- Feb 3, 2024
- LitBits
- 0
New blog post by Rachel McCarron
When I Think of Blue
When I think of blue, I think of music. Not necessarily the blues, although that idiom applies. I think of Running Gun Blues, Silly Boy Blue and Blue Jean because I’m always thinking of David Bowie. I think of Kind of Blue by Miles Davis. I think of Nick Drake’s Way to Blue with its bluest of moods. I think of It’s All Over Now Baby Blue even though I’m not a Dylan fan. And like a lot of women who play guitar, I think of Joni Mitchell.
Blue is often cited by fans and critics as her greatest album, her breakthrough, her becoming. Personally, I prefer Hejira, but in fact, right now, I’m thinking of Turbulent Indigo, her 1994 album and the song she wrote about Van Gogh.
The artist who only saw success in the last year of his life, was so tormented, he cut off his ear to stop the voices, and so tortured, he shot himself in the chest in the wheatfield where he was painting. So much did he suffer, he didn’t even die until two days later. Joni was right: the wealthy art collectors wouldn’t want the man anywhere near them. I smile to think of him pissing on their fires.
Whether it’s Joni singing about Van Gogh, Chrissie Hynde Adding the Blue or Tori Amos arming herself with Cezanne’s 16 Shades of Blue, art and music in all its blueness are forever intertwined.
Chrissie Hynde, Miles Davis, Bowie and Dylan, and at least three out of four Beatles are but few examples of musicians-turned-artists. But for Joni Mitchell, it’s the other way around. She affirms that she’s ‘a painter first, and a musician second.’ She says she sings her sorrow and paints her joy. Consider her album covers, or browse the artwork on her website, and you’ll see why.
I am a musician, of sorts, or at least I used to be. I played and sang and wrote songs. I was prolific in my teens and twenties (wasn’t everybody?), kept going in my thirties but dwindled after that. I don’t play much these days, but there is always music in my head. Sometimes I hear songs that don’t yet exist. I vow to write them, but it doesn’t happen the way it used to.
I’ve never painted. Perhaps I should try. But I’m no Joni Mitchell. I can only paint with words.
When I Think of Blue
When I Think of Blue
When I think of blue, I think of music. Not necessarily the blues, although that idiom applies. I think of Running Gun Blues, Silly Boy Blue and Blue Jean because I’m always thinking of David Bowie. I think of Kind of Blue by Miles Davis. I think of Nick Drake’s Way to Blue with its bluest of moods. I think of It’s All Over Now Baby Blue even though I’m not a Dylan fan. And like a lot of women who play guitar, I think of Joni Mitchell.
Blue is often cited by fans and critics as her greatest album, her breakthrough, her becoming. Personally, I prefer Hejira, but in fact, right now, I’m thinking of Turbulent Indigo, her 1994 album and the song she wrote about Van Gogh.
The madman hangs in fancy homes
They wouldn’t let him near!
He’d piss in their fireplace!
He’d drag them through Turbulent Indigo.
They wouldn’t let him near!
He’d piss in their fireplace!
He’d drag them through Turbulent Indigo.
(Turbulent Indigo, Joni Mitchell, 1994)
The artist who only saw success in the last year of his life, was so tormented, he cut off his ear to stop the voices, and so tortured, he shot himself in the chest in the wheatfield where he was painting. So much did he suffer, he didn’t even die until two days later. Joni was right: the wealthy art collectors wouldn’t want the man anywhere near them. I smile to think of him pissing on their fires.
Whether it’s Joni singing about Van Gogh, Chrissie Hynde Adding the Blue or Tori Amos arming herself with Cezanne’s 16 Shades of Blue, art and music in all its blueness are forever intertwined.
Chrissie Hynde, Miles Davis, Bowie and Dylan, and at least three out of four Beatles are but few examples of musicians-turned-artists. But for Joni Mitchell, it’s the other way around. She affirms that she’s ‘a painter first, and a musician second.’ She says she sings her sorrow and paints her joy. Consider her album covers, or browse the artwork on her website, and you’ll see why.
I am a musician, of sorts, or at least I used to be. I played and sang and wrote songs. I was prolific in my teens and twenties (wasn’t everybody?), kept going in my thirties but dwindled after that. I don’t play much these days, but there is always music in my head. Sometimes I hear songs that don’t yet exist. I vow to write them, but it doesn’t happen the way it used to.
I’ve never painted. Perhaps I should try. But I’m no Joni Mitchell. I can only paint with words.
Here is a picture. A denim-clad woman with hair too long for her age crouches in the narrow isle of an independent record shop. It’s not a flattering image. She is moderately broad of beam, and she can’t blame children for those hips. But she’s fit enough to squat while she flicks through the stacks of vinyl. She looks up and grins having struck gold with something to add to her collection. What has she found? I can’t see from here. But I know she’ll be listening to it on Sunday morning while she’s writing about a woman singing her sorrow and an artist pissing in a fireplace.
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