Joni Mitchell
Don Juan's Reckless Daughter

THE REVIEW

Forgive me, Great Scott of Rock, I have sinned.

I didn't think it could happen, but it happened.

I will no longer listen to those two together.

In my partial defense, King Vega of Rock, I assure you that those I dealt with were two sorcerers. How can such thoughts be put into the head of a person who has wagered their heart and soul on The Who and Led Zeppelin? And believe me, it wasn't out of frugality that I didn't bet more, it was all I had at the time.

The man, in his earthly form, even had the look of a sorcerer: long, straight, filthy hair, protruding ears, strange headbands, strange sounds he drew from his instrument, an instrument he seemed to have modified as he pleased, as is customary among sorcerers, to make it more effective.

His name was Pastorius, that man, perhaps you've heard of him, oh Great Inquisitor of Rock. Well, I say that if he were a proper American, he would have had a surname like Smith, Ford,... maybe Callaghan at most. But he was named Pastorius, clearly indicating he was hiding something strange.

Now I do not deny that having similar clues regarding the woman would be convenient, allowing me, oh Great Scrutinizer of Rock, to prove more easily what I am asserting. Unfortunately, I have none. I must say she never had anything of the witch's appearance, quite the opposite. And I can't glean much from her name and surname either, quite ordinary.

But perhaps the proof lies in this very lack of evident clues. Is it not true that when it comes to women, everything can become the opposite of everything? It might be that witches should be sought precisely where one would never think to.

Some claimed, which you certainly recall, that the devil is too cunning to make witches with the appearance of witches.

And then there are all those elusive melodies proving me right. Those melodies are a creation of the woman. Oh Man of Monte del Rock, surely there exist not only witches spending time mixing potions? Surely there are some who prefer using music to make victims.

To cut it short, Magnificent Chancellor of Rock, this time the victim was me, the victim of the sound plot created by those two, from the intertwining of her voice and his bass lines. I'll summarize my experience briefly.

Calls from the woman, coming from afar, sliding over imaginary waves created by guitar notes, caressing the eardrums and then immediately returning from whence they came and that, thinking about it now, I would say in terms of fatality they had nothing to envy to siren calls, indeed, I would dare say that's exactly what it was about. During listening, however, one does not notice the danger and proceeds calmly. After a while, the bass comes alive with notes shaking the guts, but at first there are few and quick interventions and so one goes on still unthinkingly. And slowly, without noticing, the two elements close around the mind and one finds oneself along the cotton avenue, and at that point, it's too late.

The boiling of the bass becomes denser, and one surrenders, "Talk to Me," hens, "Jericho," then one reaches paprika plains and the program includes a fantasy of piano and hovering voice, followed by some orchestra, a bit too much orchestra perhaps. As dessert, a taste of weather forecasts. It continues with Otis and Marlena and a good bit of percussion. Then it's the turn of the naughty daughter of Don Juan, of "Off Night Backstreet," and finally of "The Silky Veils of Ardor." The man doesn't intervene in this last piece, only voice and guitar, but the music does not lose one gram of its fatality.

Oh Great Orson of Rock, I can't tell you when it happened, when that thought which is condemning me crossed my mind, I only remember that it happened without me realizing it, without being able to do anything about it: "In the end, for me, all the rest of the music can go to funk-u low."

But it was just a moment, Grand Vizier Detutiterun of Rock, then I recovered, I immediately immersed my mind into "Live at Leeds" and everything returned as before.