In "Woman of Heart and Mind," Joni Mitchell relies on her intellect and rhetorical prowess to assert her
identity and defy masculine objectification. In verse one, she sings: "You think I'm like your mother/ Or another
lover or your sister/ Or the queen of your dreams." Herein she recognizes the
masculine tendency to physicalize the feminine, to view women as objects of
psycho-sexual desire. In response, she declares: "I am a woman of heart and
mind/ With time on her hands/ No child to raise..." Mitchell defies the
male-defined feminine paradigm by identifying as an emotionally and
intellectually liberated being, rather than as a woman bound by her carnality
and physicality. She readily criticizes the hubristic excesses of her
male lover, essentially calling them fruitless and unfulfilling: "After
the rush when you come back down/ You're always disappointed/ Nothing seems to keep you high/ Drive your bargains/ Push
your papers/ Win your medals/ Fuck your strangers/ Don't it leave you on the
empty side?" "You want
stimulation," she ponders, "nothing more, that's what I think." Meanwhile,
she cleverly understates her own desires, asking only for "a little passion." Like Steinbeck,
Mitchell’s characters are simplistic, everyday lovers and others; the
complexity hidden deep within, with hidden
a key term. Joni’s character seems to love him
despite a laundry list of selfishness.
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| Pic Dawson, Eric Clapton, Joni, David Crosby, Gary Burdon, Annie Burden and Cass Elliot. |
While The Beatles were immersing themselves in a British pastiche,
and Morrison was off on a mindbender that could rival Carlos Casteneda, Joni
and her contemporaries were creating their own cinema verite, but unlike The
Beatles’ plunge into Modernism, Joni whittled down relationships in a manner
that women chalked off and men misconstrued ("Fuck your strangers," is like a
badge of honor to this guy – or so it seems – we never get his side of the
story).
We can’t conclude, though, that The Beatles' broad strokes are
less complex than Joni’s. Think once again of the nuances afforded "She's Leaving
home" (here we indeed find the ability to capture both sides of the story). The
listener is hard pressed not feel pulled from side to side, the sorrow and
angst of the parents or the soul searching of an oppressed young woman (coupled with
the intense beauty of Paul's tearful melody) shows we have heart, and, like the
Scarecrow, we know, because it is breaking. No, Joni’s is a different sorrow,
deeper, again like a cut, a paper cut. It’s Joni who follows Hemingway's lead, sits down at the
typewriter and cuts her wrists.
