Janis

E and I were driving downtown this afternoon for some Mama Time. The radio was on when we got in the car, and she asked me to switch it to the oldies station (some day I'll blog about the radio: about the kid-value of the oldies station and how I don't listen to NPR). The first chords of "Me and Bobby McGee" were just playing, and E said "That guitar sounds like Daddy's guitar," and I said "This is one of Mommy's favorite songs." The song was still playing when we got downtown (Red State Capital City Suburb isn't very big), and after we parked I didn't turn off the ignition till it ended. E said "That was a nice song. We should get that CD." I said, "We have that CD. We can listen to it when we get home."

I've loved Janis since before I can remember, maybe since I was ten? eight? But this isn't about loving Janis; this is about loving Scars of Sweet Paradise, Alice Echols' brilliant biography of Janis. Echols is a feminist social historian who also wrote Daring to be Bad, a history of radical feminism in the 60s and 70s. In Scars of Sweet Paradise, she situates the complicated joys and tragedies of Janis's short life geographically, historically, and musically. She describes what it was like to grow up "ugly,"resisting the dicates of conventional femininity in 1950's small-town Texas. She takes Janis and San Francisco from the decline of the Beats through the rise of the hippies, from speed to heroin, from blues to rock and roll, with lots of sex along the way. In its careful attention to context and character, the book is a model of social history and biography, and it's a great read too. It's the kind of book that I read and wish I'd written.

So, today's advice is to go listen to some Janis and read Scars of Sweet Paradise. You'll be the better for it.