FILTER REISSUES
Love in a cold climate
Mitchell’s rarities series reaches her prolific years at David Geffen’s Asylum label, beginning in a stone cabin in British Columbia. By David Fricke.
Joni Mitchell
★★★★
Archives – Volume 3: The Asylum Years (1972-1975)
RHINO. CD/DL/LP
ON AUGUST 26, 1973, Joni Mitchell dropped by S.I.R., a rehearsal facility in Los Angeles, where her friend and fellow Canadian Neil Young was recording his legendar y Irish wake, Tonight’s The Night. Taking a break from that racket, Young and the Santa Monica Flyers backed Mitchell on one of her new songs, Raised On Robbery, a frisky boogie about love and larceny. She was “like a kid in a candy store,” Nils Lofgren, one of the Flyers, told MOJO in 2021 of that jubilantly unruly take, first issued in Young’s Archives II and now the sole previously issued track in Mitchell’s latest box of rarities. “She kept saying, ‘I’ve never played electric guitar with a band before.’”
In fact, as this 5-CD bounty reveals, the day before that S.I.R. lark, Mitchell had a rousing bash at the song – ultimately cut with more pop decorum on 1974’s Court And Spark – in San Francisco, robustly strumming jangly electric guitar (or a rudely amplified acoustic) with ex-paramour Graham Nash and the rhythm section from his solo album, Wild Tales. And the year before, working on demos for 1972’s For The Roses, Mitchell taped a version of that LP’s playful seduction You Turn Me On, I’m A Radio with Young and his Harvest band the Stray Gators, jumping back and forth in dreamy come-hither and jolting, bluesy lust. “Just looking for the clarity of things,” Mitchell claims in the linernotes of her three different passes at the song here – live and studio – before she found its final, breezy poise.
It’s a mantra she might well have chanted ever y day on her way to – and through – the imperial peak covered in this instalment of Mitchell’s Archives. For The Roses (sparingly detailed folk rock), Court And Spark (lush pop with jazz contours) and 1975’s The Hissing Of Summer Lawns (emotional turbulence in fusion dynamics) remain her only Top 10 albums in America. But Mitchell was in no rush to get there, preferring a voluntar y exile from the road and record business clockwork – to a stone cabin on the Pacific coast of British Columbia – after the profoundly confessional triumph of 1971’s Blue.
“It made me quite prolific,” she tells Cameron Crowe in the booklet, part of their ongoing conversation in this series. “I was now alone and collaborating with nature” – abond she cites in the opening lines of For The Roses (“I heard it in the wind last night/It sounded like applause”), featured in a firststep reading from December 1971 with the junkie’s nightmare Cold Blue Steel And Sweet Fire. “Sometimes I sat on a rock and tuned my guitar” – an outdoor exercise that produced the heartbroken physics in Electricity.
“Volume 3 is an exhilarating helter-skelter of paths tested and inspirations refined… with an emphasis on experiment and process.”
Compared to the eternities now taken between albums by many artists, For The Roses was a race to closure, written in the wake of Mitchell’s devastating break-up with James Taylor and out by November, 1972. Yet she spends all of discs one and two in this set seeking the album’s delicate negotiation of agony and tender assurance, often set in the fleeting pleasures and inevitable disappointment of the tourbus and after-show flings. Half of For The Roses is in the setlist, solo and acoustic, at Carnegie Hall in Februar y 1972, next to the wistful idealism in Blue’s For Free and the already nostalgic Woodstock.
Taylor actually shows up at an April ’72 studio date, playing guitar (with no small irony) in a test run of Electricity. And it’s fascinating to hear Mitchell’s instinctive certainty at work as she lays down a wordless guide vocal in Cold Blue Steel, mapping the tone and feel for Tom Scott’s eventual soprano sax solo.
Scott, in turn, was a pivot to Court And Spark when he invited Mitchell to see his group the L.A. Express in 1973, during their weekly residency at a jazz room called the Baked Potato. She hired the Express en masse for the record and subsequent touring (also falling hard for drummer John Guerin). But where the first two Archives sets charted Mitchell’s formative passage as a singer and writer, from public domain ingénue to a “premier explorer [of] the tension between love and freedom” (Loraine Alterman, the New York Times, 1974), Volume 3 is an exhilarating helter-skelter of paths tested (the ruckus with Young) and inspirations refined, like Mitchell’s overheated vocal rapture at the end of a solo demo of Help Me, wisely dropped for the Top 10 single.