Generation gap: Who's that Joni dude?

by Tony Norman
Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
April 12, 2005

Last week while driving one of my twins to martial arts class, he decided to mess with me.

At 14, he considers himself our household's premier authority on music. Of course, his expertise doesn't extend beyond the hip-hop countdown on BET. Still, it is the prerogative of the young to believe they, unlike their parents, have something to say.

He wasted no time in mocking me as I accompanied Neil Young on "Helpless" on "The Last Waltz" soundtrack that came out in 1978:

"Blue, blue windows behind the stars
Yellow moon on the rise
Big birds flying across the sky
Throwing shadows on our eyes
Leaves us ..."

"It's not a good song," my boy said, interrupting my flow, "but he sounds better when you're not singing with him."

My son's insult caught me by surprise midway through the song's excruciatingly plaintive chorus. I soldiered on: "Helpless, helpless, help-less ... " I sang trying to match the background falsetto note-for-note.

So what if my singing wasn't as mellifluous as it could've been? It had soul and feeling and all the things missing from what this generation calls "music." At least my singing was about something and not simply a laundry list of material possessions and empty boasts.

I thought Richard Manuel was the one singing backup on that cut, only to find out later that it was Joni Mitchell. There's no way I could hit the high notes with the same felicity as one of the finest singers of her generation.

My son covered his ears.

At that point, I felt duty-bound to remind him that he used to make fun of Mos Def and Talib Kweli's "Black Star" CD when I used to blast it full volume on the way to church a few years ago. Now it skips because of all the abuse he and his brothers have put it through playing it to death.

"And another thing," I said. "I was way into Kanye West and the Roots while you were still neck deep into Will Smith's greatest hits. Don't act as if you're some kind of OG [original gangsta], here."

He denied he ever disliked those artists, but felt it was the better part of valor to change the subject. I can't count on two hands how many times he said the beats on Talib's first solo CD were "weak" before it "grew" on him.

He then had the nerve to ask if the organ-and-horn intro to The Band's "Stagefright" was a live performance.

"This sounds like something from one of Nas' albums," he said, slandering the great Garth Hudson. Poor kid. He had no clue. In the meantime, he remained completely unmoved by the escalating panic in the late Rick Danko's voice, one of the great rock performances of the 1970s.

When Joni Mitchell returned to the stage of San Francisco's Winterland Arena strumming the opening chords to "Coyote" with the weird, open-tuning that characterized her middle-period performances, my son was openly contemptuous: "Who's this dude?" he asked.

Dude? What dude? Is this evil twin talking about Joni Mitchell? I had a flashback to what Dylan once said about her in Rolling Stone: "Joni Mitchell is almost like a man. [She's] got a strange sense of rhythm that's all her own, and she lives on that timetable."

"Get out," I told my son when we reached the karate studio. I refused to acknowledge his mysterious powers of perception.

A few minutes later, I was driving his twin brother home from his soccer practice across town. I was playing the same CD and watching his reactions. Unlike his twin, he bobbed his head and snapped his fingers.

"Dad, why do all of these songs have long instrumental beginnings," he asked sweetly. "It feels like a waste of time, but that's OK, I guess."

The so-called "good twin" was showing his disapproval by being agreeable. I didn't care.

We were listening to "Further On Up the Road" featuring Eric Clapton and Robbie Robertson trading scorching guitar licks like there was no tomorrow.

"One day, all of my CDs will belong to you and your brothers," I said. "You don't know how lucky you are."

"If you say so, dad," he said smiling insincerely. I almost believed him.