More than 30 years ago, my
husband, Mike, and I saw Joan Baez in concert. So last spring, when I spotted
an advertisement for her 75th birthday celebration tour, I jumped to
buy tickets….
…. because I wanted to
experience the comfort and joy of hearing her voice that spools out like silken
thread….
…. because she’s a funny
storyteller; I still remember two stories she shared decades ago…. She laughed
about playing pretend shoot ‘em up with her son Gabriel. She knew that anecdote
flew in the face of her reputation as a lifelong antiwar activist. She added
that when her son grew up, he would probably have to see a shrink and complain,
“My mother TAAAAAALLLLKED to me.” I recalled those two stories often as I
raised my children….
…. because I wanted to
hear her sing “Joe Hill.” That song haunts me – it’s a conversation between the
singer and the deceased Joe Hill, a union agitator who became famous when he
was framed for a murder and executed. In the song, the ghostly Joe Hill says, “I
never died.” He explains, “What they forgot to kill went on to organize.” I’m
not rabidly pro-union, but the lyrics give me chills, especially when I think
about how children and their parents were treated like animals before unions
brought rules to the workplace….
….. because I believe that
if I can afford it, I should go see wonderful old entertainers before they die….
…. and because I think
part of me wanted to take a trip back in time.
Mike and I drove with our
friend AJ to the concert. AJ and I were excited. As we walked from the parking
structure, we joked about “people of a certain age” who would surely fill the
seats in the stately old Pabst Theatre. Women around us were joking about digging
out their old bell bottoms for the concert – and knowing they’d never be able
to squeeze into them.
Once in the theatre, I looked
around the audience and was shocked to see two young men. I gestured covertly
to AJ and whispered, “Hair pigment at nine o’clock.”
The lights went down. We quit
talking and looked to the stage. Without announcement or ceremony, and with a brisk
stride, Joan Baez entered, alone. Mid-pace, she kicked one leg high into the
air. Seventy-five and still kicking. Slender and stunningly beautiful. Ms.
Cheekbones.
People in the audience
shouted, clapped, and rose. She had us in her hands.
The voice was as rich as I
remembered it, a voice that’s hard to describe – certainly a soprano, but with rich
and changing overtones. I wish I had the musical vocabulary to talk about it. A
jewel in my ear.
The concert started off a
bit slowly for me, and I thought about my brother-in-law Dale who refers to “The
great folk scare of the 60s.” Dale is a hard rocker. I am not, but I agree that
sometimes folk gets a bit too soft. I didn’t love all the songs she picked, but
I loved the way she picked that guitar and I loved every warble of her heavenly
voice. When she sang a song that didn’t move me particularly, I just listened
to the lyrics, which were always thoughtful.
Gradually, I realized that
she was singing through a sort of history of our country, from raw post-slavery
times, to the ragged days when that darn old Vietnam War would not end, right
up to today’s headlines.
She sang her own “Diamonds
and Rust” (changing the end to “I’ll take the diamonds”). She spent most of the
time giving her sometimes startling interpretation to songs written by others. Alfred
Hayes’s “Joe Hill” was there, alive as you and me…Paul Robeson’s heart-rending “No
More Auction Block”…Woody Guthrie’s sorrowful “Deportee”… Kris Kristofferson’s bluesy
“Me and Bobby McGee”…along with thoughts of mortality in the searing “Another
World” by Tom Waits. She belted traditionals like “House of the Rising Sun” and
“Swing Low Sweet Chariot.”
Baez’s sassy humor was
there in full force. She introduced her band as the “Bad hombres” and called
herself “a nasty woman.” When she sang “Swing Low Sweet Chariot,” she changed
the last words to “comin’ for to carry me – and you – and all of us – even Donald
– home.”
She invited us to join her
singing Bob Dylan songs, and the famous words floated to the gilded ceiling on
the wings of our voices. Of Dylan, she said, “His manners suck but boy could he
write.” I’m guessing she was referring to his silence after being awarded the
Nobel Prize for literature. As she did in the concert we saw decades back, she
aped Dylan’s bark perfectly on “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right.”
Her band was tiny but remarkable.
The versatile Dirk Powell played banjo, guitar, fiddle, accordion, mandolin, and
piano – and sang too. Last time I saw him was back in 2003 when he performed
with Balfa Toujours, the Cajun band, at Folklore Village in Dodgeville,
Wisconsin. Since then, I think he's played with just about every big name all over the world.
| Dirk Powell, musician extraordinaire |
Baez’s son Gabriel Harris, all grown up now, did a fantastic job on
percussion playing an assortment of drums, cymbals, bongos, and some kind of
box.
| Gabriel Harris, spectacular beats |
Baez’s assistant (I believe Grace Stumberg) had a lovely companion voice
providing harmony – and a bit of lead – on a few songs.
Always an activist, Baez
chose The Innocence Project as the cause to promote during this tour. She
explained simply and briefly what they do and why she believes in them. She
added that everyone running for public office in our country, or any country,
should spend a couple of days in prison, to get an idea of the base line.
For some reason, they had
a smoke machine going throughout the concert. That and some pretty lighting
were the only concession to “effects.” Joan Baez doesn’t need ‘em.
She gave us two encores
and then made the “Night-night” gesture with her hands, as a proper grandma
should. Mike and AJ and I enjoyed some wine in the lobby while we waited for
the parking structure to empty out. We wandered onto the street, where a small
group of people stood in vigil near Baez’s big tour bus. The roadies rolled out the equipment
carts. We waited a bit…then left without seeing her.
Bye, Joan. Glad to have heard
you again.
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