I was checking my Facebook newsfeed when I saw Joni Mitchell singing “Both Sides Now” on a stage with a microphone, her guitar, and her usual unassuming self.
The stage was plain. There was a spotlight positioned at the back portion of the platform and some house lights that illuminated the faces of the audience, who appeared to me as enthusiastic individuals who appreciate the woman who is the voice behind “Big Yellow Taxi”.
They applauded when Mitchell started strumming her guitar; I can’t barely hear any sound from the stringed instrument. Then her mouth opened with lyrics that pierce the heart and a voice that speaks to the soul:
Rows and flows of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere,
I’ve looked at clouds that way.
I watched and listened for a good four minutes; savoring my 6:30 p.m. solitude as the husband is fixing dinner and twins are mellow versions of their rascal selves. I closed my eyes and the melody took me to the time when I was nine years old, when my father introduced England Dan and John Ford Coley to me – and how, in my world as a child, I felt an immediate connection to “Soldier in the Rain” and “Love is the Answer”. I remember asking my mother to buy me a cassette tape of Britney Spears’ Oops!… I Did It Again! album but she refused and came home with a VHS tape containing karaoke songs from The Carpenters, Eagles, Bread, Abba, Celine Dion, Barbara Streisand, and a Filipino singer named Jose Mari Chan.
As Mitchell ended her song, I am reminded of today’s brand of music that most young people listen to: where drugs and sex are glorified subjects in some rap and hiphop singles; where great lyrics is forgotten in exchange for repetitive lines that say “make love to me”; and where artists just don’t know how to sing with their hearts invested into the songs whose message they’re supposed to deliver with sincerity and clarity.
I listened to Joni Mitchell and I’m brought back to the times when good music means a voice that can really sing and lyrics that truly means something. That a production number is not defined by an ostentatious display of skin or a slew of naked back-up dancers. I grew up with The Carpenters, Bread, Styx, Eagles, England Dan and John Ford Coley, Abba. I learned to appreciate Joni Mitchell in high school when most of my peers were singing Britney Spears and the boy bands.
Don’t get me wrong, I liked them (Britney, etc.) too. At that particular chapter of my life. I even hated those times when my mother refused my requests of subscribing to a cable service or buying a cassette tap of Westlife. I was always behind the trend. We didn’t have cable and MTV at home. I despised that. I felt I wasn’t cool.
But I realized that as time flies, only good music stays; the rest fades away.
Only the good music stays.
Only the good music.
I thank my Mother and even the man who happens to be my father for this exposure. I didn’t appreciate it then but I’m expressing my gratitude as I am thousands of miles away from the Philippines – and can only manage to write this post to pour my heart out.
In 2013, my brother Hendrix and I watched a John Ford Coley concert in Cebu, Philippines. We were singing for a good two hours. We memorized all the lyrics; they were imprinted in our skulls; the songs are part of our DNAs. We were too excited to line up to have our CD signed and we talked about how teenagers would have reacted the same way if it was One Direction onstage.
When it was finally our turn to talk to him, I was a nervous wreck who talked about how I’ve been listening to his music since I was nine years old. He asked me how I got my name “Cris Evert”, and I told him that my father was a big tennis fan and that my sister was also named after another tennis legend, Steffie Graf. I also told him Hendrix was named after the legendary left-handed guitarist and musician, Jimi Hendrix. I didn’t stop talking and told him how his songs were part of our afternoons; how I memorized all songs, and was very proud of myself for memorizing all 13 (or was it 14) tracks in that album. Hendrix wasn’t able to speak. His hands were sweaty and he was so nervous. My architect brother was starstrucked! I was nine years old when I first listened to John Ford Coley; he was five. I was 26 years old and Hendrix was 22 when we attended that concert. We were jumping and giddy and with happiness painted all over faces after talking to John Ford Coley.
We were both shaking after that encounter – and proud of ourselves that in our lifetime, we met one of our musical heroes.
A week ago, Jeff asked me what I want for my birthday which falls on the 20th of this month.
“I don’t know,” I replied.
But after watching Joni Mitchell on a Facebook video, I think I know what I want.
Writer’s note: The first photo of this post was obtained through Creative Commons. The link to the original photo can be found here. Joni Mitchell’s photo is from The Rolling Stones.
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T30WC or The 30-minute Writing Challenge is a writing exercise born out of this blogger’s need to maintain a habit of writing. Subjects of each writing challenge is just about anything but should ONLY be written within 30 minutes.
