For a superfan I’ve not been very diligent with Joni Mitchell’s back catalogue (comprising 19 studio albums recorded over 39 years, several live ones and an ever-increasing volume of compilations). My relationship with her music broadly begins with 1969’s Clouds and until recently, save a few random tracks, it ended with 1976’s Hejira. In some ways, this curtailment of her oeuvre has been intentional. I wanted there to be more Joni currency in the bank – a little like knowing there are 12 seasons of a show I’m bound to love held in reserve to comfort me during a depressive spell.
But on the flip side, there’s trepidation. Perhaps the sheer quantity of her records could dilute the potency of the ones I loved, or maybe Joni would go to places I could not follow her to, like encountering something about a crush that is a profound ick and finding it difficult to let it go. This happened once when I stood for the first time in the bedroom of someone I was obsessed with, and it was so fetid and disordered that the desire I’d felt evaporated immediately. And to be honest, I’d put a mental blockade on one album because it is infamous for featuring Joni in Blackface as her alter ego “Art Nouveau” on the cover. I was a coward who didn’t want to complicate my relationship with her music.
