janis lyn
the cheap thrills recording session
To listen to Janis Joplin sing Summertime in any context, any recording, is to stand in the presence of something bigger than you or I. Only then, once, did she ever rival Nina Simone in pain and anger. I never really like her backup band; that snazz rock of Big Brother and the Holding Company was never really my style and the misogyny of the 1960s could have had a large rock dropped on it and we would all be happier for it. But that moment the guitar starts and something fills and that voice — that voice — that voice fills the world. And that is enough.
And all those Baptists don't know shit in Port
Arthur. Anyone who calls you pig-face
gets their blood muzzle broken. You're the sort
of grace I sing off-key. Bad Girl Blues trace
the line down the tree – there's a connection.
Maybe. Your rasping voice. Docile heel. I
guzzle everything. I can play Joplin
as if Janis Lyn can rise again. Die
in the song, lover. Who calls you sugar
face? Who calls you to heal? But no. T.V.
signs off. No connections. No translations.
Laced blood, chiclets, smack and Dr. Pepper.
Lover, you won't rise. You won't come to me.
Nothing but used needles and torn condoms.