Album #51: Blue – Joni Mitchell
If Keith Richards bows to the almighty chord in obeisance, Joni Mitchell listens to it, then, courts it with a dance of love and Sufi-mysticism until it falls under her spell.
With Blue, released in 1971, we move into the gentle heart of Joni Mitchell. The album is so apropos of its title, it’s virtually a parody. Gentle and stripped to the bare necessities, Blue puts Joni’s mastery of chordistry on full display. Her novel tunings give the album a vitality that makes it instantly accessible. Neither major nor minor, augmented nor diminished, they smear a palette of them all in clusters of ennui; it’s a beautiful mélange in flatted sevenths.
Above the stripped compositions is Mitchell’s voice, which flows like rivers and brooks and floats glissando from the heights and depths with the grace of a swallow. It features the introspection of a mending heart. The compositions move from moment to moment as Mitchell let’s herself be heartbroken against dulcimers and guitars that gently pluck a longing for a lover’s arms, while the piano acts the companion, letting the pain out with dignity and grace. This subdued use of advanced constructions is at once jazz and transcendence, and has the quality of mastery that rock is unfamiliar with.
Above the stripped compositions is Mitchell’s voice, which flows like rivers and brooks and floats glissando from the heights and depths with the grace of a swallow.
Add to this, lyrics that regularly veer into those subtle day-to-days that only true heartbreak can emphasize in so crystalline a fashion, and you’ve got an album meant for sunsets and walks in the woods, or anywhere that invites quiet melancholy and effortless sorrow.
The quiet maturity and dignity is reassuring, and Mitchell’s master of chords is inspirational, so much so that Blue almost feels like its listening to me and offering a soft touch on the shoulder to tell me that sorrow is OK, that there is dignity in pain, regality in ennui, and beauty in the cobalt moments of life..