Nothing I write this week could compete with Joni Mitchell’s response to the fiftieth anniversary celebration of Blue. Her comments circulated on Instagram:
Hi. I’m so pleased with all of the positive attention that Blue is receiving these days. You know, when it was first released it fell heir to a lot of criticism. So 50 years later, people finally get it. And that pleases me. Thank you.
Blue has been my favorite album for ages—thanks to Abby, who introduced me to Joni when I was 17—but I wasn’t around to witness its beginning. It is moving now to think of 27-year-old Roberta Joan Anderson, known as Joni, taking a one-way flight to Europe, dulcimer in tow, attempting to escape the pressures of fame and hoping to shake her life up in a way that would help her write the truest parts of her heart and soul.
Those of us who have spent countless hours singing Blue around the house know how imploringly the album asks its big, yet intimate questions about love, home, motherhood, and success. Musically and poetically, Joni delights. She produced the album herself in 1971, when female producers were not a thing. Blue explores the full spectrum of human experience in all its heartbreak and its nuance. Joni gives us whimsy and delight, sorrow like a heavy weight. Most of all, she is honest.
Last weekend’s homage in the New York Times explored Blue’s truth-telling in Joni’s own words:
‘I was demanding of myself a deeper and greater honesty,’ Mitchell said…, the kind that enters people’s lives and ‘makes light bulbs go off in their head, and makes them feel.’ That kind of work ‘strikes against the very nerves of their life,’ she said, ‘and in order to do that, you have to strike against the very nerves of your own.’
If you’re a person who creates things or makes art or writes words, then you understand the push and pull of having something to say and not knowing if anyone wants to hear it. Every creative act comes with the risk of being misunderstood or unappreciated. Being misunderstood feels like rejection.
Our fear of rejection is magnified in this era of commodifying every piece of our lives for online consumption; the validation we gain from likes, comments, and shares keeps us mining our experiences for more. Immediate and widespread acceptance on the internet is positioned as the only path to success.
But as Joni proved with Blue, sometimes it takes the collective time to catch up to what you have to say. Creative acts—especially when they center truth—spark discomfort among audiences. That discomfort is less welcomed now, as life lived online homogenizes our experience. Vulnerability is applauded when smashed into the confines of the official Instagram formula—a crying selfie or video, a long caption. Opening up is praised if no systems are challenged or held accountable.
It was a big week for honesty among female music icons. The world watched as Britney Spears spoke her truth for the first time in an open court hearing, demanding freedom from the conservatorship that has allowed her father and his minions to control every aspect of her life—from dating to home improvement to medical care to performance—for over half her career. She spoke from the depths of her heart and soul and validated the #FreeBritney movement’s worst fears.
In Britney’s case, speaking up was not a matter of self-expression, but a matter of survival. It seems the two are often linked.
It is impossible to praise Joni and Britney for their truth-telling without considering how being women in the world has affected their trajectory. Joni insisted on a personal, pioneering style in a time when, as the Los Angeles Times put it, women weren’t even allowed to own credit cards. Blue opened the door for female artists to tell soul-centered stories and put artistry first, letting women know they could be songwriters, too. Unfortunately, that opportunity hasn’t been extended to everyone.
Britney’s truth as an artist—her warm voice, her range as a singer that we heard in early ballads—was pushed to the side so she could be forced into a marketable box. There was no room for more ballad singers when Britney arrived on the scene in 1999, so the public was given a sexy, innocent pop queen known for vocal fry.
Like Britney, I am also a product of the ‘80s and ‘90s’ American South. A woman who put honesty aside for too long in the name of being liked. I have spent more than 20 years looking for my own voice—ten as a singer and later answering the call to write. There are miles and miles ahead, but I am inching closer.
I listen to Joni and Britney with open arms and an open heart. How often, I realize, I do not extend that same grace to myself. Their truths are welcomed, but mine fall on inhospitable ears.
Some stories I want to tell lie dormant because the ending has not yet been written. I need more time to pass. As NPR’s Ann Powers wrote about Blue, “Mitchell herself has said that she bled these songs onto the pages, and that's what everyone has chosen to remember… But in fact, art of this caliber is always made through both the cut and the suture.”
In some cases, I am waiting for a suture. But I am searching for the balance between allowing a story’s fullness to unfold—giving life time to be lived—and remaining open to in-between truths found in the mess of living. Every creative act is a snapshot in time, and as a creator shifts, so do their creations. Powers points out that honesty itself is an artifact of the present moment:
Honesty, everyone knows, is an impossible ideal, at best provisional. So Blue always feels exquisitely unfinished. Its inexhaustible immediacy proves that no artwork ever truly solidifies; it changes every time someone new encounters it.
The provisional nature of honesty takes some pressure off. Truth is transitional, always unfolding. Just like us.
Occasionally there will be something to say that it feels like no one will understand. Something so honest it doesn’t fit into tiny, tidy social media squares. A piece no outlet wants to publish. A story bigger than a soundbite, meant to stick around. It will require relentless grace and painstaking vulnerability.
Be like Joni, and write it anyway. There is healing power in honesty, and there is undeniable strength in finding your voice.
Between you and me—
Come on down to the Mermaid Cafe / And I will buy you a bottle of wine / And we'll laugh and toast to nothing and / Smash our empty glasses down.
Sounds good, right? If you hear that line and immediately launch into a hearty, dancing singalong, we should definitely be friends. Happy summer, and thank you, as always, for being here.
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is written by Lauren Maxwell. If you enjoy this newsletter, you can support its growth by becoming a sponsor, clicking the heart, sharing online, or forwarding to a friend. It all helps!
I love these insights so much!