Joni Mitchell—Court and Spark

Joni Mitchell—Court and Spark (1974)

Court and Spark—Coming off the pensive, adventurous For the Roses (1972), Joni Mitchell had the world at her fingertips. That album was the fourth in a series of increasingly huge hits, and critics and even other major musicians worshiped her. Roses, while not exactly orchestral, was her most carefully produced album yet. For the follow-up, she sought out an even wider range of musicians who could play even more intricate parts. Court and Spark was teased with the "Raised on Robbery"/"Court and Spark" single, a rock-and-roll A-side that charted respectably (#51 in Canada, #65 in the United States) but failed to make the same impact as Roses' "You Turn Me on, I'm a Radio." This proved to be insignificant, as Court and Spark went on to hit #1 in Canada, #2 in the U.S., and Top 40 in several other countries following its January 1974 release.

The keynote address, "Court and Spark," details the wariness that comes with seeking romance. A street performer has an epiphany that leads him to throw it all away in pursuit of love. Mitchell (or Mitchell as the singer) notes her instant connection with him, but also her apprehension, seemingly both in general and in waiting for the other shoe to drop. "I cleared myself/I sacrificed my blues/And you could complete me/I'd complete you," he promises; Mitchell concludes, "The more he talked to me /The more he reached me /But I couldn't let go of L.A./City of the fallen angels" (with the slick addition of bells in the background), indicating she is not willing to give up her lifestyle fully as her subject has. The smooth, self-deprecating "Help Me," her biggest hit, similarly notes the difficulties of commitment ("We love our lovin'/But not like we love our freedom"). The liberative "Free Man in Paris" is a cheeky tribute to her friend David Geffen (head of her label, Asylum), poking fun at his complaints about working in the industry. "People's Parties" is a short statement on social anxiety and struggling to fit in. It medleys into "The Same Situation," another commitment song that sees would-be lovers striving to reconcile the failings of one another.

"Car on a Hill," in which the singer waits for their lover to come pick her up, suggests the fear and disconnected feelings that come with having a more outgoing partner. The contemplative, symphonic "Down to You" is the album's musical capstone, and is more lyrically broad, examining personal transformation and loneliness. "Just Like This Train" is comparatively less weighty, even contented: "Lately I don't count on nothing/I just let things slide." Its wisdom ("Jealous lovin'll make you crazy/If you can't find your goodness/'Cause you lost your heart") stands in opposition to the uncertainty of the rest of the album; Mitchell confidently relaxes and observes those around her against the semi-metaphorical backdrop of a train ride. The brash "Raised on Robbery," the album's finest moment, is a witty raid on the daily grind in which Mitchell identifies with a prostitute. The sax-twinged "Trouble Child" is about being stuck in life, unable to connect to anyone, romantically or otherwise, and not yet having the strength to move past yourself or listen to advice. Of the rare cover, "Twisted" (featuring Cheech & Chong), Mitchell once explained, "I hope you enjoy your craziness, 'cause it can be a lot of fun" (stage banter from August 22nd, 1974 performance).

Widely regarded as a triumphant success, Court and Spark's only substantive criticism is that Joni Mitchell sold out on it. While it was indeed loaded with more radio-ready songs than its predecessors, Spark is also more heterogeneous in nature and takes more risks than For the Roses, which is arguably her most difficult album to crack. Her previous albums had all ultimately been arranged uniformly as folk albums, even if the instrumentation varied from time to time; on Spark, she ventured fully into jazz for the first time and made a Dylan-esque move by fully embracing rock, if only for a moment. In the process, she made an album with universal appeal that didn't sacrifice her songwriting, which remained cerebral, droll, and piercing.

More Joni Mitchell reviews by The Old Noise:

Song to a Seagull (1968)
Clouds (1969)
Ladies of the Canyon (1970)
Blue (1971)
For the Roses (1972)
Court and Spark (1974)
Miles of Aisles (1974)
The Hissing of Summer Lawns (1975)
Hejira (1976)
Don Juan's Reckless Daughter (1977)
Mingus (1979)
Shadows and Light (1980)
Wild Things Run Fast (1982)
Dog Eat Dog (1985)
Chalk Mark in a Rain Storm (1988)
Night Ride Home (1991)
Turbulent Indigo (1994)
Taming the Tiger (1998)
Both Sides Now (2000)
Travelogue (2002)
Shine (2007)

Joni Mitchell—Blue

Joni Mitchell—Blue

Blue—During the 1960s, Joni Mitchell was known more as a songwriter by repute than recognizance. Her songs "Both Sides Now" and "Chelsea Morning" had been performed by several artists, most notably by Judy Collins, who won a Grammy for her recording of the former. Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young performed the best-known version of "Woodstock" on their album Déjà Vu, among others. But Mitchell's own Song to a Seagull (1968), Clouds (1969), and Ladies of the Canyon (1970) were received with increasing acclaim; when the next decade rolled around, Mitchell's star began to grow, and she became known more for being a performer in her own right. However, she lacked a signature record, as her first two were produced uniformly as middle-of-the-road folk, and her third played more like a collection of disparate tunes than anything that spoke to a concept.

Following Ladies of the Canyon, Mitchell took time off to travel, interrupted only by a performance at the 1970 Isle of Wight Festival, when she played eight songs from Clouds and Ladies, as well as three new songs: "California," "A Case of You," and "My Old Man." Those three upbeat, optimistic songs came about with the onset of Mitchell's relationship with a young James Taylor, both as lovers and musical comrades; aside from touring together, Taylor would play guitar on the studio recordings of the three aforementioned songs, while Mitchell would provide backing vocals on Taylor's Mud Slide Slim and the Blue Horizon. But the restless Mitchell and the troubled Taylor would only last about a year together, and the split would send them in different directions. Taylor would go on to further his highly successful if uneven career, while Mitchell would return to Los Angeles to record Blue, her bright outlook now marred by a string of failed (and well-publicized) romances.

The frolicking opener "All I Want" exhibits Mitchell's free-wheeling spirit in contrast to the reserved approach of contemporary female artists. "I want to wreck my stockings in some jukebox dive," she proclaims while simultaneously acknowledging the hurt that has arisen from her missteps and the hints of self-criticism that she allows only so briefly ("I love you when I forget about me"). "My Old Man" details the ups and downs of new love, how "He's the warmest chord I've ever heard," and "when he's gone/Me and them lonesome blues collide/The bed's too big/The frying pan's too wide." The cozy "Little Green" predates the rest of the album; it became known decades later that Mitchell wrote it about her daughter, whom she gave away in 1965. The joyous "Carey," the album's most colorful song, is about a real person she met in Matala, Crete, the self-proclaimed "best cook in the area" with a "flaming red personality" (source). The encapsulating dirge "Blue" addresses directly the melancholy that peppers the album—around half the songs mention the color by name, sometimes in more intriguing ways like her daughter's eye color ("Little Green") or the glow of a television screen ("A Case of You").

"California" opens the second side with the same sort of whimsy as the first, with Mitchell contrasting her adopted home of California with the places she'd seen in her travels, sometimes with amusing anecdotes that suggest her resilience ("I met a redneck on a Grecian isle/Who did the goat dance very well/He gave me back my smile/But he kept my camera to sell"). The vortical "This Flight Tonight" represents her burning desire for a lover she's just left behind, but also the turbulence ("I hope it's better when we meet again, baby"). "River," a masterstroke, morphs "Jingle Bells" into a threnodic admittance of self-disdain, hopelessness, and escapism. "A Case of You" is a deceptively cute song about knowing the tragic flaws in a relationship will someday be too much to overcome, having evolved from an earlier incarnation as a simpler maritime analogue. "The Last Time I Saw Richard" sees Mitchell refuting a cynic, only to later find herself in the situation he forewarned; nevertheless, she assures herself, "Only a phase, these dark cafe days," ending the album on a curious but poignant note of optimism.

Joni Mitchell generally kept a healthy distance between herself and her music for the most part until Blue, choosing more to embrace the holistic ways of the folk scene. With Blue, she broke that barrier, reemerging from her hiatus with an evolved approach that continues to be emulated. It may not sound like such at times, but Blue was the most major work by a woman in the rock era—at the time most certainly, and it possibly still is.

David Bowie—Hunky Dory

David Bowie—Hunky Dory

Hunky Dory—Usually regarded as David Bowie's first bona fide classic LP, Hunky Dory bears the overlooked quality of being a summation of the first segment of his career. David Bowie (1967) was a classicist excursion in early British Invasion and baroque pop, with a touch of the strangeness that would always be present in his work—the Beatles with a more archaic touch, essentially—David Bowie (1969), the second album to bear that title, often referred to as Space Oddity or Man of Words/Man of Music, mixed in progressive elements in the same manner as Syd Barrett's Pink Floyd, and The Man Who Sold the World (1970) furthered layered his sound with hard rock elements and obscure, dark, often maniacal lyrics. Hunky Dory is a step back from the last iteration, possibly a sign that producer Tony Visconti was responsible for the compression in sound—Visconti does not return in that role nor as Bowie's bassist as he had been on the previous two albums—but it does continue Bowie's move into more personal territory as well as observations on the latest in space fare.

"Changes," iconic for its stuttering chorus among all else, is also one of Bowie's best chord progressions, with some credit to Yes piano player Rick Wakeman. However, Bowie quickly tops himself in this respect with with "Oh! You Pretty Things," which esoterically honors outsiders. The pair of songs is interesting in the sense that both seem to embrace campy arrangements that are slyly undercut with hints of real meaning and true vision in melody that separate it from the novelty music that no doubt influenced them. The amusing but slight vignette "Eight Line Poem" was probably a real observance from Bowie. "Life on Mars?" has transcended its origins as a "My Way" parody to become one of Bowie's most rightly beloved space songs, mostly due to Mick Ronson's string arrangements. The idyllic "Kooks," written for Bowie's recently born son Duncan, is one of Bowie's most unmysterious songs ever; if it sounds vaguely like "Sugar Mountain," the Neil Young connection was deliberate. The abasing "Quicksand," which switches from mono to stereo near the end of the first passage, references the occult, Heinrich Himmler, Greta Garbo, and Winston Churchill in its apocalyptic vision, concluding, "Don't believe in yourself, don't deceive with belief/Knowledge comes with death's release."

"Fill Your Heart," the Biff Rose/Paul Williams composition, the first in a long series of once-per-album covers, fits right along with "Kooks," but it is interesting to note that the outtake "Bombers" was initially supposed to lead off the second side, which arguably better fits with the themes throughout the rest of the album. "Andy Warhol," a funny tribute to Bowie's friend with a killer acoustic arpeggio, was initially written to be performed by Dana Gillespie, just as "Oh! You Pretty Things" had been for Peter Noone (combined with the fact that Bowie had intended to write his own version of "Comme d'habitude" for Frank Sinatra, one must wonder if Bowie fantasized being a professional songwriter). The languid "Song for Bob Dylan," which came during Dylan's lean period in '71-'73 that saw very little progress from the artist, uses Dylan's own words against him ("Hey, hey, Woody Guthrie, I wrote you a song") in criticizing him for abdicating his lofty position in popular music. "Queen Bitch," the only indication that Bowie would get heavier in the years to come, ennobles Lou Reed. "The Bewlay Brothers" is a characteristic Bowie closer: complete nonsense (Bewlay being a brand of tobacco pipe) that nonetheless conveys his message effectively in texture.

By trimming the excesses from all aspects of his music (with help from new producer Ken Scott), David Bowie was able to make his most effective record to date with Hunky Dory. With the basic elements of his songs—that is to say, his singing and principal melodies—mixed in front, the world got to see just how inspired a songwriter he was, and it resulted in the first of many masterstrokes.

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)

Robyn Hitchcock—I Often Dream of Trains

Robyn Hitchcock—I Often Dream of Trains

I Often Dream of Trains—Although Black Snake Dîamond Röle (1981) and Groovy Decay (1982) were respectable beginning entries to his solo career, Robyn Hitchcock lacked a model record the caliber of Underwater Moonlight. It wasn't for lack of talent, of course, as Hitchcock was the principal songwriter of the Soft Boys, but having a band around him seemed to focus his music. The songs on Röle and Decay were sometimes labored or stiff, if principally strong, though the latter was perceived poorly and Hitchcock would fall into recession over the next couple years.

He reemerged in 1984 with I Often Dream of Trains, which was his first largely solo-performed and acoustic or piano-led album. He took the opportunity to explore new moods in his music. Whereas his prior work was a tense, warped new wave, Trains was subdued and moribund; he opens the album with a simple, pensive nocturne, simply titled "Nocturne (Prelude)." Hitchcock does retain his characteristic eccentricity, however, as evidenced by the creeping "Sometimes I Wish I Was a Pretty Girl," where he confides, "Sometimes I wish I was a pretty girl/So I could [inaudible] myself in the shower." On the conflicted "Cathedral," he struggles to understand another being with a hint of derision: "Like a toilet from outside/A cathedral from inside/There, behind your open face/Lies an awful lot of space."

"Uncorrected Personality Traits" runs through a litany of intriguing psychological pitfalls in under two minutes, commenting on how, as the first lines of the song put succinctly, "uncorrected personality traits that seem whimsical in a child may prove to be ugly in a fully grown adult." He also serves up the curious thought, "Even Marilyn Monroe was a man/But this tends to get overlooked/By our mother-fixated, overweight, sexist media," which is not as ludicrous as it initially sounds. "Sounds Great When You're Dead" is a somewhat lesser song where Hitchcock experiments with a particular arrangement, while the surrealist "Flavour of Night" echoes David Bowie's Diamond Dogs. "Ye Sleeping Nights of Jesus" highlights the futility of waiting for miracles; "This Could Be the Day" pays tribute to the Velvet Underground.

"Trams of Old London," an effectively immersive folk song, sees Hitchcock take his partner around London. "Furry Green Atom Bowl" is something like an alchemist's rendition of "Sixteen Tons." "Heart Full of Leaves," an instrumental, and "Autumn Is Your Last Chance," a haunting song with a lonely lyric, could have fit on an early Cure album. Title cut and high point "I Often Dream of Trains" wraps up the themes of autumn and longing as well as the romanticizing of trains before the album ends nearly the same way it began, with a slightly livelier "Nocturne (Demise)."

I Often Dream of Trains marked an artistic rebirth for Robyn Hitchcock, which is strange considering its status as something of an anomaly in his oeuvre. He recorded nothing quite like it across the rest of the decade, instead choosing to effectively reform the Soft Boys (minus Kimberley Rew as the Egyptians) and record more electric material. It is characteristic of Hitchcock as the folk singer he always wanted to be, and despite its radically different style from the rest of his '80s work, it is rightfully considered a career highlight: melodic, wryly humorous, and ardently performed.

Tom Waits—Closing Time

Tom Waits—Closing Time

Closing Time—Before there was "Time," there was Closing Time. Today, Tom Waits is at once a Grammy winner and a cult figure, a duality demonstrable by the body of songs written by Waits but called to attention by others. Prolific singer Rod Stewart, Meat Loaf, and even Scarlett Johansson are three of many; fans of E Street Radio may hear "Jersey Girl" from the native, and those who watch all five seasons of The Wire will have heard five arrangements of "Way Down in the Hole." While Waits is far from the caliber of influence predecessor Bob Dylan holds, the point stands that one who ingests information media has very possibly heard Tom Waits. But back in 1973, Closing Time wasn't exactly a smash, not recognized until the likes of Tim Buckley (himself undervalued) and the Eagles took on its songs. Looking back, it's easy to see why they did: the songs are easy to pick up and play, yet they have a distinctive excellence that leaves musicians wondering how they didn't write them first.

It seems retrospectively logical that the band who would later write "Life in the Fast Lane" covered "Ol' '55." Waits' original begins the album on a gentle note, belying its amusing inspiration from a friend who had to drive in reverse on the Pasadena Freeway to get his underage date home.¹ Beyond that, the song perfectly places the listener in the driver's seat, watching the sun rise and the "stars beginning to fade." "I Hope That I Don't Fall in Love with You" seems a strange sentiment at first glance, but perfectly captures the fear that comes with falling in love, perhaps at first sight or perhaps just in theory. Its lines "I had a beer and now I hear you calling out for me" and "I turn around to look at you/You're nowhere to be found/I search the place for your lost face/Guess I'll have another round" suggest that the source of his infatuation may be imaginary. It may be coincidence that the song is followed by the drunken regret of "Virginia Avenue," a theme that would be explored more explicitly on Small Change (1976) and parts of other releases.

"Old Shoes (& Picture Postcards)" is a song so perfect in its arrangement, naturally flowing and idyllic in atmosphere that it sounds like a standard, a tale of a breakup without remorse—for the author, at least. "Midnight Lullaby" is a modern twist on the old-time lullaby, spun more for a lover than a child, with a "Hush Little Baby" quote to boot. The side one closer "Martha" is the centerpiece, a dreamy, wistful piece where Waits refers to himself under a partial pseudonym. There is a stronger sense of the bittersweet here than anywhere else, probably because it seems to be the most personal of the album's songs. "Rosie" is the flip side of it, a lighter affair that suggests more a passing infatuation than longing. "Lonely" speaks to a mood rather than a particular thought, successfully attaining the image denoted by its title with its lack of accompaniment.

If there is any one point in Waits' early canon that forecast the Howlin' Wolf-inspired second phase of his career, it's "Ice Cream Man." While the performance is not exactly the long-lost cousin of "16 Shells from a Thirty-Ought-Six," his classicist euphemism echoing those of legendary bluesmen. "Little Trip to Heaven (On the Wings of Your Love)" is another classic, not impressing with its diminished-chord progression or its simple astronomical metaphors but the interplay between the two. "Grapefruit Moon" is heavy-heart nostalgia, functioning almost as a two-part conclusion with the instrumental "Closing Time" to sum up the feelings and concepts of the album while rounding out the jazz modality present throughout.

It's hard to say whether an artist like Tom Waits has a magnum opus when his discography is bursting with masterpieces or works that come very close. Closing Time is not his best or even his most consistent work, even if it would be considered those in most artists' catalogs. However, it is one of the best song-oriented works in all of popular music, being referred to as such only because of its seamless aggregate of rock, folk, and jazz. It's hard to say there's a work of music everyone could appreciate, but if there's any album that has a lot of universal appeal, it's Closing Time.

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1 Waits, VH1 Storytellers, 1999.^↩