Joni Mitchell
Blue

This year it's done again. For almost two months, the media bombardment has been relentless: be good, good enough to make you sick, and above all, keep buying more and more useless trinkets. Be as good as the child in the pandoro commercial, with that deformed jaw and that bleat already set according to the worst Sanremo standards, used to remind us several times a day that it's Christmas and we can give (or do?) more, a bit like his three big brothers Morandi, Tozzi & Ruggeri used to say, if I remember correctly. Or as good as the statuesque model with a much more expressive rear than face, who with a Stan and Ollie accent continues to assure us that everything is around us, as long as we use a certain phone. There are no remedies: it's the Market, sacred and untouchable, and it doesn't matter if the invitation to squander bonuses clashes with the pittance, and sometimes lack, of the same. However, developing allergic reactions is still possible. This year, for example, every time a barrage of "Jingle Bells" from imbecile children's choirs is fired by the TV sellers' caravan, my acoustic nerves absorb it and convert it into similar piano notes, but much more distinct, intense, and above all much more adult. Notes that suggest another way of waiting for Christmas, wishing for a frozen river to skate on freely, perhaps to find a way to mend a difficult relationship with an adopted and somewhat neglected daughter.

It is the Christmas piano introduction of "River," one of the many gems that make "Blue" (1971) a historical record, without a doubt the peak of Joni Mitchell's acoustic phase and for many her absolute masterpiece. Personally, I prefer the subsequent turn with refined jazz contributions, which culminates in the incomparable "Hejira," but it's a matter of taste. In "Blue," two great groups of songs alternate, competing in a fascinating beauty contest. One is made up of poignant duets between Joni's piano and voice, which at times reach heights of intensity and passion almost akin to lieder. The other consists of elegant acoustic ballads balancing between West Coast style and Latin influences, and here James Taylor's guitar stands out, deliberately sparse, sometimes metallic like a Greek bouzouki, an ideal complement both to Joni's bright trills and to her darker, hoarser shades. Again, the level is such that preferences are a matter of taste: those like me who are classicophiles and piano lovers will tend to favor the songs of the first group, which doesn't detract a gram from the value of the others. Among the splendid "piano confidences" that Joni's voice gives us, besides the already mentioned "River," "Blue" stands out, a true poetry framed by delicate and captivating chords. "Songs are like tattoos" the first verse says, and it's a guarantee: once heard, it truly remains indelible in memory. In "My Old Man," the alternation is beautiful between the burst of happiness, with soprano high notes, of the most loving verses, and the abrupt melancholic twist of the refrain ("But when he's gone..."), with the vibrant voice suddenly shadowed. "The Last Time I Saw Richard," a true dialogue in song form, uses the lower registers of the piano and voice to recount a finished love in the clearest and most conversational tone possible. Even though the two themes "love" and "freedom", with their often unresolved contrast, are the basis of almost all the songs, in the guitar ballads, freedom tends to prevail, expressing itself in the need for travel, for vast spaces, which fits perfectly with the West Coast musical tradition. The only but notable exception is "A Case Of You," where James Taylor's essential guitar leaves the maximum space for Joni's voice, which highlights the state of grace of a total love, absolute as a blood bond. The cult of travel as a symbol of freedom is expressed from the start, with the insistent repetition of the word "travelling" in the brilliant "All I Want," which prepares us to fill up with new horizons to discover in "Carey" and "California," not coincidentally the two most serene songs on the album, with their clear Latin colors. But "This Flight Tonight" shatters any illusion and, while dealing with a journey, brings the eternal love-freedom conflict back to the forefront with its inner torments, well expressed by music full of tension. James Taylor's guitar, so far metallic and nervous, calms in "Little Green," a concentrate of tenderness capable of moving the most hardened hearts, a brief interlude where the sweet green of spring for a moment imposes itself over the dark color of melancholy, that blue which is not at all "painted blue" but rather a midnight blue, like that of the cover of this poetic and musical masterpiece.