchell and Nash took to Hawaii. Looking out the window on their first morning, she was dismayed to find their mountain view interrupted by a slab of concrete, and transcribed the experience: “They paved paradise/Put up a parking lot.” By this point in her career, Mitchell had moved beyond singing straight-ahead folk songs; still, “Big Yellow Taxi” shares DNA with the topical song writing popular in that scene. Her lines about DDT and deforestation are driven by a pop sensibility that eluded many other folkies; her colourful imagery, girl-group backing vocals, and contagious peals of laughter make for a track that delights as it rings a warning bell.

With a work ethic like no other, Joni Mitchell managed to find the words for almost an album a year from the late 60s and throughout the 70s, her song writing flourishing across 1969’s Clouds and 1970’s Ladies Of The Canyon – the latter of which brought about some of Mitchell’s first great songs, including Rainy Night House, Ladies Of The Canyon and Morning Morgantown, as well as Big Yellow Taxi.

Though it may be her best-known song, Big Yellow Taxi wasn’t a huge success, reaching just No.67 on the US Billboard chart and No.11 in the UK; that would remain Joni’s UK peak, while she would improve on the song’s US performance only twice in her career. That’s one of the joys of Joni Mitchell’s music: she may not have written standalone Top 10 pop hits, but put a whole album on, and that’s where she works her magic.

At some point in the mid-’60s, Mitchell heard a then-unknown folk artist named Neil Young sing a song of his called “Sugar Mountain.” A bittersweet lament about being forced to put away childish things (“You can’t be 20 on Sugar Mountain”), it inspired Mitchell to write her own loss-of-innocence saga. “The Circle Game” is a decade-spanning epic told in an impressively economic four verses, building upon Young’s carnival-themed lyrics while introducing a somewhat more optimistic perspective. “There’ll be new dreams, maybe better dreams and plenty,” Joni assures us. And though she’d move on to more mature subject matter in the years to come, “The Circle Game” holds its own wistful power—and it’s still a classic summer camp singalong, too.

Blue – 1971

When people categorize Joni Mitchell as a “confessional” artist, they’re often thinking of “River.” Written in 1970, in the wake of her intense relationship with Graham Nash, it’s a hard, glowing gem of contrition, one of the clearest masterstrokes on Blue, which is full of them. Mitchell has said “River” is about “taking personal responsibility for the failure of a relationship,” neatly conjuring the penance that anchors the song. The forlorn yearning of its refrain—“I wish I had a river I could skate away on”—pulls at that anchor, seeking a less painful path. Few things are more relatable than reluctantly owning up to your faults—except, maybe, being sad around the holidays.

“River” has become part of the Christmas canon, recorded by a mind-boggling range of acts—at last count, 663—who may or may not fully grasp its nuance. Mitchell’s introductory nod to “Jingle Bells” on piano, the only instrumental accompaniment here, has something to do with this. But just as she recasts the jaunty carol in a dirge-like minor key, her lyrics inscribe a distance from Yuletide cheer: “They’re putting up reindeer/And singing songs of joy and peace,” she observes. In the end, though, Mitchell owns up to her transgression with heart-breaking clarity: “I made my baby say goodbye.”

The best example of this is her 1971 album, Blue. Searingly honest and deeply personal, Joni Mitchell unravels her personal life and lays it out succinctly in a mere 36 minutes, with stunningly unexpected sounds created from alternate guitar tunings and unusual piano chords. There’s travel, heartbreak, introspection and longing. As Joni herself sings on the title track, “songs are like tattoos”, and she digs deep into herself for all to see.

Yet it’s the combination of brutal honesty and her ability to turn overwhelming internal monologues into something so beautiful and familiar that is so rewarding for fans, stopping them in their tracks (see The River: “I’m so hard to handle, I’m selfish and I’m sad/Now I gone and lost the best baby that I ever had”). Sugar-coated pop and bombastic rock are all well and good, but if you want blood and guts, Joni Mitchell is your artist.

Mitchell’s life and work is often examined through the lens of her relationships—a curse that has befallen many a female artist. With “A Case of You,” she dished out an especially potent bit of tabloid fodder. The song addresses two of her paramours: Leonard Cohen, whose Shakespeare recitations inspired the lyric, “You said, ‘I am as constant as the Northern Star,’” and James Taylor, who ended up playing guitar on the track. But Mitchell, of course, digs deeper than mere musical gossip. The dual metaphor of the song’s title—evoking both inebriation and illness—captures all the tension of love that feels good but does harm; asserting that she can endure it and “still be on [her] feet,” Mitchell prides her independence. Here, there is no sign of the frail vocals that some critics heard on her earlier records—Mitchell’s performance is unimpeachable, her crystalline tone adding another layer of emotional clarity.

“Blue” is the core of the album that is the core of Mitchell’s catalogue: a haunting three-minute piano ballad that offers enough insight on depression and melancholy to unspool over decades. None of Blue’s optimistic travelogues or heart-tugging breakup laments would sound the same without the context and weight of this severe, central siren. Mitchell offers a profound “no” to an era of excess: “Acid, booze, and ass/Needles, guns, and grass,” she sings, grounding each with her dejection. Instead of an anthem for her generation, Blue’s title track was a prayer, a beacon of realness and a skeptical addendum to her 1969 hit “Woodstock,” in which she peered at that epochal cultural moment with distant envy. “Everybody’s saying that hell’s the hippest way to go/But I don’t think so,” Mitchell sang, ever the smartest woman in the room.

Though “Carey” is based on an actual trip Joni Mitchell took to Greece in the late ’60s, the details of the song matter less than the way she shares them. Unforgettable lines abound: “I miss my clean white linen and my fancy French cologne” drops you into that room, and “Let’s not talk about fare-thee-wells now/The night is a starry dome” reminds you of every late night when past and future dissolved and the thrill of being alive was everything. Over beautiful production—a perfectly mixed arrangement of hand percussion, bass, guitar, background vocals, and dulcimer, just pop enough to sound good on the radio—she spins a wry tale of bohemian wandering in which the joy of living in the moment alternates with yearning for the comforts of home. Blue is often positioned as a confessional album about heartbreak, but some of its best songs, including “Carey,” are stories of freedom. They show a woman exploring the world while traveling light, moving from one place to the next in search of meaning and sensation.

For the Roses – 1972

In between the towering confessions of Blue and the visionary jazz-pop of Court and Spark, Mitchell penned another masterpiece, For the Roses. Favouring blunt, unsparing words over easy melodies, she sang mostly about the reality that male musicians make abominable romantic prospects. Its most thrillingly savage lyrics are buried in the penultimate acoustic ballad “Woman of Heart and Mind,” as Mitchell bitingly calls out a charming man’s superficiality: “Win your medals/Fuck your strangers/Don’t it leave you on the empty side?”

“You Turn Me On I’m A Radio” was meant to be a sarcastic joke for her manager, David Geffen, who challenged her to write a hit. The joke was on Mitchell – it became her first top 40 hit in the US. Which aptly sums up this outing. It is a record that can’t quite let go of its classic folk roots, but features enough experimental jazz flourishes to remind us that this is a metamorphosing artist who won’t compromise. But Mitchell switches gears for the album’s light beam of a single, “You Turn Me On, I’m a Radio,” offering unfettered AM sunshine. Though it was written to appease her label boss, David Geffen, it shows her keen self-awareness as she cheekily strives to not just top the charts but become the radio itself: “I’m a country station/I’m a little bit corny.” (If her ironic delivery didn’t make it clear, she later confirmed to Rolling Stone, “I never wanted to turn into a human jukebox.”) Mitchell played hitmaker with a song that put courtship on blast, proving all the while that she was above both charades. “I know you don’t like weak women/You get bored so quick,” she sings with force, “And you don’t like strong women/Cause they’re hip to your tricks.” In those two lines, Mitchell turned a pop song into an X-ray, seeing through everyone around her.

The men who knew Mitchell well recognized her genius; during her short-lived relationship with Leonard Cohen, a friend famously asked him how he liked “living with Beethoven.” Still, in 1972, rock was a gated community to which men held the keys, and Mitchell had to weather plenty of its misogyny. She was called a “ballbuster” by male collaborators with whom she disagreed, and dismissed as “petulant” by The Village Voice. Rolling Stone dubbed her the “Old Lady of the Year” for her high-profile romances.

On “Blonde in the Bleachers,” Mitchell accompanies herself on piano while singing about the indignation of being relegated to the bleachers when you know yourself to be first-string. Though she has said she does not identify as a feminist, claiming she doesn’t need the backing of a movement to “go toe-to-toe with a guy,” this song still feels like a gesture of solidarity for women who run circles around the domineering men in their lives.

Court and Spark – 1974

Released in 1974, Court And Spark saw Mitchell take her first year-long break between albums. Earning her a Grammy nomination for Album Of The Year, it also found Joni pursuing a jazz-inflected sound that would heavily inform the rest of her 70s output, particularly 1976’s Hejira.

“Down to You” is Joni Mitchell’s compact symphony. Here is her essence as an arranger and producer, led by a lonely piano motif that anticipates everything in the lyrics. The song is from Court and Spark, her highest-charting solo album in the United States as well as a creative breakthrough: Larger ideas about life and love that once lingered in the periphery of her music were now as clear as the headlights of an oncoming train.

The album’s centerpiece is “Down to You,” a song that never stops moving. In the background, each individual instrument seems to be in conversation with each other, all responding to the dazzling momentum of Mitchell’s lyrics; woodwinds, strings, and harp all shine momentarily and flicker out like distant stars. “Constant stranger,” Mitchell sings. “You’re a kind person/You’re a cruel person, too.” Singing in the second person, she was no longer satisfied to simply live on radios and turntables; she wanted to be the voice in our heads, too.

They’re not looking for talent. They’re looking for a look and a willingness to cooperate,” Mitchell told W magazine in 2002 about the suits who populate the record business. “And I’ve never had a willingness to cooperate.” In 1974, she had good reason for these misgivings: Mitchell had signed to David Geffen’s Asylum Records and released Court and Spark, the most commercial album of her career with the biggest hit she ever wrote. However, the cutting, jubilant “Free Man in Paris” is that album’s standout—a bounding broadside against the music industry’s pressures.

Fleshed out with winding electric guitar from José Feliciano and Larry Carlton, “Free Man” is written from Geffen’s point of view while vacationing in France, bestowing Mitchell’s increasingly oppositional label boss with a sense of humanity: “I felt unfettered and alive/Nobody calling me up for favours/No one’s future to decide.” Geffen’s interest in her was soon directed toward another folk star, and their partnership crumbled after she accused him of non-payment on royalties. Even so, “Free Man in Paris” remains a startlingly clear-eyed artifact of Mitchell defying the record industry’s iron fist.

With a swooning melody that bridges the complexity of Steely Dan with the breezy folk rock of Laurel Canyon, “Help Me” is as catchy a love song as they come, but one edged with ambiguity. As is usually the case with Mitchell, there’s a lot going on: She crams a wealth of detail in a compact three-and-a-half minutes, giving the listener a glimpse of the early stages of a relationship that’s as erotically charged as it is totally doomed. “We love our lovin’,” Mitchell sings, “But not like we love our freedom.”

“Help Me” was a major hit for Mitchell, and it struck a chord with one listener in particular: a young Prince Rogers Nelson. In 1987, the Purple One paid tribute with a memorable shout out on Sign o’ the Times’ “The Ballad of Dorothy Parker”: “‘Mind if I turn on the radio?’/‘Oh, my favourite song,’ she said/And it was Joni singing ‘Help me I think I’m falling.’”

The Hissing of Summer Lawns – 1975

Mitchell’s seventh studio album, “The Hissing of Summer Lawns”, found her moving further into jazz territory, with chilly electric keyboards, smooth horn arrangements, and tricky time signatures coming to the fore. The shift wasn’t just sonic, though; Mitchell’s lyrics at this time began to look outward rather than inward, as she settled her gaze onto the American malaise of the mid-’70s. The album’s title track depicts a woman trapped in a loveless marriage, surrounded by elegant possessions and isolated from the world. “He gave her his darkness to regret/And good reason to quit him,” Mitchell sings in a cool, even tone. “He gave her a roomful of Chippendale that nobody sits in.” But Mitchell doesn’t condescend to her subject; she alludes to something deeper beneath the placid exteriors, maybe even a hint of violence lurking within. “Still she stays with a love of some kind/It’s the lady’s choice/The hissing of summer lawns.” It may not be visible yet, but there’s a snake in the grass here.

By the mid-’70s, Joni Mitchell saw romance and power as inextricable. If Blue was her elegy for lost love and severed ties, then The Hissing of Summer Lawns found inspiration in domestic scenes that seemed content but, under the surface, were just as broken. “Edith and the Kingpin” is one of its dark fever dreams, a mysterious tale about a drug lord and his lover spiraling toward uncertain disaster. Over one of the saddest, smoothest chord progressions she ever wrote, Mitchell sings about an ominous landscape: A band clacks away to no one, hard drugs and rumours spread in whispers, simple gestures betray cruel motives. You can hear all of these words as a noir rendering of Mitchell’s own mistreatment at the hands of industry assholes and a recognition of all the lonely people out there, getting screwed every day.

The tense, tactile world of The Hissing of Summer Lawns can be difficult to parse on first listen, and “The Jungle Line” is its manic, pulsing heartbeat. It’s also one of Mitchell’s most demanding melodies ever put to record. With a stomping, galvanizing field recording of the Drummers of Burundi forming the percussive foundation, Mitchell lays out wiry Moog synth lines, needling guitar, and off-kilter vocals. She offers little footing, as her voice dances thrillingly amid the pandemonium. Mitchell name-checks the post-impressionist painter Henri Rousseau, drawing on details from his surreal wildlife portraits to craft a depiction of city life that is as unnerving as it is precise. Primordial and futuristic at once, “The Jungle Line” captures Mitchell at her most inventive, paving the way for countless electronic-folk hybrids to come.

Hejira – 1976

Mitchell had by now spent a decade writing songs about the emotional sacrifices of her life as a renegade woman. Her poetry turned epic on the sprawling, wintry title track of “Hejira”, a record as stark and visual as a charcoal portrait. The record was written during a solo cross-country drive, and its Arabic title means “to run away honourably.” The song “Hejira” trades any conventions of rhythm and melody for the flowing, philosophical questing of the road; its unfamiliar aesthetic underscores just how far she had journeyed, without and within. The fretless jazz-fusion bass playing of Jaco Pastorius adds an expressive feeling of being cracked open, as if the music has no borders, downcast but sublime; Mitchell’s plainspoken voice sensitively interrogates the implications of “possessive coupling” and living with “the breadth of extremities.” (It is a Saturn return record, after all.)

The stunning storytelling was accompanied by Jaco Pastorius’ fretless bass on such songs as Amelia, which intertwines the tale of the lost pilot Amelia Earhart with Mitchell’s own experience of solo travel. Again, the struggles of womanhood would inform the epic Song For Sharon, which undulates across eight minutes and sees Joni considering the friction between the pull of marriage and family and the desire for total freedom, as she sings, “Love’s a repetitious danger you’d think I’d be accustomed to.”

Here is a woman digging into herself in service of an existential quandary: Can I be alone? Musing on immortality, hopelessness, and isolation, Mitchell concludes that we die that way, too: “Only particles of change […] orbiting around the sun.” But she delivers these cold facts with illumination. Like Patti Smith’s M Train or Agnès Varda’s Vagabond, “Hejira” tops the pantheon of art about being a solitary woman in motion, where emotional intelligence is the ultimate strength.

Mitchell is well-practiced in the art of escape—in a sense, her career in music is an extended mission to evade the fate of her grandmothers, whose burgeoning talents in piano and poetry were tamped down by farm-wife obligations. During the trip that spawned Hejira, Mitchell looked up and, spotting six planes overhead, thought of a record-setting aviator who had disappeared over the Pacific Ocean decades earlier. Her fascination with the fiercely independent Amelia Earhart is not surprising: “Like me, she had a dream to fly,” she sings. The two women’s imagined kinship is not unlike the connection that many of Mitchell’s fans have felt with her, their spiritual guide through uncharted emotional terrain.

Here, Larry Carlton’s lead guitar mimics the wistful sound of pedal steel, borrowing from the vernacular of country music to conjure a sense of vast, open space. But, in considering Earhart’s fate, Mitchell seems wary of the road ahead: “Like Icarus ascending on beautiful, foolish arms,” she sings, “Oh Amelia, it was just a false alarm.”

“Coyote” is a road story about chasing desire while surrounded by chaos, conceived in late 1975, while Joni Mitchell was on tour with Bob Dylan’s Rolling Thunder Revue. It’s said to have been inspired by the playwright and actor Sam Shepherd, also on hand for the tour, with whom Mitchell had a fling. The arrangement is all about motion, Mitchell’s jazzy strums, and the steady percussion marking time like the rise and fall of power lines outside a windshield. Undergirding the rhythm is the rubbery low-end dance of Jaco Pastorius, the jazz musician Mitchell once called “the bass player of my dreams.”

Mitchell half-talks her lyrics, letting her phrases extend beyond measures when needed, as she describes drug-blurred encounters with a man who is both alluring and predatory. Through it all, she tries to decode what it means to want and be wanted, to live through pain without regret. It’s a brilliant collision of word and sound, the sonic embodiment of the kind of mania that only starts to make sense in the rear view.

Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter – 1977

Joni Mitchell had earned a lot of artistic capital by the time she made “Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter”, and she set out to spend it like no one else would. The double album has a languid overture, a wild-eyed rumba, and an orchestral tone poem that takes up one full side of an LP. (It also has a notorious cover collage with Mitchell in blackface as a character she dubbed “Art Nouveau.”) Musically, it’s the clearest example of how she could balance collaboration with firm control: The album features members of Weather Report, a jazz-fusion band working at arena scale, and Mitchell pushes them all past the point of comfort.

The title track—a poetic ramble invoking manifest destiny, masculine-feminine duality, and the mysticism of the plains—is built around one of Mitchell’s hypnotic guitar parts in a custom tuning, and it incorporates an odd, percussive accent in the fourth beat of every bar, played by Jaco Pastorius. Mitchell has described how the bassist created this effect by sliding a closed fist across the neck of his instrument, shredding his hand “like he had run it over a carrot grater.” The jangle in the background is Alex Acuña doing a bent-knee Peruvian dance while harnessed, at Mitchell’s request, with native ankle bells. As she recalled slyly, “He couldn’t straighten up for an hour, but he agreed it sounded great.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ecpr4e2Nzi0

The longest song in Joni Mitchell’s catalogue, “Paprika Plains” is a 16-minute epic stitched together from several recordings of solo improvised piano. The orchestral arrangement was added after the fact, but you would never guess it. Graceful and inevitable, it stretches outward like a map of the stars forming in real time.

Mitchell uses this open landscape to sing about her childhood and memory itself, all using a fragmented approach that zooms out with each of the song’s movements. Somewhere in the middle, the strings fall slightly out of tune—a by product of the orchestra trying to accompany her various piano pieces. Legend has it, upon first meeting Mitchell, Charles Mingus—her jazz hero and soon-to-be collaborator—complimented the song while bringing this supposed error to her attention. “Yeah! You heard that?” she replied excitedly. She was relieved to find someone else who listened as closely as she did.

Mingus – 1979

If jazz – and, in particular, Joni’s jazz – is a challenge, this isn’t the album for you. Recorded in the months before Charles Mingus’s death, Mitchell’s 10th studio album is a total submersion. Pre-Mingus, Mitchell said she was just dipping her big toe into the lake of jazz. When she met the jazz giant, he pushed her in.

1979 saw the release of “Mingus”. Recorded in collaboration with the jazz bassist Charles Mingus it would be Mitchell’s most experimental record, with contributions from jazz luminaries Wayne Shorter (saxophone), Herbie Hancock (piano) and Tony Williams (drums), alongside a returning Jaco Pastorius.

When Charles Mingus first tapped Mitchell to collaborate in 1977, ALS had already confined him to a wheelchair. The first song they completed together was inspired by his sense of mortality: The jazz giant handed off a melody to Mitchell and asked for lyrics describing all the things he would miss when he left Earth. Peering through the eyes of her heaven-bound cowriter, Mitchell reminisces about old friends while pondering money unearned and women unkissed.

“A Chair in the Sky” stands as an important counterpoint to Mitchell’s consistent stereotyping as a purely “confessional” songwriter—the same reputation that led Kris Kristofferson to urge, after hearing Blue, that she “leave something for [her]self.” It also exemplifies her musical dexterity: Mitchell darts through an angular jazz melody and scats in bold, trumpet-like tones. Above it all, Mitchell’s quivering vibrato hovers like a spectral presence—perhaps that of Mingus himself, who died before it was recorded.

In the late ’70s, while Joni Mitchell was writing a dark new track, she came into possession of an old guitar. “It was ominous,” she once wrote. “It suited the theatrer of the song.” You can hear the noisy buzzing of that Martin D-18 throughout “The Wolf That Lives in Lindsey,” a side effect intensified by her ever-inventive drop tuning. It’s hard to imagine the song without it: As she sings about snowstorms and darkness and inescapable fate, the noise from her guitar lurks like heavy footsteps approaching in the distance. A recording of howling wolves accompanies it, as if the foreboding message weren’t clear enough. It’s as violent and apocalyptic as Mitchell ever allowed herself to sound.

Wild Things Run Fast – 1982

Wild Things Run Fast, Mitchell’s 11th album and the first in her maligned Geffen Records run, pulled from staid radio pop of the early ’80s, making for a ho-hum rock record. Yet the album’s sparse opener, “Chinese Café/Unchained Melody,” shed light on a mystery that had loomed over a decade’s worth of her song writing. Subtext about a baby whom Mitchell had given up for adoption when she was 21, previously addressed obliquely on 1969’s “Chelsea Morning” and 1971’s “Little Green,” was made clear in compelling fashion: “Now your kids are coming up straight/My child’s a stranger/I bore her/But I could not raise her.”

While her sound would shift again throughout the 80s and 90s, Mitchell’s “love of words” remained ever present on songs such as Wild Things Run Fast’s (1982) Chinese Café/Unchained Melody and You Dream Flat Tires – which also features Lionel Richie on backing vocals – as well as a cover of Lieber and Stoller’s (You’re So Square) Baby I Don’t Care, popularised by Elvis.

Mitchell encased the admission in a rock ballad with lilting piano and dreamy guitar, and wove lines from the Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody” into its lyrics, a tacit and elegant capitulation to the passage of time. It would take another two decades before Mitchell met her daughter, forging what would ultimately become a defining yet fraught relationship. “Chinese Café” acts as an incomparable snapshot of Mitchell at middle age, taking stock of her life while adding new complications to her story.

Dog Eat Dog – 1985

Joni Mitchell is a non-conformer – which is why this is such an uncomfortable listen. She is virtually unrecognisable here, subsumed by a homogenised 80s sound that leaves you pining for the astral lifelines of her earlier work.

Chalk Mark in a Rain Storm – 1988

There was high pedigree in the synth-pop sheen of Chalk Mark in a Rain Storm, Joni Mitchell’s third album with producer, bassist, and then-husband Larry Klein. Recorded in part at Peter Gabriel’s studio in England, it enlists him in a showcase duet, the gentle Chalk Mark In A Rain Storm (1988) featured the soft rock delights of The Tea Leaf Prophecy (Lay Down Your Arms) and The Beat Of Black Wings.

This is very much a record of its era. And, like Dog Eat Dog, sounds unremarkable when compared with her other work.

The album’s other guests include Billy Idol, Tom Petty, Willie Nelson—and the vocal duo Wendy & Lisa on “The Tea Leaf Prophecy (Lay Down Your Arms),” a plea for peace informed by personal history. The song tells the story of Mitchell’s parents, who met during World War II, in a union augured by a fortune teller. The shifting seasons and domestic routines in the lyrics—“She plants her garden in the spring/He does the winter shovelling”—are set at a hard angle against the ravaging futility of war. And for all its sepia reminiscence, the track sounds fully in tune with the gleaming pop aesthetic of its era, courtesy of Klein’s keyboards and electric bass, Manu Katché’s arena drums, and Michael Landau’s echoey guitar.

Night Ride Home – 1991

It may not be as compelling as Hejira, but there is still a lot here to admire. The percussive rhythms and jazz inflections are there – but the melodies are softer and her vocals are tender. More self-assured and at ease with where she is. Once in awhile, amid all the inner turmoil and external drama, Joni Mitchell allows herself to appreciate a moment of easy bliss. “Night Ride Home” is one such song. It was written in Hawaii, while she was visiting with then-husband Larry Klein, and it documents a trip back to their rental house after an evening out. Everything about the song is easy and serene—the unhurried lilt of its rhythm, the chirp of crickets that pulses like a metronome throughout, Mitchell’s relaxed, warm vocals. In her focus on small details—headlights catching power lines, a roadside tractor buried in the sand—Mitchell makes everything feel immediate, but there’s an ache that haunts the song, too, the unstated understanding that nothing lasts. But that will come later. “I love the man beside me,” she sings now, and for three-and-a-half minutes, nothing else matters.

Her popularity may have waned slightly in the 1980s, but Mitchell proved herself a still-vital talent on Night Ride Home. She wasn’t willing to pander to her audience, though, and said so on “Come In From the Cold.” The backing track ticks along steadily, marking the passage of time, as Mitchell expertly moves the story along from a buttoned-up adolescence through to the accomplishments and disappointments of adulthood. Mitchell offers no cozy middle-aged platitudes here, only assertions that life is an ongoing process without tidy endings or all-encompassing revelations. Above it all is that familiar commitment to speaking her own truth, regardless of whether anyone is still listening: “I am not some stone commission, like a statue in a park,” Mitchell sings defiantly, in a voice that may have lost some of its range but none of its expressive precision. “I am flesh and blood and vision/I am howling in the dark.”

Turbulent Indigo – 1994

Joni’s 90s releases haven’t received nearly as much attention as they deserve but, entering a new decade, Mitchell continued to delve into her own experiences while also looking outwards, finding topics for songs that, in the hands of other artists, could have been crassly recounted. Take, for example, Sex Kills or The Magdalene Laundries, both from 1994’s “Turbulent Indigo”: darker songs that reflect on modern-day greed and lust, and historical atrocities, respectively. What begins promisingly (opening track Sunny Sunday is a reminder of her 70s work) soon disappoints with rhymes as basic as “And the oil spills / And sex kills.” That said, it won a Grammy for best pop album. Make of that what you will.

The release of “Turbulent Indigo” in 1994 marked a wave of critical success unlike anything Mitchell had experienced in years; not coincidentally, the album more closely resembles her early acoustic work than her synth-heavy ’80s output. On “Borderline,” she stuck with some of those electronics but painted with a lighter hand, balancing them with her earthy guitar.

Like much of Turbulent Indigo, “Borderline” moralizes modernity: Mitchell laments the divisions that spring up between us due to “church, nation, team, or tribe.” She describes a world “prickling with pretense” and the “scared, hard-edged rat race” of life. Once again, Mitchell adopts the persona of the travelled sage—the same guise she had settled into decades earlier with young prescience. In the intervening years, she had weathered the abuses of an industry where women’s wisdom was routinely undervalued, and their advancing age was held against them. Here, that world-weary stance felt more earned than ever.

Mitchell navigated the 1990s with a mixture of righteous outrage and honest bewilderment, and it’s hard to think of a bleaker vision of the era than “Sex Kills.” The title clearly refers to AIDS, but that crisis is just the beginning of a scary screed. As a prophet of doom, Mitchell pulls no punches: “All these jack-offs at the office/The rapist in the pool/Oh, and the tragedies in the nurseries/Little kids packin’ guns to school,” she seethes. With storm clouds of dissonant noise threatening, the none-too-subtle message of “Sex Kills” seems to be: We are not stardust, we are not golden.

Taming the Tiger – 1998

By the time of 1998’s Taming The Tiger, Joni Mitchell was 55 years old, with an astounding 15 studio albums behind her. Taming The Tiger has a more mature sound – jazzier, slower –that perfectly complements Mitchell’s voice: a rich and low sound compared to the high, clear-cut vocals of her early folk forays.

You can’t discuss Joni Mitchell’s later work without acknowledging her bitterness toward the music industry. Through the ’60s and into the ’70s, her peers were Bob Dylan, Neil Young, and Lou Reed: critically acclaimed men who sometimes sold big but whose prestige also granted them room to fail. Mitchell knew her own worth, and when her music fell out of fashion, she felt as if she’d been cast aside. Not only was she a woman in a world run by men, but her work was only growing more challenging—full of odd chords, drawn-out melodies, and dense and allusive lyrics, all qualities that make the radio program directors of the world nervous.

“Taming the Tiger” is her attempt to come to terms with all this, as she lashes out at what enrages her while also working toward some kind of acceptance. There’s a get-off-my-lawn quality to some of her barbs here, but she’s human, she’s wronged, and she’s angry. She manages to transform these tetchy feelings into a gorgeous piece of music, her processed guitar dripping colour like paint down a canvas as lines about the moon, the stars, and the forest hint at a deeper truth that sits outside the demands of commerce.

While some artists may have little control over their output at the beginning of their career, being instructed on how their albums should sound or look, Joni Mitchell always designed her album covers, wrote all her own songs and played multiple instruments. Taming The Tiger’s sleeve is once a self-portrait, and Joni has credits on the album for vocals, guitar, bass, keyboards, percussion, lyrics, music, art direction, arrangement, mixing and producing. This on top of owning all the publishing rights for her own songs.

Both Sides Now – 2000

By the turn of the new millennium, Joni Mitchell’s sound was once again taking on a slightly new direction. 2000’s Both Sides Now tracks a relationship from its passionate beginnings to its bitter end, as Joni interprets an array of jazz standards, including Stormy Weather, You’re My Thrill and At Last, while also revisiting some of her own early compositions – A Case Of You and Both Sides, Now. Testament to her skill as a songwriter, Both Sides, Now sounds even better sung by an older Mitchell than it did in 1969: age gives it gravitas and poignancy.

The self-portrait on the cover of 2000’s Both Sides Now depicts Joni Mitchell at a café table, wearing an expression of worldly nonchalance. Her lit cigarette and the glass of red wine on the table are talismans—expressions of habit that you can also hear in her voice, with its trench-deep tone. Nowhere is this instrument more perfect for its moment than on this revisited version of her late-’60s song, which rightly won a Grammy for its arranger, Vince Mendoza, working with members of the London Symphony Orchestra.

When Mitchell wrote “Both Sides, Now” at 21, the wisdom in the song was a startling sign of precocity. She recorded this version in her mid-50s, better equipped to inhabit its spell. There’s something special and unnerving happening in this vocal performance—one of the singer’s absolute best. As Mitchell later put it, many of the orchestral players were in tears at the end of the take, and it’s not hard to understand why. She’s deliberate and calm, in command of her full range of emotional expression; the perspective in the song is no longer speculative, but the product of real experience. (Wayne Shorter’s soprano saxophone flutters briefly from across the room, another vestige of that journey.) “Well, something’s lost but something’s gained,” she sings at the end of the final verse, “In living every day.”

Shine – 2007

After the release of 2002’s TravelogueMitchell announced her retirement, only to return five years later with what many perceived to be a return to 70s form. Said to be inspired by environmental catastrophe and the Iraq war, Blue-era piano on its opening track, One Week Last Summer, gave fans exactly what they were waiting for.

Somewhere between a prayer and an airing of grievances lies “Shine,” the starry title track to what may be Joni Mitchell’s final collection of original material. The record itself is vast enough to feel cumulative, collecting sharp new songs, sophisticated instrumental compositions, and a revisited “Big Yellow Taxi.” Few artists are quite as suspicious of happy endings, though, and “Shine” resists easy answers while sounding like part of a bigger story. The lyrics turn Mitchell’s process outward, asking for illumination upon the corners of the world that need it most. That means, of course, “the good earth, good air, [and] good water,” but it also extends toward the less romantic scenes that have always populated her songs, from ceaseless war to drivers passing in the right lane. The contrast feels like a joke at first, but her weary delivery reflects the wisdom and empathy that has guided her whole career. All of us have shadows and some source of light; making us see them anew is the peculiar trick of clouds, love, and Joni Mitchell.

Her final studio album, Shine, came in 2007 and featured only one re-worked song – Big Yellow Taxi. It made sense, sitting alongside songs dealing with environmental disruption and American politics, as well as songs that took their influences from poetry and theatre – namely If (based on the poem of the same name by Rudyard Kipling) and Night Of The Iguana, named after the play by Tennessee Williams. Once again it displays what Joni Mitchell does best: mixing a wide range of cultural influences with human stories sung against a backdrop of unlikely instrumentation.

After years of relative quiet, Joni Mitchell has now made her early demos available for fans to hear. It’s fascinating that only now, 52 years since releasing her debut album, she is sharing outtakes and offering a greater glimpse into how her compositions come about, but Archives: Volume 1: The Early Years (1963-1967) proves as carefully curated as any of Joni Mitchell’s studio releases.

Mitchell has been an influence on a number of artists, from contemporaries such as Bob Dylan, The Band, Crosby, Stills, Nash And Young and James Taylor, to Cat Power, Sonic Youth and Hole, via Prince and Björk. Whether you can hear her influence on other artists or not, Mitchell was there, at the forefront, owning all aspects of her music and image, creating albums that were visually and aurally stunning, each one differing from to the next.

For her poetry, for her strange chord choices, for her dogged pursuit of her art, Joni Mitchell remains unmatched.

Archives: Volume 1: The Early Years (1963-1967) is out this weekend

Thanks to Pitchfork

1972: Joni Mitchell during early folk singing days. AP photo.

Joni Mitchell celebrated her 75th birthday of one of Canada’s greatest songwriters, Joni Mitchell.

For over 50 years, Mitchell has inspired musicians around the world with her gorgeous, poetic storytelling, whether she was busking on the streets of Toronto or singing for thousands on a big festival stage. Her words have connected with generations of music fans, and people young and old continue to discover and fall in love with her music today.

Canadian born Joni Mitchell is one of the most acclaimed singer-songwriters of the late 1960s-mid-1970s period  and also one of the most gifted voices of that era. A rising folk musician in Canada and the U.S. during her early years, Joni Mitchell reached mainstream notice in the 1968-1974 period with the release of her first several albums, among them Clouds, Ladies of the Canyon, Blue, and Court & Spark, each of which include a selection of very poignant, personal and moving songs.

What follows here is a sampling of some of that music from her early years along with a bit of her biography and social context during, before, and after that period. For starters, consider one of her songs below, “Little Green,” which she wrote a few years into her career. It’s a song about a baby daughter she had given up for adoption, as would be learned later. More on that part of her life to follow. For the moment, however, consider the voice, the music, and the poetry.

Born Roberta Joan Anderson in 1943 in Fort MacLeod, Alberta, Joni Mitchell was an only child. Her father was in the Royal Canadian Air Force, and the family moved around a bit before settling in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. Young Joni contracted polio when she was nine, and spent time in a polio ward where she first began to sing for others – also beating the prediction she would never walk again. Growing up in the late 1950s she listened to a lot of local Canadian radio, but classical music appears to have first captured her ear. “I loved Debussy, Stravinsky, Chopin, Tchaikovsky,” she would recount in a later interview, “anything with romantic melodies, especially the nocturnes.” Unable to afford a guitar as a teenager, she bought a cheap ukulele and a Pete Seeger songbook and taught herself to play. Learning some folk songs, she began performing for movie money and pocket change to pay for cigarettes, a life-long habit she began early on. Still, music was a secondary interest at the time, as she wanted to be an artist.

Her first club performances as a 19 year-old folk singer came in late October early November 1962 at the Louis Real Coffeehouse in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. And through 1963 and early 1964 there were also performances at ski lodges, a few “hootenannies,” as folk-singing gatherings were called, as well as coffeehouse and club appearances in Calgary, Regina, and Edmonton.

After a year at the Alberta College of Art and Design she moved to Toronto in June 1964 to make a more determined bid as a folk singer, but initially had difficulty finding the money to enter the musicians union, which was needed to play most venues. She also worked at local department stores for a time to make ends meet.

In Toronto, while performing at The Penny Farthing club in March 1965, she met Chuck Mitchell, a young musician from America. In their early meeting she chastised him for badly altering some Bob Dylan verse. Still, they struck up a romance, and the two were married in June 1965. It was a union that Joni would later describe as a “marriage of convenience,” for at that time she was an unwed mother with a young baby daughter fathered by a former college boyfriend who had left before the baby’s birth. She had given birth in February 1965, and while single, relied on local foster care to help with her child. At first, it appeared Chuck and Joni would raise the child together, but that changed and the child was put up for adoption. The birth and adoption would remain private for much of her career.

Chuck and Joni Mitchell moved to Detroit, Michigan and performed together as a folk duo, where they became something of a “golden couple” on the local folk circuit. Joni’s singing, meanwhile, drew praise as she began to further develop her musical and songwriting skills, sometime performing on her own. In Detroit, she would meet other musicians, among them, Eric Anderson, a singer songwriter from New York’s Greenwich Village, who taught her some basics about open tuning, a style and sound she would become noted for. One of the clubs where Chuck and Joni performed was the Chess Mate in Detroit. On one occasion there, when singer songwriter Tom Rush was on the bill for a short engagement, he listened to a set of Joni’s songs. “She was a slip of a girl: blond, intense,” recalled Rush in a later interview. “…The songs blew me away – their poetry, their visual imagery.” One of the songs he heard Joni perform was “Urge For Going,” a version of which is below

Tom Rush adopted “Urge for Going” in his own routine, and performed it to great reception on his hometown circuit in Cambridge, Massachusetts. In fact, he was eager to have more of Joni’s material. “I remember asking her, ‘What else do you have? What else do you have?’” She sent him an early version of the “The Circle Game,” which she wasn’t happy with but he instantly liked and would later use in a 1968 album, titled The Circle Game. Rush would also have Joni come to New England and open for him at a series of engagements there.

Back in Detroit, and also in some Canadian venues, Chuck and Joni continued their performances together. The “Chuck & Joni show,” as it was sometimes called, consisted of an opening song or two together, a closing song or two together, and solos in between.

At their Detroit home – a top floor apartment in the 1890s Verona building, a five-story walk-up near Wayne State University – they were a gracious and sociable couple. In fact they entertained lots of visitors and up-and-coming musicians there. A long line of them stayed at the Mitchell place when they played in Detroit – Gordon Lightfoot, Jerry Corbitt, Jesse Colin Young, Tom Rush, Dave Van Ronk, Bruce Langhorne, Eric Andersen, Rambling Jack Elliot, and others.

Joni, meanwhile, sought more autonomy in performing, and over the objections of her husband, she began making single bookings, although they would still do some joint performances.

In May 1966, Chuck and Joni appeared at the Gaslight Café in New York to play as part of a Gaslight Hootenanny. A month later, they made their first appearance as Gaslight Café performers for a two-week engagement. This is the period during which Joni would be seen by other performers, among them, Joan Baez, who came to Joni and said she liked her performance.

David Geffen, who would later become Joni Mitchell’s agent, also first heard her perform at the Gaslight – when she and Chuck Mitchell were performing there together. Geffen was then the agent for singer Buffy Sainte-Marie, whose new album at the time included Joni Mitchell’s “The Circle Game,” which Geffen especially liked, and was the first time he had ever heard her name.

In late 1966 Joni had some engagements at The 2nd Fret club in Philadelphia. It was there that Joni met another folk singer from Colorado named Michael who was playing at the Trauma club, also in Philadelphia. The pair struck up a romance, and spent some time together in Philadelphia. But back in Detroit, upon her return there, this did not go over well with Joni’s husband, Chuck. The affair, however, had fueled Joni’s song, “Michael From Mountains.” New love was a powerful creative force for Joni and her songwriting, as would be shown time and time again throughout her career.

Meanwhile on the club/coffeehouse circuit, Chuck and Joni continued to appear together, honoring their commitments through early 1967. But by that time, their marriage was over. Their last joint appearance came in May 1967.

Joni Mitchell

Joni Mitchell then moved to New York City to pursue her dream of becoming a solo artist. She eventually settled in New York’s Chelsea district as her home base.

While in New York during the summer of 1967 and performing at the Café Au Go Go she met Steve Katz who played with the house band there, The Blues Project. She had a brief romance with Katz who in turn, introduced her to Roy Blumenfeld, the Blues Project’s drummer. Blumenfeld and Joni then spent a part of the summer of 1967 together until Blumenfeld’s French girlfriend came home from Europe.

“I was crazy in love with Joan Mitchell,” Roy would tell author Sheila Weller in her 2008 book, Girls Like Us. “The way I felt about her….it scared me…” Joni’s song, “Tin Angel,” using the name of a New York restaurant, is in part about Roy. Roy would later say that Joni Mitchell’s music “was more original than Dylan’s.”

Another of Joni’s Blues Project band member friendships turned out to be Al Kooper, the group’s keyboardist, lead singer, and chief composer. Kooper was also a friend of Judy Collins, who would invite Joni to the Newport Folk Festival, in Newport, Rhode Island.

The July 1967 program at the Newport Folk Festival then included the likes of Joan Baez, Judy Collins, Tim Hardin, Fred Neil, Odetta, Phil Ochs, Tom Paxton, and others.

Joni, after being introduced at the festival by Judy Collins, played a short set that included “Michael From Mountains,” “Chelsea Morning” and “The Circle Game” – a set that stunned the audience, and according to Lachlan MacLearn who was there – prompted “a tumultuous and prolonged standing ovation.”

It was also at the Newport Folk Festival that summer that Joni met Judy Collins’ Canadian friend, Leonard Cohen, by then a rising poet and singer. Joni was much taken with the 42 year-old Cohen, and the two began a romance. This affair, like others, is credited with fueling Joni’s “love muse,” helping to inspire her songwriting. Among the Joni Mitchell creations credited in whole or part to her time with Cohen, are said to be: “Rainy Night House,” “The Gallery” and “A Case of You.”

As became her practice, Joni wrote snatches of material based on what moved her at the moment, these figuring into songs she might not complete until months or years later. The Cohen affair, in any case, ended within a year or so, after Joni discovered Cohen wasn’t everything she thought he was. Still, Cohen described Joni as “prodigiously gifted,” and a “great painter too.”

Through 1967, Joni continued her performances in various U.S. and Canadian venues, among them: The 2nd Fret in Philadelphia, Le Hibou Coffee House in Ottawa, The Riverboat in Toronto, The Living End in Detroit, and The Gaslight Café in Coconut Grove, Florida.

Those who heard Joni Mitchell sing in those early years were typically blown away. David Crosby was one of those smitten by her sound — and her good looks. Crosby himself was already a famous singer-songwriter who had successfully performed with the Byrds  1965, “Turn Turn Turn,” 1965,” Eight Miles High” 1967). He would also soon become a founding member of another folk-rock group, Crosby, Stills & Nash. But it was sometime in late August/early September 1967 when Crosby had his first encounter with Joni Mitchell. By this time, he had left the Byrds over personal differences and had gone to Florida to sort things out. “I went looking for a sailboat to live on. I wanted to do something else. Find another way to be. I was pretty disillusioned.” Then he walked into a coffee house in Coconut Grove, Florida and heard Mitchell singing. “[I] was just completely smitten,” he would later say. “She was standing there singing all those songs … ‘Michael From Mountains’, ‘Both Sides Now’, and I was just floored. I couldn’t believe that there was anybody that good….”

Crosby would also fall for Joni, and would later write at least part of a song alluding to his feelings about her with “Guinnevere,” which appears on the first Crosby, Stills & Nash album. Joni Mitchell moved in with David Crosby for a time when she came to southern California in 1967, but according to her, they were “never an item,” save for a brief romance in Florida. Crosby would later say of Joni: “It was very easy to love her, but turbulent. Loving Joni is a little like falling into a cement mixer.”

Still, Crosby became her personal promoter and helped her settle into a special little corner of Los Angeles known as Laurel Canyon, which became a famous singer-songwriter enclave where an incredible amount of high-quality rock and folk-rock music would originate. Crosby had her play at the homes of his Hollywood friends — “Mama” Cass Elliot among them, she of the then flourishing Mamas & Papas group. Still, in the U.S. music industry at the time, folk music was a tough sell. But Crosby, with his Byrds success and some connections in the music business, was determined to produce a Joni Mitchell album.

Joni soon had her own manager as well. In late October 1967, while performing at the Café Au Go Go in New York, she met Elliot Roberts, who then managed Buffy St. Marie, who suggested he check out Joni’s performance. Roberts later recounted this first meeting with Joni to Vanity Fair: “I saw Joni in New York… at the Café au Go Go…. I went up to her after the show and said, ‘I’m a young manager and I’d kill to work with you.’ At that time, Joni did everything herself; she booked her own shows, made her travel arrangements, carried her own tapes. She said she was going on tour, and if I wanted to pay my own expenses, I could go with her. I went with her for a month, and after that, she asked me to manage her.”

Joni Mitchell at Reprise contract signing, March 1968, with (l-to-r), Elliot Roberts, David Crosby, and Mo Ostin.
Joni Mitchell at Reprise Records contract signing, March 1968, with (l-to-r), Elliot Roberts, David Crosby, and Mo Ostin.

In New York, she had also met Mo Ostin, general manager of the Reprise record label, by way of Tom Rush, who had already recorded two of her songs. It had not gone unnoticed that a number of her songs were being snapped up by others beyond Tom Rush, including: Judy Collins (Both Sides Now, Michael From Mountains), Buffy Sainte-Marie (Song To A Seagull, Circle Game), Ian & Sylvia (Circle Game), Dave Van Ronk (Clouds, Chelsea Morning), Fairport Convention (Eastern Rain), and George Hamilton IV, a country musician whose version of “Urge For Going” became a big country hit in 1967.

Still, folk music at the time did not have the business appeal that rock `n roll did. Elliot Roberts, however, helped Joni negotiate a recording deal with the Reprise record label in mid-March 1968. Joni, who already had her own publishing company, Siquomb Music, secured a pretty good deal with Reprise. For one, she was given total and complete artistic freedom. It was then quite rare for a woman to be writing and recording her own material, let alone to be an unaccompanied solo act. At the contract signing in Burbank, California, and pictured were: Elliot Roberts, David Crosby, and Mo Ostin. Crosby would produce her first album, and for the most part, to his credit, he let the album’s recording sessions focus on Joni Mitchell and her acoustic music without regard for the more “rocked-up” marketing wishes of the studio.

Joni Mitchell’s first album, “Song to A Seagull,” which includes her art work on the cover, a practice that would continue with subsequent albums.
Joni Mitchell’s first album, “Song to A Seagull,” which includes her art work on the cover, a practice that would continue with subsequent albums. The resulting album,Song to a Seagull, was released in March 1968 and included ten of Mitchell’s acoustic songs, including some of those that had bowled David Crosby over in Florida.

Among the album’s ten songs are: “I Had A King,” “Michael From Mountains,” “Night In The City,” “Cactus Tree” and others. “Cactus Tree,” the last song on the album, It’s a song about a long line of suitors and another from her muse-driven trove of auto-biographical love-loss-hurt-vs-freedom songs. As narrator in this song, she is loving to all her suitors, though warning each one, in so many words, “don’t get too close, as I have things to do and places to go.” Indeed, as she sings, “she’s busy being free.”

1968 French release of 45rpm single of Joni Mitchell’s “Night in the City” on Reprise, with
In terms of the other songs in this album, ‘I Had a King,’ takes it cues from the ending of her first marriage, and is her statement of moving on and becoming independent, with no regrets or blame.

“Michael From Mountains’ is about a new-found love, described earlier, a song that some listeners find very moving. ‘Night in the City’ is regarded by many as the best song on the album. In some countries, this song was released as a single with “I Had A King” on the B side, as shown in the French release at left. Joni does the guitar and piano work on this track, along with her great vocal range, and Stephen Stills provides the backing bass guitar. Other songs on the album include: “Marcie,” “Nathan La Franeer,” “Sisotowbell Lane,” “The Dawntreader,” and “The Pirate of Penance.” David Crosby, meanwhile, fared well in the album, as Joni referenced him in some way in at least three of the songs: the first stanza of “Cactus Tree,” a line in “Dawntreader,” and parts of “Song to a Segull.”

Following the recording sessions for Song to a Seagull, Joni was on the road for a good part of 1968. In March she was playing Le Hibou in Ottawa. In June she had twelve shows at The Troubadour in Los Angeles, and through early July 1968 she played seventeen dates at The Bitter Endin New York. In August she appeared at the Philadelphia Folk Festival. Back at her new home in California’s Laurel Canyon, Joni Mitchell’s personal life was now about to take a new turn.

Joni Mitchell and Graham Nash.

 

It was August 1968 when Graham Nash arrived at the house on Lookout Mountain Avenue in Laurel Canyon section of Los Angeles. He had just flown in from London and was in the process of splitting from the famous British rock band, The Hollies, over differences. His marriage was then on the rocks as well. He had come to Los Angeles to visit Joni Mitchell – the woman, he explained later – “who had captured my heart.”

Nash and Mitchell had met earlier that year, in March, after a Hollies show in Ottawa, Canada when they became romantically involved. His August 1968 arrival at the Laurel Canyon house was the first he had seen Joni since then. “She was the whole package,” he would later write, “a lovely, sylphlike woman with a natural blush, …and an elusive quality that seemed lit from within.” They began living together thereafter, as Joni invited him to stay at her Laurel Canyon home.

But also there that August night when Nash arrived from the airport with his guitar case in tow, were David Crosby and Stephen Stills – two singer-songwriters who, like Nash, had also departed from their rock groups – Crosby from The Byrds, and Stills from Buffalo Springfield. These three bandless musicians started some impromptu jamming and singing that evening and discovered they made wonderful harmony together. As Joni Mitchell recalled for Vanity Fair in 2015: “[T]he first night they raised their voices together I do believe happened at my house. I just remember in my living room the joy of them discovering their blend.” That soon led to the formation of Crosby, Stills and Nash, and about a year later, their blockbuster debut album bearing the group name.

By the time of the Miami Pop Festival of late December 1968, Graham Nash and Joni Mitchell were traveling together as a pair. And Nash, like his friend and new bandmate Crosby, would later write songs about Joni and his relationship with her – “Our House” and “Lady of the Island” songs that would later appear on Crosby, Stills & Nash albums.

Joni Mitchell and Graham Nash – whom she called “Willy” and wrote a song about him in that name – also visited Joni’s parents in her Canadian hometown of Saskatoon. The pair had talked about marriage briefly, but their relationship eventually ran its course and ended. But Joni would remain close to the Crosby, Stills & Nash group (and later Neil Young, a fellow Canadian, as well), and often performed and/or traveled with them.

Mitchell’s music, meanwhile, was rising in notice, and through the late 1960s, she continued one of her most productive periods of song writing and recording. In fact, she had written many more songs than she had recorded, with some of her work doing well for other artists. In 1967-68, at least three artists had released albums with one or more of her songs on them: Tom Rush, Buffy Sainte-Marie and Judy Collins. But it was Collins’ recording of Joni’s “Both Sides Now” that helped move Joni’s music to a new level. Collins had first included the song on her 1967 Wildflowers album and then released its as a single in October 1968. Two months later the single was a Top Ten (#8) pop hit. That helped raise interest in Joni Mitchell’s songwriting, and created anticipation about what she might do with her second album.

During early 1969, Joni was featured along with John Sebastian and Mary Travers (of “Peter, Paul & Mary”) on The Mama Cass Television Program, ABC-TV, which was taped in January of 1969 and broadcast in April. On the road, she had play dates at The Troubadour in W. Hollywood in January, and in the following month, Carnegie Hall in New York and Zellerbach Auditorium at UC Berkeley. And there were also continuing coffeehouse dates, including the Unicorn Coffee House in Boston, where James Taylor opened for her in March. She also had a Queens College date that month. And in April, more performances: Boston University, Northwestern University in Illinois, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge, the Academy of Music in Philadelphia, the Fillmore East in New York, and McConaughy Hall at Wesleyan University in Connecticut. Finishing off April 1969, she and a small group of musicians, including Graham Nash and Bob Dylan, had dinner at the home of Johnny Cash where they also played music among themselves for hours. In Nashville, on May 1st, she and Dylan also had performances taped for the Cash show that would be broadcast later that summer.

Joni Mitchell’s 2nd studio album, “Clouds,” released in May 1969, also featured her artwork on the cover.
Joni Mitchell’s 2nd studio album, “Clouds,” released in May 1969, also featured her artwork on the cover.

In May 1969, Mitchell’s second studio album,Clouds, was released. Among its ten tracks were her own versions of songs that had already been covered by other artists, including “Chelsea Morning,” “Tin Angel,” and “Both Sides Now.”

“Both Sides Now,” had been written by Joni a good 18 months before it ran up the charts for Judy Collins. It was inspired in March 1967 during a plane ride as Joni was reading Saul Bellow’s novel, Henderson the Rain King, and in particular, a passage where the main character is also traveling by plane viewing clouds out the window, as Joni was doing when she put the book down and started writing. The novel also includes the line, “we are the first generation to see the clouds from both sides,” presumably referring to the newly available commercial aviation and viewing clouds from above.

Joni’s perspective at the time, and forming the first stanza of “Both Sides Now,” recalled how children see clouds from the ground below, concocting all sorts of fanciful and innocent images, and then in later life, as adults, seeing them more as bearers of bad weather. The song then continues to use the two different perspectives of looking at clouds as metaphor for the larger themes of life and love, adding in the verse, that even with life’s new perspectives and experience — its trials, tribulations, judgments of others, ups and downs, etc. — she really doesn’t understand life or love after all.

Mitchell was 21 when she wrote the song, and some suggest it is also derived, in part, from the failure of her first marriage, and as later learned, her decision to give up her baby daughter for adoption. Mitchell did a re-recording of “Both Sides Now” in 2003 that was used in the film Love Actually, along with other songs from her later, February 2000 Both Sides Now album. The Judy Collins version of the song was used in a June 2013 episode of the Mad Men TV series.

Other songs on the Clouds album deal with love, lovers, and the uncertainty of new love – i.e.,”I Don’t Know Where I Stand,” “Tin Angel,” “That Song About the Midway,” and “The Gallery.” The “love/relationship” factor would continue to play heavily in her other albums during the early 1970s, a time some describe as her folk/ confessional period.

But Clouds also includes “The Fiddle and The Drum,” a song that compared U.S. government during the Vietnam War to a bitter friend, and, “I Think I Understand,” dealing with mental illness. Singled out another of its songs: “Imaginatively unusual and subtle harmonies abound here, never more so in her body of work than on the remarkable ‘Songs to Aging Children Come,’ which sets floridly impressionistic lyrics to a lovely tune that is supported by perhaps the most remarkably sophisticated chord sequence in all of pop music.”

In 1969, Joni Mitchell’s Clouds album rose to No. 22 on the Canadian chart and No. 31 on the Billboard 200 chart. Mitchell produced all the songs on the album (except for one), played acoustic guitar and keyboards, and was joined by Stephen Stills on bass guitar for one song. Clouds also brought Joni Mitchell a Grammy Award – her first for Best Folk Performance.

1969: Joni Mitchell, Nashville, TN, possibly in May for the Johnny Cash Show taping.
In the summer of 1969, Joni’s earlier taped performances for two episodes of The Johnny Cash TV Show aired. On the June 7th show, Joni then 26, and fresh from her first Grammy win, joined Cash in a duo on the song, “I Still Miss Someone.” In July and August she did a number of folk festivals, beginning with the July 18-19 Newport Folk Festival in Newport, RI where she met James Taylor. In July, she also made other appearances, including the South Shore Music Circus in Cohasset, MA; The Music Shed at Tanglewood in Lenox, MA; the Schaefer Music Festival at the Wollman Skating Rink Theater in New York; and the Mariposa Folk Festival held on Centre Island, Toronto (where she and Joan Baez were the featured performers). Another festival performance in early August came at The Sounds Of Summer Mississippi River Festival in Edwardsville, IL where she and Arlo Guthrie were featured performers.

That summer, Joni also appeared as the opening act for her friends Crosby, Stills, and Nash, who were just about to break out big with their first album, Crosby, Stills, and Nash. She would open their first big concert at the Auditorium Theater in Chicago on August 16th, where by some accounts, she nearly stole the show. But earlier that month, on August 1st, 1969, at the Atlantic City Pop Festival held at the Atlantic City Race Track, she left the stage angrily due to the inattentiveness of the large crowd. It would not be the last time she would lose patience with outdoor festival crowds, as she would come to prefer the friendlier confines of the smaller clubs and coffeehouses she had known, as well as the studio.

Joni had already been featured on the cover of the May 17th, 1969 edition of Rolling Stone magazine, then in its early years. Inside the magazines, she was featured in a piece entitled, “Introducing Joni Mitchell.” The cover of that edition also included the tag line, “The Swan Song of Folk Music,” which was somewhat premature given her rise, though at the time reflected the prevailing perspective in the music industry. Happily, despite the tag line, Joni would prove, at least for a time, that folk music and/or folk-rock, were on the upswing. And by that summer’s end, she would become known for something else as well.

In the months and years that followed the giant festival, it would be the “Woodstock” song that Joni Mitchell had written about the gathering – which she composed on the basis of reports from her then boyfriend, Graham Nash, plus what she saw on television – that would have lasting impact.

The version of “Woodstock” that first reverberated across the nation, however, was that recorded by her friends, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young (CSN&Y). When they first heard it, they decided to record it. By March-April 1970 the song was receiving airplay in three ways: the CSN&Y single of “Woodstock;” the CSN&Y album De Ja Vu, which included the single version; and Joni Mitchell’s album, Ladies of the Canyon, also released at that time with her version of the song. The CSN&Y single became a popular hit, Stephen Stills provided a distinctive lead guitar opening for that version and also the lead vocals, backed with Crosby/Nash harmonies. This version also ran over the closing credits of Woodstock the film, which had a much anticipated opening in March 1970 as well.

Joni Mitchell’s version of the “Woodstock” song also came out about this time as well. Her version, however, has a different pace and feel to it, some finding it a more haunting treatment. The song is an “all-Joni-Mitchell-production”  she sings the main verse, plays a tremoloed Wurlitzer electric piano, and provides her own backing chorus with layered, multi-tracked Joni Mitchell voices. It is the more contemplative of the two versions, and coming from the composer, reveals, perhaps, more of her intention. She would also perform the song in September 1969 at the Big Sur Folk Festival, one month after Woodstock.

The lyrics to “Woodstock” tell the story of the narrator meeting a person on his way to Max Yasgur’s farm – the actual festival location in upstate, Bethel, New York. The traveler also explains he’s going for the music but also other reasons – to camp out on the land and try to get his soul free. Then comes the “we-are-stardust” chorus that is part metaphysical, part spiritual, suggesting a getting back to nature and/or a “Garden of Eden” like place.

As the narrator joins the traveler on his trek, she explains that she too, wants to “lose the smog” and the feeling of being “a cog in something turning.” And maybe there is opportunity ahead, this time, for some revelation and learning. Repeat chorus and refrain that there is hope/power in our stardust, i.e., “we are golden;” a chance for change and getting back on the right path. Reaching Woodstock, they find “half a million strong” and much celebration. Buoyed by this hope, the narrator lets herself dream that things might be different. At a time when the Vietnam War was the national concern, she conjures “bombers… turning into butterflies.” Peace is the hope.

One of the posters for the “Woodstock Music & Art Fair,” this one identifying some of the scheduled acts to appear at the festival during the three-day, August 15-17, 1969 event.
One of the posters for the “Woodstock Music & Art Fair,” this one identifying some of the scheduled acts to

In the final chorus, more detail is added to the stardust concept: that it is, in fact, “billion year old carbon,” which science by that time had borne out. And as some interpretations have it, although “we are golden” and this Woodstock generation is strong, it and we are also “caught in the devil’s bargain,” this dating to the biblical bad deal Eve made with the devil, eating the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge, for which she and the rest of us were expelled from paradise, i.e, the garden. And now in modern times, as sinful souls, we are left to grapple with, presumably, war, racial injustice, crime, pollution, etc.,. Still, we have the ability to work at these problems and “get back to the garden.”

Mitchell, in somewhat less grander terms, would later explain her feelings and perspective on writing “Woodstock,” as offered in a 1995 Goldmine magazine piece. First, she explained that not being able to get to site that weekend made her want to be there all the more, and gave her a special interest in the event:

“The deprivation of not being able to go provided me with an intense angle on Woodstock. I was one of the fans. I was put in the position of being a kid who couldn’t make it. So I was glued to the media. And at the time I was going through a kind of born again Christian trip – not that I went to any church, I’d given up Christianity at an early age in Sunday school. But suddenly, as performers, we were in the position of having so many people look to us for leadership, and for some unknown reason, I took it seriously and decided I needed a guide and leaned on God. …So I was a little ‘God mad’ at the time, for lack of a better term, and I had been saying to myself, ‘Where are the modern miracles? Where are the modern miracles?’ Woodstock, for some reason, impressed me as being a modern miracle, like a modern day fishes-and-loaves story. For a herd of people that large to cooperate so well, it was pretty remarkable and there was tremendous optimism. So I wrote the song ‘Woodstock’ out of these feelings…”

David Crosby, who was there, offered his praise for Joni’s “Woodstock” song: “She captured the feeling and importance of the Woodstock festival better than anyone who’d been there.”

Following Woodstock, Joni continued her performances in the U.S. and Canada, appearing at the Vancouver Pop Festival at the Paradise Valley Resort in Squamish, British Columbia and the California Exposition & State Fair at Sacramento, CA, both in the August 22-24 time frame. She also had a series of a half dozen or so August dates at the The Greek Theater in Los Angeles, opening on her final date there for Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. In mid-September it was on to the Big Sur Folk Festival at the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, CA, where she performed solo and again with CSN&Y and John Sebastian. Some of these performances were later featured in the film, Celebration at Big Sur.

Through the last quarter of 1969, there were more performances, among them an October 19th Gala 50th Anniversary Concert at the Pauley Pavilion, at UCLA in Westwood, CA where Joni performed nine songs alone and three with the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra.

14 Sept 1969: From left, John Sebastian, Graham Nash, Joni Mitchell, David Crosby and Stephen Stills at Big Sur Folk Festival. It appears that Joni and Stills may be having a little “dueling guitars” contest. Photo Robert Altman

By April 1970, Joni Mitchell’s 3rd studio album, Ladies of the Canyon, had been released, and in addition to “Woodstock” it also included “The Circle Game,” and “Big Yellow Taxi,” the latter known for the line, “they paved paradise and put up a parking lot.” The song was written by Mitchell on a trip to Hawaii, seeing the beautiful paradise-like islands, but also, out her hotel window, a huge, never-ending parking lot. An environmental anthem for some, the song also references the pesticide DDT — “Hey farmer, farmer, but away that DDT now.” Released as a single, “Big Yellow Taxi” became a Top 20 hit in several countries. Ladies of the Canyon, meanwhile, became quite popular on FM radio, and it sold well over the summer and into the fall, eventually becoming her first gold album, selling more than 500,000 copies.

Among other songs on the album is one titled “For Free,” the second track, written by Mitchell. It’s a song about a traveling music star in an anonymous city who comes upon a local musician playing a clarinet on a street corner — “for free.”  The song’s narrator – a music star like Mitchell, presumably – comes to this town for a gig. While there, she is out and about walking through town doing some shopping, and in the course of her outing, comes to an intersection with a traffic light – “waiting for the walking green” – where she sees a street musician across the way plying his craft.

The scene has her thinking about her own career by comparison – “now me, I play for fortunes, and those velvet curtain calls.” She is also driven to her concerts in a limo and escorted by two gentlemen, bodyguards, no doubt. And if you want to attend one of her shows, it will cost you a fair penny. But the guy playing on the street that day – the one by the quick lunch stand – “he was playing really good for free.”

She laments the fact that “nobody stopped to hear him,” and attributes this lack of interest to a fickle public that knew “he had never been on their T.V.,” so they passed his music by. She had in mind to join him – “maybe put on a harmony.” But the signal changed, and life went on. Still, “he was playing read good for free.”

The song is emblematic of Mitchell’s style at the time, likely something she experienced in her travels. It is also a simple story, with a poignant tale, accompanied by a basic piano and Mitchell’s gorgeous voice; a perfect little song and vignette.

James Taylor & Joni Mitchell – “For Free” (John Peel Session)

“For Free” also shows her good eye for scenes from daily life, and how to find poetry there. In this piece there are touches of jazz in the clarinet playing and arrangement, a harbinger of her emerging interests to come.

Other notable songs on Ladies of the Canyon, include: “Circle Game,” “Rainy Night House”, “The Priest”, “Morning Morgantown,” “Conversation,” “Ladies of the Canyon,” “Willy,” “The Arrangement” and “Blue Boy.” Credited on the album for helping with the chorus on “The Circle Game” is “The Lookout Mountain United Downstairs Choir,” i.e,, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. Among reviewers of Ladies of the Canyon in 1970, Robert Christgau of The Village Voice, gave the album a “B+” finding it “superior to her previous work, richer lyrically and more compelling musically.” He called the album’s second half “almost perfect,” .

In early 1970 Joni Mitchell decided to take some time off to travel and to paint, and renew her creative juices. She was feeling isolated, finding that success had a way of cutting her off from the rest of the world. She would perform at a few festivals in the summer of 1970, but did not take on a regular concert schedule. She felt she needed new material. “I need new things to say in order to perform,” she told one reporter. “You just can’t sing the same songs.” She was also still ending her relationship with Graham Nash.

On her sojourn that spring, taken in part with a friend named Penelope, Joni traveled throughout Europe, visiting France, Spain, and Greece. On the isle of Crete she took up the dulcimer and while there began writing a series of songs dealing with her adventures. Among these were “Carey” and “California,” the former song about an American guy, Cary Raditz, who she became involved with while on Crete.

Later that summer, Joni agreed to perform at the Isle of Wight Festival in August 1970 – a giant festival with 250,000 or so attending, some of whom became rowdy and impolite to performers. Joni, for one, was interrupted during her performance by one stage crasher (actually, someone she knew from Crete who was quite out of line), driving her to near tears. Still, she delivered her performance while asking the audience to be civil toward performers.

In 1970, Joni also spent time with James Taylor. She had met him a year or so earlier at the Newport Folk Festival. But during 1970, he was working on a Hollywood film project with the title Two-Lane Blacktop, a road movie also starring The Beach Boys’ Dennis Wilson and Warren Oates. In any case, during this time, as Taylor would later explain in a June 2015 Uncut interview: “Joni Mitchell came along with me [during filming]. We wrote in this camper across the southwest of America and had some of the most outrageous good times. It was really great.” Taylor also noted: “I had played on the album that Joni was making when we met, Blue. I played guitar and backed her up on a few of those songs. It was wonderful working with Joni. We had a great year together, we worked, we traveled.”

Mitchell and Taylor were then each writing songs for their respective albums that would appear in 1971 – Mitchell’s “Blue” and Taylor’s “Mud Slide Slim and the Blue Horizon”. And each would write songs for and/or about the other: Mitchell for him in “See You Sometime” and “Just Like This Train,” and Taylor for her in “You Can Close Your Eyes.” 

In London, England in October 1970, she gave a concert of her songs on guitar, piano and dulcimer for the BBC’s “In Concert” series. In Vancouver, British Columbia she, Phil Ochs and James Taylor performed at an October Greenpeace benefit concert. That month she also joined John Hartford and Pete Seeger for a “folk-rock” TV special in Los Angeles. On October 29th, 1970, she and James Taylor appeared together for a BBC radio performance at the Paris Theater, broadcast in late December that year. In early November she appeared during the encore session of a James Taylor concert at Princeton University where she and Taylor sang “You Can Close Your Eyes” together.

Cover of Joni Mitchell’s 1971 album, “Blue.”

In 1971, Joni Mitchell would record an album that would set her apart from her peers and distinguish her for a major achievement. The album, Blue, covered what some would call her confessional oeuvre, with Joni bearing her soul, wearing her love life on her lyrical sleeve, as it were. Blue was hailed and lauded by critics as well as her musical peers. She had written some of it years earlier, some during her European travels of 1970, and more when she came back home.

Blue offered, for the most part, an intimate and painful assortment of her own love and life stories. Stephen Holden, a music critic at the New York Times observed that “Blue” just went to a level of psychic pain and honesty that no one else had ever written before, and no one else has written since.”

In its lyrics and tone, the album was regarded as inspired, a near masterpiece — albeit depressing and “blue” as its title aptly states. Mitchell would later explain: “At that period of my life, I had no personal defenses. … I felt like I had absolutely no secrets from the world and I couldn’t pretend in my life to be strong. Or to be happy. But the advantage of it in the music .

In fact, Mitchell’s buffeting from the loves of her life once again proved the powerful ingredient in her song-making. In its deepest moments, Blue is part Graham Nash, part James Taylor. And as mentioned earlier, even relationships dating to the 1960s, such as that with Leonard Cohen, may have also influenced some of the album’s lyrics.

Prior to the making of Blue, Mitchell had broken up with Nash, and on her travels to Europe had a fling with Cary Riditz on Crete, and then came back to the States where a relationship with James Taylor began. All of that and more figures into the emotional stew at work in this album.Graham Nash, writing of Joni and this album in 2012, noted: “Listening to Blue is quite difficult for me personally. It brings back many memories and saddens me greatly. It is, by far, my most favorite solo album, and the thought that I spent much time with this fine woman and genius of a writer is incredible to me. I watched her write some of those songs and I believe that one or two of them were about me, but who really knows?”

 

Despite James Taylor’s difficulties with heroin, Mitchell became quite taken with him during their time together and was said to have been devastated when he broke off the relationship. It was around this time that she began recording Blue. Among the songs on the album believed to be inspired in whole or in part by her involvement with and parting from Taylor are “All I Want” and “Blue,” as well as “This Flight Tonight.”

On the song “Blue” – in this instance, Blue being the unnamed subject of the narrator’s plea and love song – there is palpable and powerful emotion. On this song, as well as others on this and previous albums, Mitchell’s performances send out very visceral waves of emotion; feelings unseen of course, but yet somehow moving from voice, piano wire, and guitar string through the air as a kind of empathetic current, deeply penetrating and deeply felt by those who receive it, some brought to tears and/or deep internal feeling as they listen to her songs. Mitchell seems to possess a certain kind of emanating emotional aura that flows out of these performances in a very tangible way.

Released in June 1971, Blue was a powerful watershed for Mitchell as well as a critical and commercial success. Blue as one of the 25 albums that represented “turning points and pinnacles in 20th-century popular music.” Among the songs on Blue, in order of their appearance are: “All I Want,” “My Old Man,” “Little Green,” “Carey,” and “Blue” on side one, and “California,” “This Flight Tonight,” River,” “A Case of You,” and “The Last Time I Saw Richard” on side two.

Reviewing the album in 1971, Robert Hilburn of the Los Angeles Times called it “a marvelously sensitive portrait of love and romance…” He also added that it ran the gamut of emotions – “…There’s happiness in ‘My Old Man,’ tenderness in the poignant ‘Little Green,’ mischievousness in ‘Carey,’ regret in ‘This Flight Tonight,’ longing in ‘River’ and a kind of shattered idealism in ‘The Last Time I Saw Richard.’

“Little Green” is autobiographical and dates to 1964 when Mitchell became pregnant by her boyfriend at the time who later left her. Joni had given birth to the child in February 1965, naming her Kelly Dale Anderson, choosing the name after the color, kelly green. The child, initially placed in foster care while Joni struggled as a poor folk singer in Toronto, was later given up for adoption. “I was dirt poor,” she later explained. “An unhappy mother does not raise a happy child. It was difficult parting with the child, but I had to let her go.” Mitchell wrote “Little Green” in 1967.

The existence of her daughter was not publicly known until 1993, when a roommate from Mitchell’s art school days in the 1960s sold the story to a tabloid magazine. Kelly’s adoptive parents, David and Ida Gibb, renamed her Kilauren. Joni and her daughter were reunited in 1997 .

Other songs on the album are not sad in the way that “Little Green” is sad, but most are soul-wrenching in other ways. And some, like “California,” describe travels in Europe with a longing to be home. Still, it is the love and loss-of-love songs, such as “River,” that have the deep and abiding power in this album.

“River,” the third track on side two of Blue, has become one of Joni Mitchell’s most famous songs. It’s cast in a Christmas setting, believed to be southern California where Mitchell was then living, along La Brea Avenue in Los Angeles. In the song, the narrator is in a painful time, dealing with a recent breakup and not feeling particularly cheery. She longs to escape her emotional difficulties. “I wish I had a river I could skate away on,” she sings, a river so long it “would teach my feet to fly.” In Canada, no doubt, Mitchell, in her youth, likely found a river or two to skate away on. But in southern California, no frozen rivers were available to take her away from her sadness. The song’s spare, piano-driven arrangement paints a vivid picture of loss, longing, and some self-blame as well.

Joni Mitchell skating on frozen Lake Mendota, near Madison, Wisconsin, 'Picnic Point' behind her, March 1976. Photo, Joel Bernstein. Also used on her 'Songs of a Prairie Girl' album (2005). Click for album.
James Taylor, who had been involved with Mitchell not long before the Blue recording sessions, was quite familiar with “River,” having first heard the song when she played it at her home in Laurel Canyon, Los Angeles. “I’ve known it from the time it was written, and I’ve always loved it,” And although “River,” was not intended to be a holiday song, it is now often heard during the holiday season when Christmas music is played. In fact, more than 100 artists have covered the song, including Taylor, who put “River” on his own Christmas album.
The demise of the personal relationship is the major point of the song, as Mitchell turns the blame on herself at one point: “I’m so hard to handle / I’m selfish and I’m sad / Now I’ve gone and lost the best baby I’ve ever had.” So she’s thinking maybe she’s made a big mistake here, sending her lover away. And about now, she really needs that river.“Most Christmas songs are light and shallow, but ‘River’ is a sad song,” Taylor explained. “It starts with a description of a commercially produced version of Christmas in Los Angeles . . . then juxtaposes it with this frozen river, which says, ‘Christmas here is bringing me down.’ It only mentions Christmas in the first verse. Then it’s, ‘Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on’ — wanting to fall into this landscape that she remembers.” Taylor also adds: “It’s such a beautiful thing, to turn away from the commercial mayhem that Christmas becomes and just breathe in some pine needles.” But he adds, “It’s a really blue song.”

Taylor asked rhetorically: “Do I want to know who she made cry, who she made say goodbye?…Well, I haven’t asked her that question. That’s the only mystery in it: Who was it whose heart she broke?… There were a lot of us.” In fact, some believe the song is actually about Graham Nash, as she wrote this particular song in 1969, and sang it publicly in late 1969 as “River/Willy.”

“River” is also one of Mitchell’s songs that has received wider exposure through its use in Hollywood films and TV shows. In fact, many of Mitchell’s songs have been used in various films, TV programs, and documentaries over the years – garnering at least 85 soundtrack credits to date, In other cases, her music has made it into the film’s narrative or dialogue as in the 1998 film, You’ve Got Mail, in which there are numerous references to Mitchell’s songs by Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.

Sometime after Blue, Joni Mitchell sold her house in Laurel Canyon, and purchased a piece of property near Half Moon Bay in British Columbia, Canada where she could have privacy and quiet not available to her in Hollywood. In the latter half of 1971 she retreated to this property for a time where she built a small house. When she needed to be in L.A. for recording or other business, she would stay with her agent, David Geffen. By February of 1972, Joni resumed performing, beginning a 13-city North American tour. Jackson Browne, then a rising singer-songwriter, became her opening act for the tour, and the two became involved in what would be something of a stormy relationship.

After her North American tour, she began residing at David Geffen’s house in Los Angeles. She would also sometimes travel in Geffen’s social circles. In 1972 she and Geffen attended a fundraiser for Democrat George McGovern’s presidential campaign. There she met Jack Nicholson and Warren Beatty, among others. She and Jackson Browne by this time were ending their relationship, and Geffen sought to cheer up his friend and housemate by taking her away from the L.A. scene for a time with a trip to Paris.

Joni Mitchell’s “For the Roses” album, produced on the Asylum label and released in November 1972.
Joni would later write about Geffen and Paris in one of her songs, described below. At this point in her career, her contract with the Reprise record label had ended, and coincidentally, housemate David Geffen was then starting his own recording label, Asylum, which Joni signed on with.

Mitchell’s albums following Blue kept her career on an upward trajectory. Her fifth album, For the Roses, released in October 1972,  A single from the album, “You Turn Me On, I’m a Radio,” was her first American hit single.

Two other songs of note from this album – “Cold Blue Steel and Sweet Fire,” about a heroin addict, and “Judgment of the Moon and Stars” (Ludwig’s Tune), inspired in part by Beethoven – were also popular tracks. In 2007, For The Roses was one of 25 recordings chosen that year by the Library of Congress to be added to the National Recording Registry – the only one of her albums so far selected for that distinction.

Joni Mitchell’s 6th and most successful studio album, “Court and Spark,” released on Asylum, January 1974.
Joni Mitchell’s 6th and most successful studio album, “Court and Spark,” released on Asylum, January 1974.

Mitchell by this time was breaking away from her earlier folk and acoustic sound, adding more musical hardware to the production of her songs, and delivering, in some cases, more of a rock `n roll sound. She hired a jazz/pop fusion band, L.A. Express, to back her up on Court and Spark. In the PBS documentary, Joni Mitchell: Woman of Heart and Mind, singer-songwriter Eric Andersen observed of Joni’s move to working with a band: “People have this image and idea of this fragile, Nordic goddess who’s descending from the mountains, like wisps of Wagner, and Tiffany wind chimes… But later on, you know, I think when she got infected with rock and roll, well she turned [out] like a red-hot mama, flesh and blood.”

The new band helped power songs like “Raised on Robbery,” which cast Mitchell as a hard rocker. Backing her now on a tune like “Robbery” were fellow Canadian Robbie Robertson on guitar (later of The Band) and also Tom Scott on saxophone. David Crosby and Graham Nash contributed background vocals on “Free Man in Paris.” And several other musicians also contributed throughout the album.

Another popular song and hit single from Court and Spark was “Free Man in Paris,” a song Mitchell wrote about her agent and friend, David Geffen. Part of the inspiration for this song came about when she, Geffen, Robbie and Dominique Robertson made the trip to Paris mentioned earlier. Geffen was Mitchell’s agent from nearly the beginning of her career, and he would be around her and her friends not only in recording, contract, and negotiating sessions, but also on social and informal occasions. In the Laurel Canyon years, he would visit with Joni and friends and help her when she needed a friend to lean on or a place to stay.

“Free Man In Paris” is a song that hits at the travail of those who work in the popular music industry, and in particular, a guy like Geffen who was then engaged with many pop artists “stoking the star-making machinery behind the popular song.”

Mitchell, who had already begun taking swipes at the pop music industry in earlier songs, would have a double effect with this song, as a thank you to her friend and agent for his hard work in helping her, but also as a critique of the industry that was taking a toll on its own, and sometimes, as Joni saw it, trying to crush her art in favor of dollars. There would be more of Mitchell’s music industry critique in the years ahead.

Geffen, meanwhile, may have felt that he was in the meat grinder too, but was soon doing quite well in the music business. In fact, by 1970 he had founded Asylum Records with Elliot Roberts, the label that Mitchell had joined for her albums, For The Roses, Court and Spark, and others to come. In fact, Asylum would also sign a number of artists, among them: Jackson Browne, Bob Dylan, Tom Waits, Linda Ronstadt, and others. By 1972, Asylum would be acquired by Warner Communications and merged with Elektra Records.

Geffen went on to become a Warner Brothers executive for a time, establish Geffen Records in 1980, DGC Records in 1990, and in 1994, one of the three founders of DreamWorks SKG. As of 2014, Geffen’s estimated net worth was $6 billion, making him one of the richest people in the entertainment industry.

So, while David Geffen might have been a free man in Paris momentarily in the early 1970s, enjoying some well-deserved R&R, as history would seem to suggest, he went back to work and built himself a nice little entertainment empire.

“Free Man in Paris” has a nice airy feel to it, and is an enjoyable and relatable piece of music, especially for any listener who has an overbearing, high-pressure work load and a longing to find some escape, whether Paris or the Great North Woods. Meanwhile, Mitchell herself was “courting and sparking,” as she would later put it, beginning a relationship with L.A. Express drummer John Guerin. In 1974, Joni purchased a Spanish style home on a private road in the Bel Air section of L.A., and she and Guerin set up house there.

Court and Spark – and the L.A. Express – helped make Joni Mitchell a popular touring act over some 50 dates in the U.S. and Canada during 1974, generating good notices and also producing a live, two-record set album, Miles of Aisles, in November 1974.

Joni was also a mainstream music star by this time, sought out for magazine features and cover stories. In June 1974, Maclean’s magazine of Canada featured her in a cover story, and Time magazine also put her on the cover of its December 17th, 1974 issue, featuring “Rock Women: Songs of Pride and Passion.”

Through the second half of the 1970s the Joni Mitchell albums kept coming: The Hissing of Summer Lawns in November 1975, Hejira in 1976, and Don Jaun’s Reckless Daughter in December 1977. By now, Joni Mitchell was well into the jazz and experimental stage of her career, and she had lost some of her previous fans who preferred her acoustic style.

Nov 1975: Joni Mitchell’s “Hissing of Summer Lawns” album, the title and lyric phrase derived from the sound of L.A. lawn sprinklers.
Nov 1975: Joni Mitchell’s “Hissing of Summer Lawns” album, the title and lyric phrase derived from the sound of L.A. lawn sprinklers.

As Tom Casciato would put it in one later online review: “Hissing was where a lot of people got off the Joni bus.” But Joni Mitchell, like Bob Dylan, was not about to be circumscribed by her fans’ preferences. She had to follow her muse and move into new territory; that was just who she was. So the music continued, and so did the poetry, now in a different form.

She began working with some of the best musicians in the jazz and fusion worlds, composing new music, and winning their respect, among them – bass player Jaco Pastorius, drummer Don Alias, saxophonist Wayne Shorter (all of whom worked with the progressive jazz group Weather Report), jazz guitarist Pat Metheny, and others.

In late 1978, Charles Mingus, the famous jazz bassist, composer, and orchestra leader, asked her to work with him on his last project. Mingus was then in the final stages of Lou Gehrig’s disease. The album Joni helped produce and compose for him, Mingus, was released after his death in June 1979.

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In 1982-1992 Joni Mitchell was married to bassist and sound engineer Larry Klein, and during that decade, with Klein’s help and others, she released more albums, three on Geffen Records — Wild Things Run Fast in 1982,Dog Eat Dog in 1985, and Chalk Mark in a Rain Storm in 1988. In the popular market, however, much of this work did not fare well. The 1980s were also a time when Mitchell broadened her social critique taking aim at televangelists in one of her songs, while supporting causes such as the plight of Native Americans (Wounded Knee incident). She also continued to level barbs at the music industry. In a 1995 Vogue interview with writer Charles Gandee, she noted: “…Another thing was that in the eighties we moved into a particularly unromantic period in music. Videos had just begun, and they had a tendency to feature cold women with dark lipstick and stilettos grinding men’s hands into the ground. It was an anti-love period, and my work Wild Things Run Fast, in particular  was a joyous celebration of love, which basically made people sick.”

In the 1990s she regained some of her popularity. Night Ride Home, released in March 1991, was closer to her earlier acoustic work. Her next album, Turbulent Indigo, also viewed by some critics as having more accessible material, though still offering social critique at turns, was called a strong comeback. Turbulent Indigo won two Grammy Awards, including Best Pop Album. In the late 1990s she re-united with her daughter, Kilauren Gibb, and her grandchildren. In the year 2000, Mitchell turned out a collection of standards along with a couple of her older songs with Both Sides Now, which received a Grammy award for Best Traditional Pop Vocal Album. In 2007, jazz pianist Herbie Hancock released his River: The Joni Letters, an album dedicated to Mitchell’s music, and also the first jazz album to win Album of the Year at the Grammy Awards.

In recent years, Mitchell has collected a variety of honors and awards for her musical and songwriting accomplishments. In 1997, she was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. In April 2000, the TNT cable TV network presented a celebration in her honor at the Hammerstein Ballroom in New York City, with an all-star cast of performers singing her songs, from Elton John to Diana Krall. In 2002 she became only the third popular Canadian singer/songwriter to be appointed a Companion of the Order of Canada, that country’s highest civilian honor. She also received a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award that year. In 2007 she was inducted into the Canadian Songwriters Hall of Fame and Canada Post also honored her that year with a postage stamp.

Joni Mitchell, in a pensive moment, 1976. Photo, Joel Bernstein.

Joni Mitchell’s music and poetry have touched a lot of people. Those who heard her perform or listened to her songs in her early years seem to have been especially moved by her ability to reach into their inner core.

David Crosby, awed from the first time he heard her, would simply say of her singing and songrwriting, “there’s some magic that took place there.” “Everyone was saying that there was a magic to her songs,” said Shay. “She’d come up with these marvelous melodies and wonderful words.”

Joni exorcises her demons by writing those songs,” said Stephen Stills in a 1974 Time magazine story on Joni, “and in so doing she reaches way down and grabs the essence of something very private and personal to women.” True enough, but it wasn’t just women she touched – though women did seem to have an extra sensory something that “got” what she was sending out.

Among those in the music industry who first dealt with Joni Mitchell, many were also amazed at what she brought to the table and how she created so much material in so short a time. Elliot Roberts, her manager in the early years would observe: “When she first came out, she had a backlog of 20, 25 songs that were what most people would dream that they would do in their entire career. Yet Joni Mitchell is more than simply a troubadour of the female soul or a love balladeer – as anyone who has followed her career knows.

Whether finding exquisite phrasing to capture an image or some moment of the heart, using her “weird chords” (open tuning) to bend the sound for the right tonal conveyance, or pushing the bounds of experimental jazz, Joni Mitchell has been a thoughtful and pioneering musician.

Joni Mitchell looks out a window of her Laurel Canyon home in October 1970.

Joni Mitchell emerged at a time when the women’s rights movement was still building steam, and had to fight for recognition as a serious artist. Her image was often defined in terms of whom she was dating – a Rolling Stone article dubbed her “The Queen of El Lay”, and her famous boyfriends included David Crosby, Graham Nash, James Taylor, and Jackson Browne. As her material became more ambitious, and her lyrics became more questioning of society, she was abandoned altogether by Rolling Stone, who named her 1975’s excellent The Hissing of Summer Lawns as one of the worst albums of the year. So if she often appears a little self-promotional in interviews, ranking herself alongside Bob Dylan as the great solo artist of her generation, she’s generally justified, reacting to the sexism she encountered in her prime.

The sophistication of her songwriting and, in particular, her musical arrangements is the essential element that sets Joni Mitchell apart from her contemporaries and her peers, whether the troubadours of the early 70s Laurel Canyon singer-songwriter scene or lyrical heavyweights such as Leonard Cohen, Neil Young and even Bob Dylan. And yet in the music industry, Mitchell has never really been afforded the kind of respect heaped on her male counterparts.

Mitchell’s a wonderful singer, songwriter, and guitarist; a childhood bout of polio left her unable to play guitar conventionally, and she’s an expert of alternative tunings. While her public persona is of a folk singer of songs like ‘Both Sides Now’ and ‘Chelsea Morning’, her musical reach expanded throughout the 1970s into pop and jazz. Towards the end of the 1970s, her albums became too insular for me to follow, but her run of albums in the early to mid 1970s is stunning, a peak that ranks with the greatest artists in popular music. It defines the best songs that Joni Mitchell wrote at her creative peak, which stretched from the release of Blue (1971), through For the Roses (1972), Court and Spark (1974) and The Hissing of Summer Lawns (1975), to the pared and broodingly atmospheric Hejira (1976).

Blue (1971)

Joni Mitchell Blue

Joni Mitchell’s early work was often folk based – 1970’s Ladies of the Canyon featured singalongs like ‘The Circle Game’ and ‘Big Yellow Taxi’.  These five classic releases began with the starkly powerful Blue, on which she single-handedly redefined the notion of the singer-songwriter. Intimate and confessional, her new songs of love and heartbreak shocked some of her male counterparts with their emotional intensity. On first hearing them, her friend Kris Kristofferson exclaimed: “Oh Joni – save something of yourself!” . That was not an option for Mitchell, whose songwriting had now approached a level of rapt intensity. Graham Nash, the Manchester-born, Los Angeles-based songwriter, remembers her “channelling” her songs so intensely at the piano of the house they shared in leafy Laurel Canyon that she would be utterly immune to his presence in the room.

Arguably the most vulnerable song on Blue, “A Case of You” is an intimate window into Mitchell’s personal life. In 1979 Rolling Stone interview, Mitchell said, “The Blue album, there’s hardly a dishonest note in the vocals. At that period in my life, I had no personal defenses. I felt like a cellophane wrapper on a pack of cigarettes.” Said to be inspired by her breakup with Graham Nash, “A Case of You” is yearning and raw. And interestingly, that’s James Taylor on guitar in the back, Mitchell’s love interest at the time.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nAK9Pj5-QXY

The best song on Mitchell’s best album has become a seasonal classic over the past couple decades, with artists as diverse as Rosanne Cash, Cee Lo Green and old buddy James Taylor recording cover versions for holiday records. Mitchell’s spare, piano-driven take is the most heartbreaking. Like most of ‘Blue”s tracks, it’s a love song. But this one looks back on a particularly painful breakup that still hasn’t settled in as Christmas nears.

She took a more direct approach with 1971’s Blue, a stripped back, emotionally vulnerable album that diaries her relationships with Graham Nash and James Taylor. Side two is the stronger half with masterful songs like ‘A Case of You’ and ‘River’, and the intense paranoia of ‘This Flight Tonight’. Blue features Mitchell’s work on the Appalachian dulcimer.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bulwl46vz9s

The trio of austerely beautiful and forlorn songs – River, A Case of You and The Last Time I Saw Richard – that close Blue are the real beginning of that creative tightrope walk. On the final repeated line of the beautifully forlorn River – “I wish I had a river I could skate away on” – she lingers on “skate”, making it sound like the resigned cry of someone falling slowly, wilfully though the ice.

“During the making of Blue, I was so thin-skinned and delicate that if anyone looked at me, I’d burst into tears,” she admitted years later, referring to the messy fracturing of her relationship with Nash and the tentative beginnings of a short, but intense, relationship with James Taylor, then in the throes of heroin addiction.

Blue, though, also signalled in more subtle ways the more dramatic musical shift that was to follow. Listen to the way she enunciates the very first notes of the title song, settling on the word “blue”, stretching and bending it across an octave or two in the manner of a seasoned jazz singer. Then there’s the joyous lilt and sway of Carey, one of several songs of wanderlust that, across the years, testify to a relentlessly restless spirit.

Mitchell came up though the American trad-folk circuit of the mid-60s and was for her first two albums marketed as a fey, fragile hippy folk singer. She had already survived several setbacks. Her childhood in small-town Saskatchewan was fractured when she contacted polio, aged eight, in 1951. In 1964, she had fallen pregnant and, struggling financially, gave her newborn daughter up for adoption the following year. (The song, Little Green, from Blue, is an ode to her lost daughter and, on Chinese Cafe, a song released in 1982, she sang: “My child’s a stranger / I bore her / But I could not raise her.” She was reunited with her daughter, Kilauren Gibb, in 1997.)

Joni Mitchell For The Roses

For The Roses (1972)

If Blue was a dramatic refinement of her songwriting approach, the next album, For the Roses, seemed like a step sideways. Revealingly, though, the usual coterie of LA session players was augmented by jazz musicians Wilton Felder and Tom Scott. Between her two undisputed classics ‘Blue’ and ‘Court and Spark,’ Mitchell released ‘For the Roses,’ which, in its way, is the quintessential Joni Mitchell album’s, despite its shortcomings. The record’s lead single stems from a meeting with record-company executives, who asked the commercially averse artist to write a hit single. Even though it’s delivered with tongue firmly in cheek, ‘You Turn Me On, I’m a Radio’ ended up in the Top 30, The effortlessly commercial You Turn Me On, I’m a Radio – written to assuage David Geffen, the boss of her new record label, and the snaky thrust of Cold Blue Steel and Sweet Fire both pulse with the more musically loose-limbed presence of Felder (bass) and Scott (woodwind and reeds). Joni was branching out and moving on once again.

For The Roses has always felt like the overlooked album from her 1970s peak. It’s also an important step in her development, a big leap in musical sophistication after the emotionally naked Blue. Seemingly straightforward songs like ‘The Blonde in the Bleachers’ are filled with complex chord changes that showcase Mitchell’s musical sophistication. Her arrangements are fuller than before, with more guest musicians, but it’s still centered around Mitchell’s acoustic guitar and piano. A lot of these songs concern Mitchell’s recent breakup with James Taylor.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=2&v=RTef-VeJLY8

Court and Spark (1974)

Joni Mitchell Court and Spark

All of Mitchell’s studio albums between 1971 and 1976 are strong, but my favourite is the smooth jazzy pop of Court and Spark. Mitchell recounts; “Nearly every bass player that I tried did the same thing. They would put up a dark picket fence through my music, and I thought, why does it have to go ploddy ploddy ploddy? Finally one guy said to me, Joni, you better play with jazz musicians.” .  “Help Me” Mitchell’s biggest hit (it reached No. 7, her only Top 10 showing) is also one of her instantly likable songs, thanks to an impeccably played melody that splits the difference between soft rock and smooth jazz. Backed by an ace session group fronted by L.A. saxophonist Tom Scott, Mitchell breezily works her way through this distress call that goes down like a cool cool cocktail on a hot summer day.

The sound and the melodies are smooth, and the singles like ‘Free Man In Paris’ and ‘Help Me’ are among her most approachable songs. But there’s still plenty of trademark romantic insecurity on songs like ‘Car On The Hill’ and ‘Down To You’. On Free Man in Paris – reputedly about Geffen – and the observational People’s Parties, Mitchell turned her gaze on the newly ascendant Los Angeles rock music aristocracy with their “passport smiles” and cocaine cool. As Court and Spark became her bestselling album, she was still the conflicted outsider, unable to fit comfortably into this new elite – “I feel like I’m sleeping, can you wake me?” she sings on People’s Parties, sounding resigned, almost numb, “…I’m just living on nerves and feelings with a weak and a lazy mind/ And coming to people’s parties, fumbling, deaf, dumb and blind.”

Court and Spark came as a surprise. Gone was the fragile, confessional songstress in a flowing dress; instead, here was a confident, full-throated singer in designer threads with a slick electric band in tow. Gone, too, were the acoustic songs sung with just a guitar, piano or dulcimer backing, replaced by an electric, jazz-inflected, intricately arranged sound, courtesy of Tom Scott’s LA Express Band, that weaved around lyrics that were acutely observational or dazzlingly impressionistic, rather than soul-baringly confessional. When her friend, Malka Marom, author of Both Sides Now, asked her if the band’s presence meant that she might risk the vulnerable singer-songwriter image she had cultivated, Mitchell replied defiantly: “Well, I don’t want to be vulnerable any more.”

Not for the first or last time, Joni Mitchell had moved on and, in doing so, had remade herself in the manner of a true artist. The band were rehearsing the Court and Spark songs for the live tour,” says Malka Marom. “Joni had a close connection with drummer John Guerin. He was the first person to put her music on paper; he mapped it out for the band. But he was also the one who inspired the courting and the sparking.” You can hear that romantic static loud and clear on the raucously sensual Raised On Robbery,  After five albums of increasingly personal songs, mostly guided by acoustic guitar, Mitchell didn’t want to rush the record she had released an album each year since 1968 — but she also didn’t want it to sound anything like those other ones, which were starting to pigeonhole her as a single-minded singer-songwriter. So she incorporated jazz elements into the songs. ‘Raised on Robbery,’ the album’s first single, begins as a big-band-style boogie before giving way to one of the hardest-rocking songs in Mitchell’s catalog. In which Mitchell inhabits the role of a good-time girl on the pick-up, relishing the lines, “I’m a pretty good cook, I’m sitting on my groceries/ Come up to my kitchen, I’ll show you my best recipe.” It was a long way from Laurel Canyon, lunar miles from the folksy piety of Clouds.

The Hissing of Summer Lawns (1975)

Joni Mitchell Hissing of Summer Lawns

The follow-up, The Hissing of Summer Lawns, sparked a critical backlash that  is hard to fathom. Rolling Stone noted Mitchell’s increasing sophistication as a songwriter while lambasting her “increasingly eccentric” melodies and “uninspired jazz-rock style”. One suspects that the rock blokes wanted folk-rock authenticity, but her hybrid sound and the shifts in style that now marked her writing had taken her way beyond that.

Among those who did get The Hissing of Summer Lawns, though, were Smiths frontman Morrissey – who called it “the first album that completely captivated me” Hissing got thrashed,” a defiant but still bruised Mitchell recalls So, though it got thrashed by the press, the young artists coming up could see there was something special going on there.”.

The Hissing of Summer Lawns marks where Mitchell focused on texture, a much more eclectic record than anything she’d done previously. ‘The Jungle Line’ is built around a sample of Burundi drumming, while ‘Shadows and Light’ is filled with airy synthesisers. But the dominant mood of the album is sumptuous, feminist ballads like ‘Shades of Scarlett Conquering’ and ‘The Boho Dance’. Prince was vocal in his admiration for this record, and ‘Don’t Interrupt The Sorrow’ is my favourite of Mitchell’s songs, with its fluid bass line and dobro textures.

“For a long time, I’ve been playing in straight rhythms,” Mitchell told her friend, Malka Marom, in 1973, in the first of the three extended interviews that are included in Both Sides Now, a new book published next month. “But now, in order to sophisticate my music to my own taste, I push it into odd places that feel a little unusual to me, so that I feel I’m stretching out.” The Jungle Line, which jumps out at you with its juxtaposition of Mitchell’s voice and the thunderous rhythms and whoops of the Drummers of Burundi.)

Hejira (1976)

Joni Mitchell Hejira

After the richness of Hissing, the mood poems of Hejira seemed to me for a long time to be a muted coda to Mitchell’s golden period. Over time, though, the best of these often slow and brooding songs – Hejira, Amelia, Blue Motel Room have kept calling me back despite my slight aversion to Jaco Pastorius’s relentlessly virtuoso bass playing. If Blue Motel Room is a study in longing and languorous sensuality. Amelia, an ode to the pioneering aviator Amelia Earhart, sees Mitchell in reflective mood, her confessional honesty now even more nakedly self-searing than before. “Maybe I’ve never really loved, I guess that is the truth”, she sings in the penultimate verse, “I’ve spent my whole life in clouds at icy altitudes…”

After splitting with drummer John Guerin, Mitchell embarked on a road trip. Hejira is effectively a journal of her travels, documenting characters like the horny protagonist of ‘Coyote’ and veteran blues-man Furry Lewis. Texturally, the album revolves around Mitchell’s guitar and Jaco Pastorious’s fretless bass. With the homogeneous sound, it’s perhaps the most difficult of her first five albums to access, but it’s filled with gorgeous songs like ‘Amelia’ and ‘Refuge of the Roads’.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f7MbmXklj3Q

It is an acknowledgment that Joni Mitchell created her best music at some personal cost, which is part of the reason it carries such emotional resonance across the years. She once said that her audience connected with the honesty of a great song because “it strikes against the very nerves of their life”. She then added: “To do that, you have to first strike against your own.” For me, she is indisputably the most sophisticated voice of hope and heartbreak, joy and sorrow.

A Four-disc box set Love Has Many Faces: A Quartet, a Ballet, Waiting to Be Danced, featuring 53 remastered songs from Joni Mitchell’s career, is out 17th November on Rhino.

Also check out: 1977’s double album Don Juan’s Restless Daughter has lots of great moments, and it’s a little overlooked in her catalogue. 1969’s Clouds is the best of her early folk-oriented work, with gorgeous songs like ‘That Song About The Midway’.

Communions, made up of brothers Martin & Mads Rehof and high school friends Jacob van Deurs Formann and Frederik Lind Köppen, began in 2014releasing their debut EP Cobblestones, followed by a 7″ & EP. These releases, as well as the forthcoming 7″, precede the band’s anticipated debut album & showcase Communions’ distinctive sound full of transcendent melodies, delicate guitar lines & emotive pop-leaning rock songs.

The quartet came together at Copenhagen’s infamous venue-cum-rehearsal space, Mayhem, they wilfully took chances with their music to see if they could arrive somewhere else. It was the band’s conviction that let them land here intact, and with a collection of songs that chart their journey.

“Blue” makes the most of everywhere Communions have been. And through all of this the stakes have changed, but the sensitivity and craft with which the band takes risks has bloomed. An eloquence now shines through, and you can take it or leave it. Discarding some of the moodiness found in their previous recordings, Blue tells us what was always natural to Communions. It’s about love, and taking chances, it’s about trying something, and it still doesn’t matter if there’s apprehension—it’s better when you’re too busy to notice. The youthful confusions and exaggerated sentiments are there, though this time it’s captured with a newfound maturity. It’s a change in perspective presented in pop.

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Communions, made up of brothers Martin & Mads Rehof and Jacob van Deurs Formann & Frederik Lind Köppen, The band began in 2014, releasing their debut EP Cobblestones, followed by a 7″ & EP. These releases, as well as the forthcoming 7″, precede the band’s anticipated debut album & showcase Communions’ distinctive sound full of transcendent melodies, delicate guitar lines & emotive pop-leaning rock songs.

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Blue makes the most of everywhere Communions have been. And through all of this the stakes have changed, but the sensitivity and craft with which the band takes risks has bloomed. An eloquence now shines through, and you can take it or leave it. Discarding some of the moodiness found in their previous recordings, Blue tells us what was always natural to Communions. It’s about love, and taking chances, it’s about trying something, and it still doesn’t matter if there’s apprehension—it’s better when you’re too busy to notice. The youthful confusions and exaggerated sentiments are there, though this time it’s captured with a newfound maturity. It’s a change in perspective presented in pop.

There were singer-songwriters before Joni Mitchell , but with her 1971 masterpiece Blue, she pretty much set the template for almost everything that came after it.

Leading up to the album’s release on June 22nd, Joni Mitchell had released three albums, each an improvement — commercially and creatively — over its predecessor. Her 1968 debut, Song to a Seagull, barely cracked the charts and was short on any signature song. But by the following year’s Clouds, she was in the Top 40 and writing and recording numbers like “Chelsea Morning” and “Both Sides Now,” two of her earliest classics.

With 1970’s Ladies of the Canyon she cracked the Top 30 for the first time and scored three more of her most enduring numbers, “The Circle Game,” “Woodstock” (which Mitchell’s ex, Graham Nash, took to the Top 15 with his group Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young  and “Big Yellow Taxi,” which gave Mitchell her first sorta big single with its influence over the years looms way larger.

But Blue was something different, a hyper-personal collection of songs that sounded like they were ripped straight from Mitchell’s diary. The spare performances — most times it’s just Mitchell and her guitar or piano — add to the album’s intimacy, sparking a revealing listen that at times comes off like something maybe you shouldn’t be hearing. There are confessions, slipped-out secrets and the sense that the heart on display here was temporarily caught off guard.

When she first started recording the album in Los Angeles (with famous friend Stephen Stills and then current boyfriend James Taylor helping out on a handful of songs, along with pedal steel player Sneaky Pete Kleinow and drummer Russ Kunkel), Mitchell was unsure which direction her fourth album was heading.

Songs were recorded and later cut from the album, replaced by newer numbers that better reflected her state of mind at the time. Blue is as much about her breakup with Nash as it is her relationship with other men of the period, including Taylor, even though the couple was history by the time the album came out. The pieces come together like a fractured heart trying to mend itself.

Joni Mitchell didn’t try to hide any of this. The hurt you hear in some of the songs came from a very real place, as did the joy found in others. In songs like “Carey,” “California,” “River,” “A Case of You” and the title track, Mitchell paints a portrait of a life in shambles, in heartbreak, in excitement and in love. (Many of the joyous pieces were written about a man Mitchell had met during a quick retreat to Greece in 1970 after her breakup with Nash.)

But there was more to Blue than just veiled accounts of Mitchell’s flings. There were songs about the daughter she gave up for adoption in 1965 (“Little Green”), homesickness (“California”) and her early marriage (“The Last Time I Saw Richard”). Nobody ever opened up so much on record before. Not even Carole King, whose equally game-shifting singer-songwriter album Tapestry was released just four months earlier, and certainly not any of her male contemporaries.

Blue became Mitchell’s highest-charting album at the time, “Carey” and “California” were both released as singles, with only the former charting, But its influence was almost immediately felt. Her friends and peers celebrated her openness, her complex guitar tunings and her willingness to take music into a bold new direction.

With the charts dominated by macho braggarts like the Rolling StonesSticky Fingers and Rod Stewart‘s Every Picture Tells a Story, both of which sandwiched Tapestry in the No. 1 spot in 1971, Blue not only revealed rare vulnerability, it was willing to take responsibility for its creator’s f—-ups. Nobody else was doing that. All these years later, singer-songwriters of all sorts (sensitive, insensitive, confessional, regretful) can be traced back to Mitchell’s masterpiece.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IAsXMlkwXgs&safe=active

Singer Songwriter Joni Mitchell performs in London in 1970 for the BBC in Concert series