Mostly I love the melody of this song.. I too am reminded of "into the wild"by this song. General Comment This song was supposedly written about long-time late, died in the early '80s L. MItchel Reed, who reportedly had a brief affair with Joni early in her career. He was an established DJ by the late '50s; by the late '60s he had helped usher in the first FM stations that played alternate album tracks and other music, not just the established hits played on AM radio.
The 'Beamer' was one of a kind. Grace and Peace from the Father. BuckCronkite on May 24, Artists - J. Rainy Night House is found on the album Miles of Aisles. Girls in the Valley Woodstock Ladies of the Canyon. Rate These Lyrics. We do not have any tags for Rainy Night House lyrics.
Why not add your own? Log in to add a tag. More Joni Mitchell Lyrics. SongMeanings is a place for discussion and discovery. User does not exist. Incorrect Password. Remember Me. She was too smart for either position, but also too smart to remove herself entirely from each: able to be cynical about her cynicism but also to romanticise it in the next breath. Its narrator and the titular Richard are as correct in their assessments of each other as they are delusional about themselves and their own motivations; there's a sneaking suspicion that both are manifestations of Mitchell's own ego, which makes it all the more fitting that she enjoys tying them up in knots.
In later years, Mitchell would opine loftily about a new generation of female singer-songwriters: "When it comes to knowing where to put the chords, how to tell a story and how to build to a chorus, most of them can't touch me. This is no criticism, but this tendency does make the occasional cut where she gives herself completely over to pure sound stand out.
Court and Spark was her most lushly arranged album to date, and Help Me one of the rare moments where the message played second fiddle to the medium. It retells Mitchell's obsession with wanting to fall in love but actually, on second thoughts, not wanting to fall in love, and against this familiar backdrop it's perhaps just as well that there are so many musical joys: the fluttery backing vocals, the trumpet descending like a car that's just bumped clumsily over a bridge — both of them for once articulating Mitchell's ambivalence better than she herself could.
On Mitchell's seventh album, all her qualities seem to peak simultaneously. It's where her gifts for melody, songcraft, arrangements and innovation all coalesce, and as such the perfect intersection between the accessibility of the first half of her career and the distanced admiration her subsequent albums would elicit.
The darkness beneath the decadence would become a well-trodden theme in popular culture in the decades following this song, but few conveyed so well its signature sense of vacant ambivalence. The Hissing of Summer Lawns seeks to capture a mood — listless and with no motivation to be otherwise — rather than skewer it.
It's as inviting as it is powerful. The decadence of the upper classes, the middle-class aspiration to an idealised normality, the pretensions of artistic subcultures that ostensibly duck under both: no set is safe from Mitchell's paintstripper lens. The Boho Dance cuts the deepest, perhaps because it's as much self-indictment and self-justification as calling out a naked emperor.
It's Didionesque in its incisive concision: the line "the virtue of your style inscribed on your contempt for mine" rings as true as a read on hipster culture now as it did then, and Mitchell's framing of the artistic demi-monde as a rut of its own rather than an escape from social norms is wondefully astute.
Where was there for Mitchell to go after The Hissing of Summer Lawns, having cast a dissatisfied eye over every kind of lifestyle available to her and found them wanting? Out to the open road, it turned out. If the life of the restless wanderer was one she'd condemned herself to or freed herself to pursue , it was also where she appeared to ascend to a higher state of being: languid and unstructured, Hejira unravels at its own pace.
But even though Mitchell sounds like she has all the time in the world, and no song feels seems to have a particular reason to end, not a moment is wasted — neither on the muffled clarinet underpinning the title track, nor lines such as: "I'm porous with travel fever, but you know I'm so glad to be on my own. Hejira's centrepiece is an eight-and-a-half minute meander in which nothing much happens, little changes, no concessions are made to musical accessibility and nothing is resolved — and yet it's hypnotically compelling for every second of its running time.
Mitchell's old themes of love and outsiderdom are viewed as though through a telescope: without losing any of her keenness of vision, she seems to be in retreat from her emotional attachment to them. The sparse details rustle around like clues otherwise: backing vocals that peal ominously, then keen, then peal again; the barely perceptible quickening of the pace on certain verses; the way Mitchell leans suddenly on the lines she wants to bite the listener hardest.
Hejira could only end like this: a paean to the life of self-exile that ends with a dizzying zoom out and in again as a service station provides Mitchell with the opportunity to casually, momentarily widen her scope to the cosmic before splashing water on her face and setting off. This self-cover is nominally a reprise in celebration of Mitchell's career, but there's little joyous about it.
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