Joni Mitchell has long arms. Her bony elbows stick out at odd angles when she plays the guitar, which she wears like a sling. Her arms take the long way around it, the way a monkey will reach around it’s head to scratch it’s face. Her wrists are loose. When she strums she doesn’t tightly press her fingers together but shakes her entire hand across the strings like a child playing on a washboard. She has that kind of pinched, Shelley Duvall face and when she smiles we see her over-bite, a white row of strong California teeth. Oh Joni Mitchells mouth! Waiting for her to smile during a song is like watching the skin of a ripe orange being peeled away. It opens up like a good idea. And her eyes roll. And she raises those thin, pretty, jackrabbit eyebrows. She has such character in that face of hers, such strong features. “I would have been an athlete.” she has said. And also, “People’s nervous systems are shot. We’re overpopulated” I see her in videos. On youtube, concert tapes, her song in The Last Waltz. It has to be video. Or live, should I get the chance. Just listening, not being able to wait for that smile, it’s tortuous.
Anne Sexton flutters under the public eye like a bird with it’s foot caught under a stone. And everything goes into print. When she listens to music, being interviewed in her suburban home, her head tilts back.
“I think that’s the most sensual thing I’ve ever heard…ohh…I wouldn’t want to have an orgasm in front of you, but…no that is it…listen.”
Her hands float around the room. Black and white. Old film. The kind that washes white when it cuts in and out. She bites her lip. Her crooked grin. Her eyes move, looking up, looking through the ceiling, no, not looking at all. When she gets excited she smiles uncontrollably and shakes her head, her large earrings bobbing about, her sixties housewife hair curled about them, shaking.
“Better than a poem. Music beats us.”
Sometimes she’ll rest in a sighing, aged way. Sink down like a watchful dog. That little bird resting after beating it’s wings. And she’ll light a cigarette and fall in love with the way her hands wrap around the neck of a beer bottle. She’ll talk. She’ll grin slyly, bite her tongue. Talk about sex, about her daughters. Asylums. Poetry. Cigarettes. The office chairs squeaks as she shifts in her seat, moving forward to speak and falling back again, resting. Her face is earnest, at times a no-nonsense face. At times. She changes subjects often and suddenly. She flutters.
France Gall is twenty one years old. She has someone do her hair and makeup in the ye ye style. She’s a French pop singer.
Computer number three Is looking for the right boy for me And the love is guaranteed to be mutual…
She’s singing this is German, to a German audience. The computer at this time is a brand new toy. It’s a multi-million dollar box machine only owned by large corporations and a few well-off universities. France Gall is twenty one and she moves on a German stage in front of German television cameras. She sways. Steps ye ye steps and swings her knees. She holds onto a microphone awkwardly. If she didn’t have the mic she could let loose and really dance, she looks like she could. And the microphone isn’t truly necessary anyway. She’s lip-synching.
…The computer knows exactly the right girl for every guy And can compute happiness in the blink of an eye…
The audience is a stuffy looking crowd. Middle-aged German suits and their dressed up wives. They sit in rows. Their expressions are the same all around. Politeness. Feigned interest. Gall sways from side to side, lip-synching. She bats her long painted lashes at them, points to them in a kind of “You. This one’s for you, mister.” gesture, smiles, brushes her bangs out of her eyes.
…Because someone, somewhere is waiting for me…
I think she smiles when she’s nervous. It would be a good tactic for her. Good for dealing with the press. She writes some of her own songs, has others written for her. They’re pop songs that don’t say very much but she’s has natural style. She’s the new face of ye ye (yeah! yeah!).
Computer number three Is looking for the right boy for me And the love is guaranteed to be mutual…
She’s been doing this for years now. Her first hit came over the radio for the first time on her sixteenth birthday. She can really smile. And when she’s nervous, she can really smile then too.
…Yesterday I was lonely, but today I’m in love - Only thanks to technology, research and artificial intelligence…
France Gall is twenty one years old. She steps from side to side on a foreign stage, wearing brand new shoes and a brand new dress, mouthing the words of her latest hit track into a microphone that isn‘t turned on. The computer is now being talked about by more than just scientists. She’s a French pop singer.
This month is pretty lady month. Here's to some of my favorite 60's ladies.
ReplyDelete1. Will you take me as I am
ReplyDeleteJoni Mitchell has long arms. Her bony elbows stick out at odd angles when she plays the guitar, which she wears like a sling. Her arms take the long way around it, the way a monkey will reach around it’s head to scratch it’s face. Her wrists are loose. When she strums she doesn’t tightly press her fingers together but shakes her entire hand across the strings like a child playing on a washboard. She has that kind of pinched, Shelley Duvall face and when she smiles we see her over-bite, a white row of strong California teeth. Oh Joni Mitchells mouth! Waiting for her to smile during a song is like watching the skin of a ripe orange being peeled away. It opens up like a good idea. And her eyes roll. And she raises those thin, pretty, jackrabbit eyebrows. She has such character in that face of hers, such strong features.
“I would have been an athlete.” she has said. And also, “People’s nervous systems are shot. We’re overpopulated”
I see her in videos. On youtube, concert tapes, her song in The Last Waltz. It has to be video. Or live, should I get the chance. Just listening, not being able to wait for that smile, it’s tortuous.
2. Saying what lovers say
ReplyDeleteAnne Sexton flutters under the public eye like a bird with it’s foot caught under a stone. And everything goes into print. When she listens to music, being interviewed in her suburban home, her head tilts back.
“I think that’s the most sensual thing I’ve ever heard…ohh…I wouldn’t want to have an orgasm in front of you, but…no that is it…listen.”
Her hands float around the room. Black and white. Old film. The kind that washes white when it cuts in and out. She bites her lip. Her crooked grin. Her eyes move, looking up, looking through the ceiling, no, not looking at all. When she gets excited she smiles uncontrollably and shakes her head, her large earrings bobbing about, her sixties housewife hair curled about them, shaking.
“Better than a poem. Music beats us.”
Sometimes she’ll rest in a sighing, aged way. Sink down like a watchful dog. That little bird resting after beating it’s wings. And she’ll light a cigarette and fall in love with the way her hands wrap around the neck of a beer bottle. She’ll talk. She’ll grin slyly, bite her tongue. Talk about sex, about her daughters. Asylums. Poetry. Cigarettes. The office chairs squeaks as she shifts in her seat, moving forward to speak and falling back again, resting. Her face is earnest, at times a no-nonsense face. At times. She changes subjects often and suddenly. She flutters.
3. Der Computer Nr. 3
ReplyDeleteFrance Gall is twenty one years old. She has someone do her hair and makeup in the ye ye style. She’s a French pop singer.
Computer number three
Is looking for the right boy for me
And the love is guaranteed to be mutual…
She’s singing this is German, to a German audience. The computer at this time is a brand new toy. It’s a multi-million dollar box machine only owned by large corporations and a few well-off universities. France Gall is twenty one and she moves on a German stage in front of German television cameras. She sways. Steps ye ye steps and swings her knees. She holds onto a microphone awkwardly. If she didn’t have the mic she could let loose and really dance, she looks like she could. And the microphone isn’t truly necessary anyway. She’s lip-synching.
…The computer knows exactly the right girl for every guy
And can compute happiness in the blink of an eye…
The audience is a stuffy looking crowd. Middle-aged German suits and their dressed up wives. They sit in rows. Their expressions are the same all around. Politeness. Feigned interest. Gall sways from side to side, lip-synching. She bats her long painted lashes at them, points to them in a kind of “You. This one’s for you, mister.” gesture, smiles, brushes her bangs out of her eyes.
…Because someone, somewhere is waiting for me…
I think she smiles when she’s nervous. It would be a good tactic for her. Good for dealing with the press. She writes some of her own songs, has others written for her. They’re pop songs that don’t say very much but she’s has natural style. She’s the new face of ye ye (yeah! yeah!).
Computer number three
Is looking for the right boy for me
And the love is guaranteed to be mutual…
She’s been doing this for years now. Her first hit came over the radio for the first time on her sixteenth birthday. She can really smile. And when she’s nervous, she can really smile then too.
…Yesterday I was lonely, but today I’m in love -
Only thanks to technology, research and artificial intelligence…
France Gall is twenty one years old. She steps from side to side on a foreign stage, wearing brand new shoes and a brand new dress, mouthing the words of her latest hit track into a microphone that isn‘t turned on. The computer is now being talked about by more than just scientists. She’s a French pop singer.