Little Girl Blue: Requiem for Janis Joplin

[Untitled poem excerpt, originally written February 2001]

They laughed at your feathers,

your lyrics, your voice.

They called you ugly.

But when I look at your pictures

I see a lost little girl playing dress-up

And doing everything just because you could.

Janis, did you even know yourself?

You let them destroy you.

Killing yourself pretending to be this

character they made you. 

Selling your blues, pain for profit.

They market your name, your image.
In the store today I saw you
Immortalized as a doll.
A cartoon on a t-shirt. A lunchbox.
Don't they realize you were a person?
With a beating heart and soul you were
Compelled to share with the world?

It's just that you
Never held back.

Orgasmic voice at its breaking point

Straining, screaming, too drunk to finish.

I love you Janis for

your fiery explosions, your howling cries.
The brilliant girl behind big glasses.
You thought you were hiding
behind beads, boas, booze...
Decked out in full regalia you claim your throne.
I can feel your electric tangled hair, that raspy voodoo voice
Soothing and scaring me all at once.
Where are you now?

On October 4, 1970, Janis's manager went looking for her after she uncharacteristically failed to show up for a recording session. She was found dead in her room at the Landmark Hotel in Hollywood, of what would later prove to be a heroin overdose.

The above video is a clip from D.A. Pennebaker's 1967 Monterey Pop film, showcasing Big Brother and the Holding Company's "Ball & Chain".  James Gurley's guitar solo was cut from the final film so the footage could focus on Janis (you can see/hear the edit at 2:33). This was the second performance they played at the fest; the previous day's set wasn't filmed due to contractual issues, but was by all accounts just as spectacular. Although they were billed as Big Brother and the Holding Company, Janis was featured as a breakout star and began to be promoted as a solo performer, with Big Brother being relegated to a backup group. Within a short time she left the band, who struggled to find success in her absence. Janis's solo career was varied and uneven, as she experimented with several different styles of music in a span of just two years, including soul, R&B, ballads, and country-folk.

I first saw this clip when I was about 13, either on VH-1 or a PBS documentary about the history of  rock & roll. I'd never encountered anyone like Janis before. I was only just getting into hard rock and hippie music after being raised on the Beach Boys, Elvis, and Buddy Holly. Suddenly here was this electrifying bad girl, scary in her raw beauty and mesmerizing in her intensity. She was acne-scarred and didn't wear a bra. She was fire and rage and sex and shouting. I loved her instantly.

That footage led me into an obsession with Janis that lasted for a strong ten years. I've since discovered other singers, artists, and performers that connect with me in similar ways, but there will never be another who grabs me by the heart and soul like she did. She was the first. She gave me something to strive for, an outlet for years of pent-up pain and frustration and longing and blues. She defined my attitude and my sense of style, and served as a warning about how living up to your own image can destroy you. (She was quoted as saying, "People, whether they know it or not, like their blues singers miserable," and "Maybe they can enjoy my music more if they think I'm destroying myself.").

Every year on October 4th I watch concert footage and interviews and think about how much Janis meant to me when I was growing up. I identified with her, growing up in a small conformist town where I was considered ugly and unpopular. But she made it out. She made it out, to be free and have adventures and fame, even if it wound up killing her in the end. That took a lot of guts, and I didn't have the guts to start living my own life until I was well into my 20's.

If I hadn't discovered her at just the right time in my life, I don't know if she would have made such an impact. Maybe someone else would have influenced me more. Or no one. But it happened to be Janis, and I'm glad it was.

Confessions of a Vinyl Junkie: Why I Like Listening to Records

I won't get into the endless debate over the subjectiveness of sound quality. But I feel fortunate that my dad invested in a high-quality stereo system back in the early 60's that still works (most of the time) to this day. If I hadn't grown up with that record player, I might not have developed such a love of the ritual of listening to a record.

When I listen to music on my computer, all I do is click the mouse. A playlist doesn't require any involvement from me; eventually it turns into background noise and I may not even pay attention to what's being played. MP3s aren't tangible; I can't "see" the music, and there's no artwork or liner notes. And obviously my computer speakers, or earbuds, can never provide the same quality sound as a home stereo system. I don't feel the same connection to digital formats as I do a record. Even CDs don't give me the same experience; often you can barely read the liner notes or booklets due to small type, and I feel sort of "divorced" from the music if I can't see it spinning around hypnotically. Does that make sense? 

I like watching the needle read the grooves in the vinyl and magically turn that into sound. It's like I'm watching the music as well as hearing it. I can look at the grooves of a record and see where the quiet pauses are in the song. I can tell from the grooves if the song is quiet and acoustic. On vinyl I can literally see where the piano solo begins in "Layla". That's cool. It's tangible. Not to mention, an excellent-condition record with no scratches, and the rainbow sheen glistening against the black vinyl, is an absolute thing of beauty.

Plus, my turntable has a very distinct scent. I don't know how to describe it, but it's the smell of mechanical gears and grease and motorized parts. The smell of old electronics that were built to last. It's a good smell. Because it affects all these senses, I feel more of a connection to the experience of listening to a record.

First, I have to make sure I handle everything delicately. This is old equipment, after all, and my system is sometimes buggy. The turntable motor is starting to wear out, and sometimes it takes a minute or two to get up to the right speed. Then I visually inspect the vinyl, give it a brief check to make sure it's free of dust and fingerprints (I clean my records regularly.) I have to put it on the platter and gently lower the arm onto the record. I'm involved in the process, I'm making the music happen. I'm not just clicking a mouse or hitting a play button. If I want to cue up a song I have to pay close attention and watch where I'm putting the needle.

While listening to records I'm usually sitting on the floor or on my bed. Ever since I was a kid, I've enjoyed holding the cover in my hands as I listen to the music it contains, studying the pictures and liner notes or reading the lyrics. A 12" piece of cardboard with a gatefold cover or booklet can be a beautiful piece of art. If it's been stored away it often has a faint musty scent, same as old paperback books, that I just love. Plus, used records occasionally have someone's name written on them somewhere, and you wonder who that person was and if they enjoyed the album, and what they were doing while they listened to it.

33 1/3 RPM is hypnotic for me. One of my earliest memories is getting told not to touch the record player (I think I put a scratch in my mom's Neil Diamond record by touching it while it was playing, but I just loved watching it spin around so slowly, and frankly she shouldn't have left the record player in reach of a toddler!)

The simple existence of Side A and Side B also require the listener to stay involved. After about 5 or 6 songs, you have to get up and flip the record over or put on something else. (Unless you have auto-repeat on your turntable.) It discourages you from relegating the music to background noise or only halfway listening to a track. You pay more attention to the music that someone spent weeks or months creating. I have to admit that I do get fatigued sometimes with CDs that have "too many" songs on them...just because you can fit over an hour of music onto your album, doesn't necessarily mean you should.

Don't get me wrong -- I do have CDs and MP3s I use for trance and meditation, and music that I put on for background noise for zoning out while painting or making other artwork. I could never use vinyl albums for that purpose. But when I want the experience of listening to a record, putting it on the turntable and holding the cover in my hands just gives me a deeper connection to the music and the artists. It's a multi-sensory, listener-participation experience. And that doesn't even get into the brilliance of analog sound played through a high-quality system. However, that's another essay for another time.