by Laura Joplin
Janis came back to Port Arthur from Austin full of enthusiastic stories. She told me the latest fashion news from that big town, saying, “They’re wearing a lot of yellow tops with gray-and-white ticking material for pants and skirts.” I took it to heart and had a set by her next visit.
She tended to wear a different look, setting herself apart from the typical UT coed. Janis and her friends often wore men’s white dress shirts, hanging out over blue jeans. Other times the uniform was a black turtleneck and black slacks with boots or sandals. Janis spiced her vision of the local dress code by wearing her WWII bomber jacket inside out. She’d torn the sleeves off to make it more comfortable in the Texas heat, thereby enhancing the scruffy look the worn lambs-wool lining already offered. Janis didn’t wear makeup, though she sometimes dressed more femininely for a date. Most UT girls had bouffant hairdos that led the Ranger to call them “Bubbleheads.” Janis’s hair was growing long and hanging loose.
Her social group was at odds with the frats, and vice versa. The mutual resentment resulted in fistfights on occasion, sparked by serious challenges, such as one of Janis’s friends wearing a mustache. Texas students knew that not even a graduate could get a job if he went to an interview with a beard. Growing one after you’d been hired was cause to be fired. All of her friends were targets, but Janis’s volatile temperament made their fury land harder on her. Everyone had tales of being yelled at while walking down the Austin streets. Janis was one of the few who threw verbal epithets back. She was “very defensive and radically hostile,” Tary Owens said. Unlike Janis, most people in Texas in 1962 didn’t punctuate their sentences with “fuck.” Janis shouted the word at high volume and used it to incite the straights around her to respond. She taunted her social enemies with intentional exhibitions, even if she cringed from their willingness to taunt her in return.
Which group had the right ideas? In those days people rarely thought it was okay to see things differently. Powell St. John, a slender, handsome, and friendly guy from Laredo, Texas, who grew to be a friend, lover, and musical partner, often talked with Janis about the razzing they got from the straight community. “Janis,” he said, “you don’t have any use for these people. You know you’re cool and they’re not. Why does it bother you? What difference does it make?” She didn’t know why it made a difference, but she couldn’t let go of an intense and righteous anger at any taunts directed at her.
The group knew that the straight community didn’t understand them, but a new rumor began to worry them. An FBI agent had come by the Ghetto to interview Powell about a former roommate of his who evidently wanted a security clearance. Later they heard that the FBI was actually investigating the Ghetto crowd. The FBI didn’t like the nickname “Ghetto.” It worried them. They asked, “What does the Ghetto group stand for? Who are their major speakers?” Hearing this, the gang didn’t know if they should laugh or worry. The FBI totally misunderstood. The group wasn’t political at all.
The summer of 1962 Ted Klein bought a house on Lake Travis, a local recreation spot. He threw a housewarming party with fifty regulars from the Ghetto and assorted other acquaintances. It was a regular Texas good time with singing and beer drinking until Janis hollered, “Let’s go skinny-dippin’” and six or more “ran down the hill scattering clothes as they went.” The lake was a cool respite from the Texas heat.
The following day Ted was contacted by the sheriff’s office concerning a complaint about “a party full of ‘naked beatniks.’” They dithered, hassled, and postured until Klein apologized, adding, “By sheer accident we failed to mention swimming attire on the invitations.”
After little more than one month in town, Janis had distinguished herself sufficiently to have an article written about her in the July 27 campus newspaper, The Summer Texan. The headline was SHE DARES TO BE DIFFERENT! Pat Sharpe, assistant Campus Life editor, wrote the article, accompanied by a photo of Janis playing Autoharp.
She goes barefooted when she feels like it, wears Levi’s to class because they’re more comfortable, and carries her Autoharp with her everywhere she goes so that in case she gets the urge to break into song it will be handy.
Her name is Janis Joplin, and she looks like the type of girl a square (her more descriptive term—a “leadbelly”) would call a “beatnik.” [Ms. Sharpe appears to have misunderstood one of Janis’s comments about Huddie “Leadbelly” Ledbetter, a blues singer whom Janis favored. The word leadbelly was never used as a descriptive term by Janis or her group.]
“Jivey” is what Janis calls herself, not “beat.” She leads a life that is enviously unrestrained.
She doesn’t bother to have her hair set every week, or to wear the latest feminine fashion fads, and when she feels like singing, she sings in a vibrant alto voice.
UNTRAINED VOICE
Since she has never had a music lesson and cannot read notes, [Janis sang in a school chorale for several years. She could read music.] her voice is untrained. But this lack seems to be an asset rather than a liability, for Janis sings with a certain spontaneity and gusto that cultivated voices sometimes find difficult to capture. She is at her best with folk songs, to which she gives an earthy, twangy rendition.
Janis’ current ambition is to be a folksinger, though she really prefers blues. She has performed at the Gas House in Venice, Calif., and in Port Arthur, her home town. But she really began to think seriously about singing when she came to the University this year as a freshman majoring in art.
She says that people in Austin are definitely more hip on folk music than the clods in other cities she has visited. In fact, it was here that a friend persuaded her to take up the Autoharp.
AUTOHARP
This particular instrument is not one that is seen as often as a piano or a guitar. As a matter of fact, it is about as common as a glockenspiel. At first glance, it looks like a zither, but longer and narrower and with fewer strings. At the squared-off end are 12 bars which are depressed to form chords.
Right now, Janis’ career as a folksinging-Autoharpist is in its beginning stages. She is currently the female member of a local group which styles itself the Waller Creek Boys. The other two are Lanny Wiggins and Powell St. John Jr.
GHETTO
When they are not in class or at home, the favorite hangout of Janis and her friends is an apartment which they have nicknamed the Ghetto.
The walls are decorated with original modernistic paintings done by local cats, and the furniture defies description. For want of a better name, it might be called contemporary American hodgepodge.
Password around the Ghetto is “uninhibited.” Man, if a person isn’t uninhibited, he’s sick. Whenever somebody gets the urge to stand up and do a little impromptu jig, he gets up and does it. And if suddenly he feels like dribbling out a piece of modern art, he goes right ahead and dribbles.
COMPULSION
If on the other hand, he feels inspired to write a piece of poetry, beat or otherwise, man, he writes. Why if a person doesn’t feel the compulsion to do something crazy at least once in a while, he is a leadbelly.
All activities sacred to leadbellies—like bowling, twisting, or ratting their hair—are taboo for cats. Consequently, the cats are confined to being uninhibited and singing folk music for whole hours together, which sounds about as exciting as the average fraternity party.
Clichés such as “suave,” “swinging,” and “I just can’t beleeve!” are held in the utmost contempt by the uninhibited, but at the same time it is interesting to note the frequency with which “man,” “chick,” etc. appear in conversation.
In short, comparing the vast majority of University students to the vast minority of University beatniks would be like comparing a large sack of potatoes to a small sack of onions. The onions may be a little spicier, but they are all onions just the same.
In spite of Janis’s penchant to raise the dander of those outside the group, Tary Owens said that she got along pretty well with everyone. Even the verbal sparring
that she and John Clay resorted to when they were both drinking was part of their relationship. Jack Jackson, an accountant who wrote a comic strip for the Ranger titled “JAXON,” said, “When Janis walked in the room, she completely dominated it.” She had a powerful presence embellished by her obvious talents in artistic areas prized by the gang.
Janis came to Austin with interests in both painting and music. One day she ran into a Beaumont friend, Tommy Stopher, in Austin. He had returned from studying at the National Gallery in Washington, D.C. His technique had soared, and Janis felt embarrassed about her weaknesses. At the same time, she began to leave the isolated work of a painter for the crowd drama of a performing artist; she was lured away from painting by the gratifications of performing for an audience. The power of applause, the flush of adrenaline, and the camaraderie of working in a group captivated her.
Janis’s real education in Austin didn’t come from the university’s classes. It came from the Austin music scene. That summer Janis teamed up with Powell St. John on harmonica and Lanny Wiggins on guitar and banjo, both of whom lived and partied in the Ghetto. They spent countless hours sitting in the backyard of the apartment playing tunes. They sang bluegrass, old-time country, union songs, and traditional folk music. They soon worked up a lot of material to play for others.
Powell St. John fell crazy in love with Janis. He had spent two years in the ROTC program before dropping out and focusing on his art studies. He didn’t just want to be a painter. He also desired to be an original personality. Powell was attracted to Janis’s brash, outspoken nature. He liked her because she was different.
Antiwar sentiment was growing, but their group was decidedly nonpolitical. Janis could empathize with Powell’s background. She told him, “If there was a war, I’d go to work in a defense plant to free the guys to fight.” There was a conventional part of Janis that always tagged along with her more noteworthy, eccentric bravura.
Their romance was brief that summer because Janis just wasn’t interested. She told Powell, “I do what I do because it feels good, man.” When their physical intimacy ceased, they remained good friends. They were close enough that Janis could walk into his house a few months later and declare, “Guess what? I’ve just come from the student health center and they said I have had a spontaneous abortion. And it was your baby!”
The Austin Parks and Recreation Department held a talent contest at Zilker Park. There were many categories, including vocal groups and dance. Janis, Powell, and Lanny entered and won first in the singing category. They were on the way.
The group sang at the Cliché Coffeehouse on Guadalupe, where an open stage hosted unpaid folk musicians between poets reading their work. The art lineup was selected by friend and Ghetto resident Ted Klein.
They started singing at the school-sponsored hootenanny at the Student Union on Thursday nights. Janis had been coaxed into learning how to play the Autoharp in Austin and began performing with it. Powell St. John, Lanny Wiggins, and Janis called themselves the Waller Creek Boys. Being one third of a “boys” band didn’t bother Janis most of the time. She was often heard saying, “I’m just one of the boys.” Sometimes not being regarded as feminine enough stung, so they started billing themselves as the Waller Creek Boys, featuring Janis Joplin. Powell explained that when Janis sang, there was no doubt that she was featured.
The hootenanny drew all aspiring musicians and singers in the area. The rules required everyone to sing one song before anyone sang a second piece. Janis liked to sing, not to sit and wait. In one evening her group would get to do two or three songs. In between was a constant stream of plaintive female voices crooning “Barbara Allen.”
Janis resented competition, especially if it was an attractive woman who had any talent. Lolita was her most visible rival. As soon as that woman sang, Janis was pushing the guys in her group to take the stage. She had to try to upstage Lolita’s lilting tones with her harsh intensity. But Janis didn’t need to worry. The crowd loved the Waller Creek Boys. They were clearly some of the most talented people there.
Janis tried to capitalize on her popularity by getting a job singing in local bars, but they wanted to hire the Lolita types—the beautiful face with the Joan Baez voice. When Maria Muldaur came through town and was attracted to a Ghetto party, Janis stayed in the shadows. She refused to sing and compete with the petite beauty who already was a successful singer.
Janis favored such tunes as “Careless Love” and “Black Mountain,” a song she introduced by saying, “I sing it every time I sing.” The words hit home about living on Black Mountain, where the people were mean, so mean “a child will slap your face.” At the end of the song, the woman leaves the mountain with a gun to get justice from her worthless lover.
Singing was a constant activity among the Ghetto crowd. Janis and Gilbert Shelton, a gifted musician as well as a cartoonist, often teamed up on old-time church songs. Over and over they sang the traditional song—“You better start reading your B-I-B-L-E / There’s comfort, hope, and joy in the book of G-O-D / It’s there in simple language, so P-L-A-I-N / that the D-E-V-I-L gets those who live in S-I-N.” Most any traditional music could be heard being sung by the group. Tunes from Flatt & Scruggs were mixed in among those popularized by the Stanley Brothers.
The hootenanny, the jazz and blues clubs on the east side of town, and the constant Ghetto playing influenced Janis, but a bar-keeper/singer influenced her the most. Kenneth Threadgill was a country singer who ran a bar that catered to real rural-type people, truck drivers and a few UT students. In his bar reality lived and breathed with the regular swinging of its two front doors. Janis said Threadgill “was old, a great big man with a big belly and white hair combed back on top of his head. He’d be back [behind the bar], dishing out Polish sausages and hard-boiled eggs, and Grand Prizes and Lone Stars.” He was a man without pretense. To him a folk musician was a New Yorker in Bermuda shorts. He didn’t consider himself part of the folk-music revival. He cared about the country music he had always known. In the eyes of his college admirers he took on the role of “the real thing,” the authentic roots of the music that they wanted to know.
Threadgill’s converted gas-station bar was the first in Austin to get a liquor license when Prohibition was repealed. Tobacco smoke had discolored the whitewashed walls, testifying to the history of the bar’s clientele. The obligatory jukebox was pure Threadgill. All the records were by his favorite singer, Jimmie Rodgers. The room was full of odd tables and chairs, with an old bar of beautiful wood on one side. A small stage sat in the far corner. Most evenings Threadgill could be coaxed out from behind the bar to sing a few of his favorite Jimmie Rodgers tunes. He would “lay his hands on his belly and lean his head back and yodel, just like a bird. . . .”
Jimmie Rodgers popularized country music, creating the Nashville sound and bringing the yodel to international acclaim. He didn’t travel much. His success was based solely on his recordings. Rodgers was the first person inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame. He sang about railroads and wandering, lost loves, and tear-gushing tunes of Mom and Dad. The “Singing Brakeman,” as he was also known, borrowed liberally from blacks, blues lyrics, and the flavor of laments. Through Threadgill’s adoration of Rodgers, Janis learned even more about passionate commitment to a musical style.
Once a week, generally Wednesday, Threadgill had some blue-grass musicians perform. The tradition had been initiated in 1961 by an English professor named Bill Malone and four of his graduate students. Many gifted musicians performed on mandolin, guitar, banjo, and harmonica. Later Threadgill took it over, and by 1962 Janis’s crowd dominated. Each group received two dollars per night and all the beer they could drink. Ken’s policy encouraged Janis to learn to play the guitar. If she accompanied herself, she wouldn’t have to split the money. Another problem, of course, was that she was still underage in Texas, and Threadgill was strict about serving minors.
Threadgill told Janis about playing roadhouses, dealing with Prohibi
tion, and the many acts he had known by running a tavern with live music since the 1940s. He recognized that she was an extraordinary talent but rough around the edges, and adopted a fatherly attitude toward her. No comments from her friends could equal his acceptance of her talent. He said, “You can make it, Janis. You have what it takes.”
Mrs. Threadgill also took a liking to Janis. She offered a maternal touch to Ken’s musical praise. Mrs. Threadgill sat Janis down and brushed her unkempt hair. “Let yourself be pretty,” her motherly advice suggested.
So Janis sang and sang some more. Though Threadgill required country and bluegrass tunes most of the time, he let her slip in a blues number the nights she was onstage. The melodies she chose allowed the strength in her voice to knuckle under the tones and let them resonate throughout her frame. They echoed in her head like the pulsating gong in a Buddhist temple. Her talent had finally given her a way to get the respect and acceptance of redneck truck-driver-type people, folk who would otherwise have scorned her.
The music found in Threadgill’s had deep roots, a mixture of railroad songs, blues, Carter family folk songs, and country and western from the twenties, thirties, and forties. Coupled with rhythm and blues, these styles built a foundation for the rock music that was to emerge in the later 1960s. There was rock while Janis was in Austin, but it was musically simplistic and topically banal compared to what emerged later. During her days in Austin, the serious people and the best musicians were on the folk scene.
Folk musicians expected their audiences to identify with the songs and react emotionally. Performers needed listeners to sway, clap, and sing along with the tunes. Folk allowed youth to anchor their current experience within a context from the past. This historical continuity and the validation it provided was vital to the music’s ability to capture the hearts and minds of its listeners.