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Janis Joplin: LOOKING FOR HER IN PORT ARTHUR, TEXAS
- University of Arkansas Press
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That said, My Morning Jacket concerts leave a majority of their attendees agog.ThebandgrewoutofJimJames’ssoloperformancesatsundryopen-mikes, andhehashonedastill-malleablestagemystique.Stoutandwide-eyed,heveers from coming across as a spacey, barefoot, farm-bred ragamuffin to a fully cognizant ,self-consciouslysexybandleaderextraordinairetoanintimidating,headbanging , Flying-V-pummeling Black Sabbath and Slayer devotee to an intimate, approachable,crooning,hippiereificationofJohntheBaptist.BassistTwo-Tone Tommy, resembling a lankier and more worried Nirvana-era Dave Grohl, seems totakehisflail-or-chillcuesfromJames.Guitarist(andcousintoJames)Johnny Quaid, prone to playing his Gibson high above his head during intense passages, is a curious mix of Adonis and Gremlin, embodying the “ruggedly handsome” hero/villainofathousandunfilmedscreenplays.Thesethreecoremembershave beentogetherfiveyears.KeyboardistDannyCash,distantkintoTheManinBlack and a talented graphic designer whose look suggests a mellow greaser, joined before the recording of At Dawn. The band’s third and seemingly permanent drummer,PatrickHallahan,isJames’schildhoodbestbud—he’sagiantguywith a wavy mop that suggests a grunge hybrid of a Louis XIV wig and the Cowardly Lion’s mane. In this epoch of casting-call “bands” with prefabricated images, you’dbehard-pressedtosummonarollickingfivesomemorehirsuteandoleaginous than these mugs. This assemblage of ponytails, wires, T-shirts, boots, and flip-flops has ruined at least one version of my life. See, I was in love with that aforementioned woman, the one who sparingly pointed out the lameness of my fascist fandom, and we’d bonded over the course of a half dozen My Morning Jacket concerts. She was the givingestandmostcreativewomanI’deverknown,andMMJ’shandlingofromantic material can do wonders for a blossoming couplehood; James allowed us to imaginethatourunionwassomeuncannyheterosexualmasterpiece,thewayhe portraysloveasthevalidatingandvisceralmiracle-burdenthatitcanbewhenit, as the dialect-poet David Lee wrote, “sparkles like a diamond in a goat’s ast.” MMJ songs were in the background during our abortive efforts to get wine stains off the ceiling with OxiClean, and when she passed out on the trampoline andIwokeherbypeltingherwithmoldyscones,andwhensheexpressedherreticence to skinny-dip while silkworms dangled from the tree behind her like tiny larval paratroopers. She even painted a sign for my album-crowded house reading HOME IS WHERE THE STUFF IS. Ah, those were the days; we seemed bound for glory: marriage, death, some freckly kids left to handle our CD estate. But when we started to suck, as complicated people often will, our reliance on MMJ became a problem. James’s nonchalantly gorgeous songs, once so reinforcing, now conjured an affectionate atmospherethatwefailedtoemulate.Thesongsweremafiathugs,puttingpressure BOOK OF GREAT MUSIC WRITING 79 1SMIRNOFF_pages.qxd 8/27/08 10:43 AM Page 79 onustoliveuptotheirdrama.Even“Lowdown”becameasorespot:onthesurface a bouncy, flippant ditty brimming with impossible promises, but actually about wounded people vowing not to put each other through any more crap. Its refrains of“younevergottafightwithme”and“youonlygottadancewithme”seemedlike buoys we’d already drifted beyond. We’d go to parties and perform the combative vaudevilleofanunspoolingrelationship.“Hi,yes,we’reheretogether,butdon’tbe bourgeois and presume we’re in love.” “Yes, in fact, we steadfastly refuse to love eachother.”Andpeoplewouldlaughatthemeta-couple’santics,andwonderwhat wasthesecretofoursalubrious,self-correctingrapport. So we drove two hours south to see My Morning Jacket one last time. They wereawesome.Awesome.Butwedidn’tevenstandtogether.Andaftertheshow, we reached out, separately, to the band, freighting strangers with our speeches aboutwhattheymeanttous.WhensheandIfoundourselves,ratherincidentally, inproximitytoeachotheragain,shesaid,giddily,“He’smynewboyfriend!”When I traced the beeline from her big brown eyes to discern the identity of the beau nouveau, I realized, to my horror, that she was looking at all of them. Not necessarilyadamninginfraction ,butwewereeagertoimplode.Sufficetosay,laterthat nightthiswonderfulwomanfoundreasontostrandmeinOrlando.Shedroveoff justafterwhippingoutherdigitalcameraandtakingapictureofmeinthestreet, shooting her a gallant bird, capturing perfectly the climax of a pattern of abuse anddismissalthatmanifestedonlyingestures.Shespentthenightatanotorious gaybar/hotelwithcomfortersassuringherthatIwasagoodman,andIspentthe night at a Greyhound station with a drunk explaining to me that manhole covers were “nature’s pancakes.” Before she moved away, we cleaned her apartment withoutspeaking,allhardfeelings.Idon’trecommendplayingMyMorningJacket albums, which consist of fifty percent heartbreakers, in an empty house where youusedtohavefunandcomfort.She’saunionorganizerintheMotorCitynow, getting buckets of dirty water thrown on her by frustrated factory workers and takingordersfromapuckishAlbanian.IfsomehorribleDetroitiancircumstance befell her, surely that would be My Morning Jacket’s fault, and not mine, right? My Morning Jacket is an ideal divergenic fix. Music’s transportative power must explain why those men to whom I am bloodbound love it so; music provides escape, and hoarding it equips their rooms—and lives—with multiple escape routes.TheworkofJimJamesandhisboysisadmittedlybettersuitedtoaccompanyyourslightlyseedy ,loafering,losttwentiesthanitisyourthirties’reductive Sisyphean quests for money, or orgasm, or that gross attention called respect. WithMyMorningJacketonmyheadphones,abikeconstitutionalcanbeepic (though technically against the law). Their music delivers me past the house wheretheblackwomanwhotoldmesheusedtocallwhites“ofays”sitsinherbra and jean shorts on the porch and it takes me past the office of the ophthalmolo80 THE OXFORD AMERICAN 1SMIRNOFF_pages.qxd 8/27/08 10:43 AM Page 80...