Music Blog

I don’t remember listening to Joan Baez albums as a child, but I do know that because my parents adored (and adore) her that I must have, and I’m sure I listened most often to the Christmas album Baez released in 1966 called Noel, because, in my childhood home, long-players met the needle most often during the holidays. And while I have no clear recollection of hearing her beautiful voice as a kid, I am certain now that her inspired folk songs must have stayed with me on some level because when I saw her perform live at the Aladdin Sunday night, I was entranced.

Whether or not Baez is part of my memory is, after all, of little matter. What does matter is that her songs and the songs she delivers that were written by others (such as Steve Earle and John Lennon) are meant for a magical sort of transference--they are meant for grand gestures, in her and in ourselves. Standing onstage, still and graceful, with large brown eyes opened wide as if to behold something higher than herself, swimming one hand through the air next to her as if tracing invisible calligraphy, Baez stands as a conduit for greater powers. She appears transfixed, as though she were receiving messages from something beyond this world, something otherworldly that she has been able to open up to and absorb, so that she may return with songs so touching, so moving, so emotive and so enormous that all who witness seem to become at once similarly transfixed. Glancing about the audience, I saw no one shifting in her seat, no one darting his eyes about, no one whispering in the ear of her companion—everyone sat still and set their eyes squarely on the small woman with the angelic voice onstage, and everyone appeared as though they had abandoned their daily realities to immerse themselves, at least momentarily, in the unknowable capacity of great music, great music such as what Baez musters forth.

When Baez first walked onto the Aladdin’s stage that night, large bouquets wrapped in pretty crinkled paper and tied with flowing ribbons made their way to the stage. Pushing the long silk scarves from her neck, Baez accepted them humbly and with a gracious smile, bundling them into her arms until she could hold no more, until a stage hand had to take them from her and place them gently before the microphone so that all who had come to see the legendary 67-year-old folk singer and songwriter perform that night could see the plethora of bright colors and distinctly shaped petals and, in them, the unique beauty that Baez has delivered to, and thereby inspired in, this world.

I don’t remember hearing Baez sing as a child but I’ll never forget basking in her warmness and magic that bitter cold night in November.