Joni Mitchell—Don Juan's Reckless Daughter

Joni Mitchell—Don Juan's Reckless Daughter (1977)

"I was the only black man at the party." —Joni Mitchell (The Hissing of a Living Legend, Neil Strauss, October 4th, 1998)

Don Juan's Reckless Daughter—In 2014, the then-president of the Spokane, WA chapter of the NAACP, Rachel Dolezal, generated controversy around the claim that she was transracial. Though it was a hot issue for a time, the public eventually forgot about her, as with most things. People probably also don't remember that Joni Mitchell posed as jive cool-cat Art Nouveau on the cover of her ninth LP, Don Juan's Reckless Daughter.

Cultural appropriation has become a contentious issue in the 2010s, but it's mostly brought up in situations where money or power are at stake—majority groups have been incorporating minorities' musical conventions into their own across time, and because music is purely expression, there are rarely any accusations of wrongdoing thrown around. When Joni Mitchell began to assimilate jazz and world music into her unique brand of folk and pop, it wasn't seen as dubious. For one, she'd already hit the big time both as a songwriter and performer by her first forays into jazz; she'd begun to utilize jazz musicians on For the Roses (1972) only after scoring numerous hits, so it can't reasonably be said it was a move made to capitalize on a cold market (and in fact, her sales only dropped as she moved farther away from white folk music). Two, she seemed to truly identify or at least genuinely seek to empathize with the alien and sometimes bygone cultures she explored in her music. On one of Don Juan's Reckless Daughter's inner LP sleeves, Art Nouveau exclaims, "Mooslems, Mooooslems! Heh, Heh, Heh." It's a phrase so ridiculous one must assume satire was Mitchell's intent, and so it follows that the artist either intended an examination of bias and discrimination or simply did not see the same impassable boundaries between cultures that so many build and perpetuate.

The original Don Juan's Reckless Daughter LP is unusual in that the records were produced with side pairings 1/4 and 2/3. Sides 1 and 4 are more or less typical pop songs, several of which were already parts of Mitchell's live sets, most notably "Jericho," which appeared commercially as early as Miles of Aisles (1974). Sides 2 and 3 are experimental—the extended, impressionist cut "Paprika Plains" and a makeshift suite of disparate styles, respectively. Mitchell said, "This record followed on the tail of persecution, it's experimental, and it didn't really matter what I did, I just had to fulfill my contract" (Biography: 1976-1977 Refuge of the Roads, Wally Breese, January 1998). Whether she meant to be somewhat dismissive toward the record is unclear, but a sizable amount of work and planning definitely went into it. The arrangement of the record sides must be intentional—it could be that one LP is meant to be the accessible one, but it still begs the question of the side numbers. Apparently, the record set is meant to distinguish the second and third sides—the "dream" music, which comes to the artist in the middle of the set, bookended by ego fascinations—as a sort of id manipulation with a cohesive element to it. The listener must change records to reach the middle sides and again to get out of them, suggesting a discrete and centric quality.

A quiet, moaning, atmospheric overture precedes "Cotton Avenue," an ode to nightlife. Mitchell and her army of guitars are accompanied only by drummer John Guerin and bassist Jaco Pastorious, who returns from Hejira (1976) as her primary collaborator. "Talk to Me" seems to lead out of this scene, describing the coming-down from a night out ("There was a moon and a street lamp/I didn't know I drank such a lot/'Til I pissed a tequila anaconda/The full length of the parking lot") but is really about sexual frustration. Mitchell sings, "Any old theme you choose/Just come and talk to me," belting out a laundry list of possible discussion points (as well as a deadly funny Shakespearean aside), both idealizing her subject and criticizing him for his conservatism. The melodic "Jericho" is about apprehension, only loosely fitting into the schema.

"Paprika Plains," the piece that caught the attention of the legendary Charles Mingus, is the main attraction. It's straightforward for the first four-and-a-half minutes—just Mitchell and her piano plus strings—she describes a dreamy version of her memories from a party. The people watch the rain from indoors, and sit in a haze of clashing aromas: "Liquid soap and grass/And Jungle Gardenia crash/On Pine-Sol and beer." "Back in my hometown," she begins again (presumably referring to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada, but perhaps also an imaginary, idealized hometown from her dream world), "They would have cleared the floor/Just to watch the rain come down." She describes the urbanization of humans ("And they cut off their braids/And lost some link with nature") and eventually glides off into full-on fantasy: "I dream paprika plains/Vast and bleak and God forsaken/Paprika plains/And a turquoise river snaking."

The next portion of the song deals with unspoken imagery tethered to Mitchell's visionary poetry, which is included with the rest of the song's lyrics. She sees herself flying over Paprika Plains in a helicopter, where "Only a little Indian band/Come down from some windy mesa/No women to make them food and child/No expressions on their faces." She wonders why she sees all of it, the disparity between the poverty of the tribe and the "flying machine/Of earth and air and water." One of the tribesmen raises his fist to the skies, and an atomic blast forms over the horizon. Her visions then turn to a beach ball, which becomes Earth. She cuts it with her fingernail to open and reveal Paprika Plains once again. Then, the song returns to its vocal delivery, and she is back at the party, where she finds herself floating back to a nameless individual, hinting at fate and inevitability.

Side three, beginning with the escapist "Otis and Marlena," continues the abstract direction of the previous side; Marlena dreams about her summer getaway "while Muslims stick up Washington" (which had actually happened around the time of the song's release). "The Tenth World" is a Spanish rumba led by Manolo Badrena and backed by other members of Weather Report, Mitchell, and Chaka Khan. Another romantic shuffle, "Dreamland," closes out the side, this time with just the latter two vocalists and a percussion section.

The remaining side returns to more introspective music. The arch, streaming "Don Juan's Reckless Daughter" is the final side opener: an ambivalent self-examination. Mitchell examines her conflicting sides ("Restless for streets and honky tonks/Restless for home and routine") and her confrontation with a version of herself from the past ("Last night the ghosts of my old ideas/Reran on channel five/And it howled so spooky for its eagle soul/I nearly broke down and cried"), anthropomorphizing the days, people, spirits, and even virtues. The jangling "Off Night Backstreet," ironically about a Don Juan, is a highlight, backed by members of the Eagles. Closer "The Silky Veils of Ardor" is a cautionary gloaming folk tale that ties together the stories on the first and fourth sides, while also adding, "But I have no wings/And the water is so wide/We'll have to row a little harder/It's just in dreams we fly."

Don Juan's Reckless Daughter was Joni Mitchell's longest regular release (outside live albums and Travelogue [2002], which contained no new songs), and among expansive record sets, only the best of the best get special attention. It's a daunting task to sit through a double or triple album when there's more than a couple bad cuts. Unfortunately, despite its overall great quality, Don Juan has been mostly forgotten, generally regarded as respectable but also an indulgent mess. Some did not appreciate Mitchell's further retreat from pop and folk music, while others simply could not surmise her intent or appreciate the music for what it is rather than what she could have been doing instead. It doesn't feel right to call the album a masterpiece, but it's one of the artist's most worldly and thought-provoking, important to her evolution, and pleasing to the ear, if flighty—though flighty was supposed to be one of her most celebrated characteristics.

Led Zeppelin—[Untitled]

Led Zeppelin—[Untitled] (1971)

[Untitled]—There are various reasons why writing about Led Zeppelin's fourth album is pointless. It doesn't need promotion—it's already one of the best-selling albums of all time anywhere. Even those who don't own it have more than likely heard something from it, be it the ubiquitous "Stairway to Heaven," "Going to California, "or the singles "Black Dog" and "Rock and Roll," either in their original forms or mangled badly by high school classmates. More than that, however, the album is notable for its continuing popularity; other all-time bestsellers like Meat Loaf's Bat out of Hell or the soundtrack to Saturday Night Fever have faded into relative obscurity, being relics of their time, but the nominal Led Zeppelin IV has more or less retained its significance since its release.

Nowadays, giving a piece of product no title is nothing extraordinary, but when Led Zeppelin did it, it was considered a risk. The Beatles released their eponymous all-white album four years prior, but the Beatles were also the Beatles, and the band's name was nonetheless printed in all capital letters on the front cover. Led Zeppelin's fourth album has nothing distinct on the cover relating to the band, though it has become iconic itself: an antique painting hung against a run-down wall. Fittingly, its songs in one way or another share this arcane quality. The military cadence "Black Dog" is a twisted blues that's hard to count, inspired partially by a black dog whose antics were a source of amusement for the band. The frenetic "Rock and Roll" features an augmented rhythm section with Ian Stewart of Rolling Stones fame (who also played on "Boogie with Stu," which was recorded during these sessions along with "Night Flight" and "Down by the Seaside," all three of which would later appear on Physical Graffiti [1975]) and is made by the always-stellar drumming of John Bonham. It can be seen as a response to the more insipid reactions to Led Zeppelin III ("It's been a long time since I rock-and-rolled").The diacritic "The Battle of Evermore" is the band's most explicit citation of The Lord of the Rings, written on the mandolin (which was first introduced by John Paul Jones on Led Zeppelin III) and supplemented by the singing of Sandy Denny (Fairport Convention).

"Stairway to Heaven," for all that's been said about it both good and bad, probably is their crowning achievement. No matter how overplayed it may be, it's a marvelous three-part suite, even if the first segment is admittedly very similar to Spirit's "Taurus"—but that's only one small part of the song, and the rest of it, from Robert Plant's inspired lyrics to Jimmy Page's astonishing guitar solo, John Paul Jones' arrangements, and John Bonham's steady beat are a mix they never quite equaled again. The plodding, sardonic "Misty Mountain Hop" grates, though it is amusing. The primordial "Four Sticks" was the song that turned into "Rock and Roll" during rehearsals because of Bonham's frustration with the song's meter (it was named so because Bonham played it with four drumsticks), and gets its point across more on abstruse textures than it does its throwaway lyrics. The tranquilizing Joni Mitchell tribute "Going to California" obliquely references her songs "I Had a King" ("To find a queen without a king") and "California." The magnified Delta blues apotheosis "When the Levee Breaks" adequately evokes the sense of doom inherent in the original piece (by Kansas Joe and Memphis Minnie), if turgidly.

A less appreciated aspect of Zeppelin's fourth album is the chirality between its two sides: the related compositions "Rock and Roll" and "Four Sticks," the mandolin excursions "The Battle of Evermore" and "Going to California," and the epics "Stairway to Heaven" and "When the Levee Breaks." It's ultimately an inessential observation to the listening, but it adds to the cohesive, timelessly cyclical nature of the record. Beyond that, it's a masterfully performed and produced album, and the fact that it's been so persistently conspicuous for more than forty years is a testament its excellence.

Jacques Brel—Jacques Brel et ses chansons

Jacques Brel—Jacques Brel et ses chansons (1954)

Jacques Brel et ses chansons—Jacques Brel only began writing and performing music in 1952 when he was 23. Before then, his only apparent creative outlet was in amateur theater with friends. Otherwise, his upbringing was highly theological—he went to Catholic school in Belgium and spent most of his spare time as part of a Catholic philanthropic group. After a spot in the military, he began writing songs as a new creative outlet, having developed a relatively late interest in music. Unfortunately, the emotive nature of Brel's performances was not well-received by his family, and when he moved to Paris in 1953, audiences were almost uniformly indifferent and sometimes hostile. However, thanks to the talent agent at Philips who convinced him to move there in the first place, Brel was able to record his debut, Jacques Brel et ses chansons (known sometimes as Grand Jacques or Jacques Brel 1).

The brash "La haine" ("Hatred"), a frustrated lover's harangue, is full of great, stinging Brel lines like "Comme un soldat je partirai/Mourir comme meurent les enfants/Et si jamais tu en mourais/J'en voudrais revenir vivant" and "L'amour est mort, vive la haine/Et toi, matériel déclassé/Va-t'en donc accrocher ta peine/Au musée des amours ratées." On "Grand Jacques (C'est trop facile)" ("Great Jacques [It's Too Easy]"), Brel points out the arbitrariness of absolution ("C'est trop facile d'entrer aux églises/De déverser toute sa saleté") and criticizes the myopic nature of his peers ("Vous ne voyez donc point vos cimetières?") and the heavy-handedness with which they approach love ("Qu'il craque en deux parce qu'on l'a trop plié") while lamenting to himself the seeming pointlessness of his protests and concluding that it's too easy to go through life without asking the big questions. The "Alabama Song"-reminiscent "Il pleut (Les carreaux)" is sung from the point of view of a young man claiming his failure at romance to be out of his control, but "La lune danse pour moi le soir ... et son haleine, immense halo, me caresse." The mock-mischievous "Le diable (Ça va)" (The Devil [It's Fine]) furthers Brel's theme of societal disconnect ("On traite les braves de fous/Et les poètes de nigauds"), effectively deriding "Ça va" as an expression of flippancy. "Il peut pleuvoir" (Let It Rain), by contrast, is a straightforward, concise love song.

"Il nous faut regarder" ("We Must Look") reminds us to look beyond the world's ugliness to see its patches of beauty. The tragicomical waltz "Le fou de roi" ("The King's Fool") is a statement on class, while the cheeky "C'est comme ça" ("That's How It Is") exposes the stagnant lives of the common people, the two songs exhibiting conflicting sides of Brel's worldview. The parable "Sur la place" (In the Square), the best and most nuanced song here, alleges the hardened hearts of the masses.

Jacques Brel et ses chansons is something of an anomaly; by his second album, Quand on n'a que l'amour, Brel was already moving into a wider variety of more lush arrangements. The literary quality of his debut is more often than not on par with his more well-known songs, but it's unique for its minimalist guitar settings and more rustic feel of Brel's stricter cabaret origins. Thus, while it might not be his peak, Et ses chansons is an enchanting, thought-provoking collection—and just under 20 minutes.

David Bowie—Scary Monsters

David Bowie—Scary Monsters (1980)

Scary Monsters—Among David Bowie's most celebrated albums—Ziggy Stardust (1972), Low (1977), et al.—Scary Monsters is the most commonly forgotten. It's considered to be roughly on the same plane as the others, but possibly due to its more extreme nature, it's often left off such lists. Unlike the more moderate persona of its predecessor Lodger (1979), Scary Monsters is painted with Bowie as a sinister Pierrot; likewise, the songs and Bowie's vocals are confrontational and disquieting compared to Lodger's impartial croon, sometimes drone.

Although it follows mostly logically from his previous three albums, and foreshadows the electronic direction of his later albums, Scary Monsters is something of an anomaly. Bowie is unusually direct throughout much of the album, with some pointed criticisms of his peers surfacing here and there, and it's one of his most overwhelmingly guitar-oriented albums. In the hair-raising opener, "It's No Game (No. 1)," Bowie's verses are preceded by singer Michi Hirota's (of Stomu Yamashta's Red Buddha Theatre) Japanese variations. Bowie explained, "I wanted to break down a particular type of sexist attitude about women. I thought the [idea of] the 'Japanese girl' typifies it, where everyone pictures them as a geisha girl, very sweet, demure and non-thinking, when in fact that's the absolute opposite of what women are like. They think an awful lot, with quite as much strength as any man. I wanted to caricature that attitude by having a very forceful Japanese voice on it. So I had [Hirota] come out with a very samurai kind of thing" (Strange Fascination—David Bowie: The Definitive Story, David Buckley, 1999). At the time, Bowie also had recently appeared in a Japanese commercial for Crystal Jun Rock sake for which he recorded the instrumental "Crystal Japan." That later became the B-side to "Up the Hill Backwards," his acoustic-electric tribute to Marcel Duchamp—"Sneakers fall apart"—who sculpted Not a Shoe and was once quoted as saying, "If it is shoes that you want, I'll give you shoes that you will admire to such an extent that you will lame yourselves trying to walk in them" (Surrealism, Julien Levy, 1995).

"Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)" is predictably the most overtly insane cut, with Bowie's chorus descending further into voltaic madness as the song wears on. "Space Oddity" sequel "Ashes to Ashes" is a candidate for Bowie's best song ever, an extraordinary self-referential journey that sounds like nothing else before or since—a swirling revelation of multi-tracked vocals, otherworldly synthesizer, and a jaw-dropping, deceptively simple refrain to close it out. "Fashion" is an apocalyptic funk ride that recalls Young Americans (1975) and Station to Station (1976). Centerpiece "Teenage Wildlife" attacks "new wave boys"; seeing as Bowie drew heavy inspiration from Krautrock for his late '70s work, he probably saw new wave artists like Gary Numan as less imaginative and driving than they should have been. "Scream Like a Baby," a holdover from aborted project People from Bad Homes (itself a line that was reused for "Fashion") that was originally called "I Am a Laser" and featured entirely different lyrics, is a carnivalesque song about unfairly-persecuted Sam of vague origins. "Kingdom Come," from Tom Verlaine's solo career, is well-produced but ultimately inferior to the original. "Because You're Young," with guest guitarist Pete Townshend, is a less prominent but satisfying offering coated with Halloween-evoking synthesizer. Flip-side reprise "It's No Game (No. 2)" ramps down the album steeply with a resigned tone, with Bowie inserting a couple new jarring lines into the mix ("Children 'round the world/Put camel shit on the walls").

Scary Monsters is pretty much universally considered the end of Bowie's classic period. In retrospect, he still had good, even great albums ahead of him, such as his final three (Reality [2003], The Next Day [2013], and Blackstar [2016]), but Bowie never assembled quite as good of a band as he did on Scary Monsters. It's an album that's hard to pull into its discrete parts in discussions, and at times it almost feels like a Greatest Hits album because of its career-to-date-encompassing subject matter. Taken on its own, however, it's one of Bowie's most original, galvanizing, and uniformly excellent albums, and it can go toe-to-toe with anything in his canon.

More David Bowie reviews by The Old Noise:

David Bowie (1967)
David Bowie (1969)
The Man Who Sold the World (1970)
Hunky Dory (1971)
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972)
Aladdin Sane (1973)
Pin Ups (1973)
Diamond Dogs (1974)
Young Americans (1975)
Station to Station (1976)
Low (1977)
"Heroes" (1977)
Lodger (1979)
Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) (1980)
Let's Dance (1983)
Tonight (1984)
Never Let Me Down (1987)
Black Tie White Noise (1993)
The Buddha of Suburbia (1993)
Outside (1995)
Earthling (1997)
'Hours...' (1999)
Heathen (2002)
Reality (2003)
The Next Day (2013)
Blackstar (2016)

Cat Stevens—Numbers

Cat Stevens—Numbers (1975)

Numbers—Cat Stevens had a run of albums from 1970–1977 that resulted in four Platinum records (two 3x Platinum) and another four Gold. Calling him a hit-maker is an understatement—he had a string of eleven U.S. Top 40 hits during that same period that are still ingrained in public consciousness, mainly thanks to muzak. Every LP he put out in the wake of Tea for the Tillerman 1970) and Teaser and the Firecat (1971) had at least one notable hit that kept it from obscurity; it could be said that Stevens' business model was top-notch, if it's examined coldly. However, Stevens was more sensitive than that; he seemed to believe in his ideals, at least to some extent, and he was artful. Following Buddha and the Chocolate Box (1974), he tried something completely different.

Numbers
A Pythagorean Theory Tale

Further away from our Earth than it is possible to imagine, there was a galaxy. And almost in the center of the galaxy was a little planet called Polygor.
Polygor existed to give numbers to the universe. Number 1, number 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9. Each day millions and billions and zillions of numbers were distributed to every world that needed them [...]

Numbers is Cat Stevens/Yusuf Islam's only clear concept album, and while it seems arcane, the story is fairly basic: Nine beings called Polygons each named after digits live in the Palace of Polygor, where a huge machine makes all the numbers of the universe. This persisted in stasis for an indeterminable length of time until the arrival of the prophet Jzero, who inflicted some vague truth on the Polygons that changed their lives. Stevens came up with the idea after reading a book on Pythagoras while in Australia. "At first I couldn't see the point of making numbers any more important than what you use them for ... [then I] realized that I’d always known the importance of numbers without really being aware of it—like all songs have a natural 'three' element, three being the strongest number of all ... Then you start finding out that Pythagoras developed the Western musical scale. Then, thinking about it, you discover that the law of music is the same law that applies to nature as a whole, that your life has octaves in the same way as the musical scale does." (Cat Stevens Talks to Mick Brown, Sounds, December 13th, 1975)

The whimsical opening instrumental "Whistlestar" seems to have no overarching significance in the story except that maybe the "Whistlestar" is part of the "cluster of burning stars" that illuminates the Numbers galaxy. Reportedly, when Stevens played the song live, he would pop out of a box after a magician performed tricks over the course of the song. The dirge "Novim's Nightmare" chronicles Novim's (number nine) experience being revitalized following the arrival of Jzero. Stevens explained, "Yes, its a vision I have often in dreams. There's something so strong about that guillotine. The moment you're born, and through the whole of your life, there's a guillotine waiting ... The centre to the story of Numbers is that really you're in a place where everything seems immortal, eternal and everlasting. And suddenly along comes this question of death, which has never entered before. And then you start to question everything." (Cat Stevens—Life, Love and Death, Melody Maker, November 15th, 1975)

The slick "Majik of Majiks" is about "the power of zero [...] when you think you're smart and you've got it planned and then along comes this silly little accident and you're put back to square one [...] the ego having to face death finally." A Polygon (presumably still Novim, who now sees himself as an outcast) sings about the shocking revelation of Jzero, who "[has] the key to any door." The knowingly gospel-inflected "Drywood" continues these themes with a more uplifting tone, urging the Polygons or the listener to "Kick out your dull padded life" and begin anew.

The strange, jangling "Banapple Gas," which was the one minor hit from Numbers, seems to represent the change in routine that was occurring on Polygor. "Land o' Free Love and Goodbye" seems to be a more traditional song about the time Stevens lived in, mentioning God by name rather than an allegorical character. On the theme song "Jzero," the titular character speaks equivocally about his purpose, saying he only came to the palace for work and little food. The Polygons note that "He says he hasn't got nothing/But he seems to possess less," seeming to allude to religious concepts of material possession and elevating Jzero to a holy figure of sorts. The yearning "Home" describes a kind of utopia "where all mums can sing/Back where the children don't cry/Home where you never ask why and/Everybody has enough," but also bizarrely "you don't have to put on clothes/Nobody has to hide 'cause everyone already knows," which either means Stevens was singing generally again or that the Polygons ultimately decided to get nude with the townsfolk. In the closing "Monad's Anthem," Monad (number one), the Emperor, bellows about "one" as a female chorus echoes him, seemingly in glorification of Polygor.

Although very little of Numbers was that far removed from Stevens' usual musical fare—it featured his usual band, and only the uncharacteristic instrumental "Whistlestar" and obscure paean "Monad's Anthem" were new ground for him—its off-kilter qualities seemed to be too much for the public. The album began a downtown for him commercially, although it and the following Itizso (1977) still went Gold. There are some heavier introspective themes on it, especially on the first side with songs like "Novim's Nightmare," but in the end people only remembered the fanciful "Banapple Gas" if they held on to anything at all. Numbers, which are represented in modern times by Arabic numerals, were adumbrating subject matter for Cat Stevens; he did not convert to Islam until late 1977, so it's tough to assert that Jzero is analogous to Mohammed, though perhaps he is an amalgam of Mohammed and other figures such as Christ.

Overall, it can't definitively be said that Numbers is as musically satisfying as the rest of Cat Stevens' oeuvre. There's no "The Hurt" or "Father and Son" to anchor it, though the album as a whole is melodically satisfying, with just the right amount of intricacy here and there. Perhaps the public should have heeded the warning in the liner notes which read, "This album is not to be taken 2 seriously," though the intellectual parts of Numbers are actually rewarding. It's a minor gem from an artist that rarely went against the grain, and it didn't deserve the treatment it got.