Neither free, nor a man

Joni Mitchell - Free Man In Paris



Written about David Geffen and a trip to Paris with Robbie Robertson from The Band, this is one of the rather cheekboned Ms Mitchell's favourite live songs. To put it into perspective, if Willie Nelson was the happy stoner uncle of folky, country music, Mitchell would be the weird aunt who you're not sure is a Wiccan or just in need to electro-convulsive therapy. Either way, she normally embarrasses herself at family gatherings and wears clothes that look like hippies threw them away. She may even be a sculptor. in the same way that I've managed to stretch that metaphor to the painful limit, Mitchell seems intent to stretch the upper limits of her vocal range to the same heights - She manages to hit notes that would reduce our canine friends to conniptions and that automatically make me want to do someone harm. However, this is a more consistent and less breathy vocal than normal from Mitchell, while still retaining some of her trademark minor key, legato vocals. She can't so much as hold a note as want to slide it up or down a hill.

Musically, there's some slide guitar in the mix, some flute or recorder, some airily-strummed, folky guitar, a shuffly drumbeat and a serious reliance on the 'new' idea of stereo recording. The music side is not really noteworthy. Rock and roll flautism reminds me of bearded men in dresses shouting 'AQUALUUUNG'.

The whole package is a little twee and chanteuse-y for me. I prefer music with a little more edge than this, which has about as much sharp edge as a properly baby-proofed lawn. This music is incapable of offending or provoking moral outrage in any way. But apart from that, it's perfectly fine, even if Mitchell looks like a horse trying to eat an ice cream when she sings.

Verdict: Give me death.

Tomorrow: Carole King - It's Too Late.