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.

Bob Dylan—Self Portrait

Bob Dylan—Self Portrait

Self Portrait—The first phase of Bob Dylan's early career—1962–1978, for the purpose of this writing—was marked with a number of controversial periods. From 1963–1964 (The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan and The Times They Are a-Changin'), Dylan became an unwitting spokesman for liberal values and civil rights, most notably for his song "Blowin' in the Wind." When he decided he'd rather sing songs of a more basic and personal nature (Another Side of Bob Dylan), he was met with scorn from his purist folk fanbase, who would become further begrudged with the release of the semi-electric Bringing It All Back Home and almost entirely electric Highway 61 Revisited (1965).

It seems ludicrous in 2015 to argue any one of these albums to be contentious. The vast majority of his '60s and '70s material is universally beloved, as is the man himself, now considered a living legend in not only music but pop culture and humankind itself. Even lesser works, such as Street Legal (1978), are treated as respectable efforts if not essential. There is one release from this era, however, that was received with ridicule upon its release and continues to be shunned by critics and outright ignored by fans: Self Portrait.

To be clear, this is not to say Dylan (1973) is not considered a far worse record, but Dylan was released under different circumstances. Dylan's recording had become sporadic from 1971–1972, resulting in only a handful of songs: two singles ("Watching the River Flow" and "George Jackson") and various others which were set to appear on Bob Dylan's Greatest Hits Vol II (1972). Dylan, which was a mishmash of older outtakes (some incidentally taken from Self Portrait sessions), was seen for what it was: Columbia's self-determined attempt to milk Dylan's back pages (or perhaps a parting shot at Dylan for jumping ship to Asylum). Thus, Dylan is excused by historians as a dubious moment, undeserving of derision at least in regard to the artist.

The same cannot be said of Self Portrait. It's understandable that fans and critics would have been disappointed by its release in 1970. Until that point, they had come to expect an album of originals at an average rate of one per year, so when Dylan presented them with a double album of covers, outtakes, rehearsal cuts, and live recordings, it must have been a shock.

"There'd be crowds outside my house. And I said, 'Well, fuck it. I wish these people would just forget about me. I wanna do something they can't possibly like, they can't relate to. They'll see it, and they'll listen, and they'll say, 'Well, let's get on to the next person. He ain't sayin' it no more. He ain't givin' us what we want,' you know?"—Bob Dylan, 1984 interview by Kurt Loder for Rolling Stone 

It can't be said that Self Portrait is a lost classic, but its continued disdain through the years is unwarranted. There are four studio originals, which are all at least pleasant, though not earth-shattering: "All the Tired Horses," which is a rare Dylan album cut not featuring his singing, "Woogie Boogie," a basic instrumental, "Living the Blues," a vanilla blues as the title suggests, and the adequate single "Wigwam." Four other songs were recorded live at the 1969 Isle of Wight Festival, done in the style Dylan cultivated working with the Band: "She Belongs to Me," "Like a Rolling Stone," "The Mighty Quinn (Quinn the Eskimo)," which was at that time only known in its Manfred Mann incarnation, and "Minstrel Boy," which was then unreleased in any form (no relation to "The Minstrel Boy").

What remains are the covers. The funny thing about Self Portrait is the idea that it's not much of a self-portrait if Dylan isn't writing the majority of the songs, at least not in comparison to his usual fare, where he both writes and performs the material. Upon careful examination, however, it becomes apparent that the covers are great tools for examining Bob Dylan the performer—the recordings of songs composed by Dylan are presented with an overriding veneer of Dylan's reputation and whatever purported message the listener chooses to project onto them; when those things are stripped away, all that's left is the rock star. "I always wanted to be a guitar player and a singer. Since I was ten, eleven, or twelve, it was all that interested me. That was the only thing that I did that meant anything really," Dylan recalled when interviewed by Cameron Crowe for the box set Biograph (1985). Outside of his modest debut, Bob Dylan (1962), Self Portrait was the first time home listeners were treated to this side of the artist.

The performances have been criticized as desultory or meaningless, but that's purely a matter of perspective, as the same things have been touted concerning The Basement Tapes (1975; recorded '67–68), which is beloved for its laid-back ambiance and exploration of quaint Americana. Granted: The Basement Tapes was almost entirely penned by Dylan and the Band, but on the point of the music itself, the albums are principally similar. Moreover, Dylan's choice of covers is excellent: the Everly Brothers classic "Take a Message to Mary," Don Gibson's "Take Me as I Am (or Let Me Go)" (both penned by Boudleaux Bryant, the former with his wife Felice) and "Alberta" presented in two versions, and Cecil Null's "I Forgot More than You'll Ever Know," plus standards like "Blue Moon" and "Copper Kettle;" contemporaries Paul Simon ("The Boxer") and Gordon Lightfoot ("Early Mornin' Rain") are a pair of surprising inclusions.

Dylan remarked further in the Biograph liner notes, "I was being bootlegged at the time and a lot of stuff that was worse was appearing on bootleg records. So I just figured I'd put all this stuff together and put it out, my own bootleg record, so to speak. You know, if it actually had been a bootleg record, people probably would have sneaked around to buy it and played it for each other secretly," and he was absolutely correct, as evidenced by the success of the eleven volumes and counting Bootleg Series. Self Portrait is not a revelation, but as a collection of music, it can be a nice find for the seasoned listener.