Love, Janis

by Laura Joplin

  People were always important to Janis. In spite of her penchant for angry outbursts, mostly in 1968 and 1969, she was loyal to a fault. Backstage at an Elton John concert, Jack Nicholson was “verbally abusing Albert’s office for not following through in getting her the part of Helena in Five Easy Pieces,” Bennett Glotzer said. Janis coolly replied to Nicholson, “My managers are terrific. Whatever they wanted to do, they had a reason.” Bennett smiled. Janis and he both knew the office had screwed up, but Janis’s standing by them anyway touched him.

  “Janis always made me welcome in her home,” Bennett continued. People often dropped in, for dinner, for a drink, or just to talk. Backstage at a concert she declared to the entourage, “Everyone cool it. There’s a kid in the room.” Bennett Glotzer thought that was a considerate gesture due to the presence of his eight-year-old daughter. Consideration for people was a growing part of her life in 1970.

  “Janis said if she wasn’t doing what she was doing, she would be interested in being a sociologist,” Linda Gravenites explained. That’s what she last studied in college. People were her motivating force. “My whole purpose is to communicate,” Janis once said. “What I sing is my own reality. But just the fact that people come up to me and say, ‘Hey, that’s my reality, too,’ proves to me that it’s not just mine.” Janis intended to own a bar called Pearl’s after her singing career ended. Pat Nichols would bartend, Linda Gravenites would design it, and there would be good food, like Barney’s Beanery had. Janis wanted a spot away from the city where she could cultivate a steady clientele.

  Her life was still going up and down, though. Dave Moriaty, a Port Arthur friend turned San Franciscan, saw her at an art-gallery opening for the comic-book art he printed at his company, Rip Off Press. “She seemed disillusioned,” he said. Sitting atop her Porsche, “Janis was drinking from a bottle of Southern Comfort and complaining to me about how all this fame and everything had backfired. The people she really valued no longer came around and talked to her. She never saw them because she was too busy,” Dave recalled. “Then she’d belt out a yodel once in a while, just to draw some of the crowd that was hanging out around the Porsche.”

  I think she began to realize that she had strayed. Far from challenging the world and changing it, she had become one of its pawns. The revolution set to usher in a world of love had imploded. It was then bottled, packaged, and co-opted by the establishment. Janis thought her role as a rocker was really to guide her audience into feeling their innermost emotions. Stripped of her righteousness, she sometimes felt like a prostitute, selling her heart, rather than her body, to people who couldn’t touch their own feelings and so sucked off hers.

  Life is like that. It could look as promising as a shiny red apple one moment, but turn out to be a mealy bummer the next. As wonderful as life is, each person also must face her death. It seemed so unfair to Janis; no loving God could do that to people. Yet in 1970 she seemed to move through even that. She got a tattoo on her wrist as a “celebration of accepting life,” she said. “I had the kozmic blues real bad once. You’ve got to realize that you’ll never have as much as you want and that when you die, you’ll be alone—everyone is. Once you’ve really accepted this, then it doesn’t hurt so much. Get it while you can . . . ’cause it may not be there tomorrow.”

  How opportune that the mail brought an invitation to her tenth-annual high school reunion, to be held on August 15, 1970. I’ve often wondered why she decided to go. On The Dick Cavett Show aired on June 25, she sang “Move Over” and “Get It While You Can.” In that vein she discussed her high school reunion, saying, “They laughed me out of class, out of town, and out of the state—so I’m going home.” She smiled with such satisfaction that her audience of sophisticated others, who could agree that the world had not treated them fairly, roared with empathy. They wished they could return triumphantly as well. She must have winced when she realized what she had said on network television. Port Arthur wasn’t so backward that we didn’t get that channel.

  Janis also appeared on Dick Cavett on August 3, 1970, less than two weeks before the scheduled high school reunion. Was it an attempt to make amends, to correct the record? She was hardly in the same high-flying form that night as she had been in June. The August discussion with Cavett shows an inebriated woman whose slurred speech and rambling comments were interesting but not up to par. The most Joplinesque truth that night came in response to what appeared to be a scheduled question by Cavett about her relations with the press and feelings about interviews. Janis said, “Other than having to do them, and other than having to talk to someone who doesn’t seem to understand what you’re saying a lot of the time, I don’t mind them.” Cavett also asked Janis about the bad press due to riots at a few rock concerts. Janis felt the problem was a logistical one. The increasing popularity of the events meant larger numbers of people, and it took top organizers to run a rock concert well. She equated the problem to the scene in Haight-Ashbury when the hordes descended on the movement. The scene just wasn’t equipped to deal with the overflow of bodies, and consequently it degenerated.

  On August 12 the Full Tilt Boogie Band played at Harvard Stadium. After the rousing finale of the concert, Janis added a note of caution to the audience: “If you have energy to work off, go home and do it together with somebody you love.” She was asking them not to run riot in the neighborhood. There had been an increasing number of criminal incidents after rock concerts. The only entry in Janis’s FBI file concerns an earlier warning that there might be an attempt to disrupt Janis’s concert in Illinois and cause violence. Two hundred police officers patroled the Ravinia Park, Illinois, concert to prevent problems.

  The Boston police were also ready. They cruised the area in cars after the Harvard concert, stopping any suspicious characters. They chanced upon John Cooke and some of the guys in the band who were walking to their parked car to drive to a restaurant. “It’s okay, we live here,” they told the police, showing them their hotel keys. It didn’t matter; they had to turn and run back to their hotel to keep from getting in trouble. Even then, the car circled the block five times while John Cooke was on the telephone to the police station asking them to call off the hounds. He was just hungry. The officer said, “Yeah, well, I heard from my officers down there that she incited to riot.” Cooke kept his cool and said “in very literate English, ‘This is precisely not correct.’” After much talking, the police said they’d had a lot of problems in the area after several rock concerts. The next day it came to light that this was the first concert that had not been followed by vandalism.

  The next day Janis flew to Texas. We stood on the airport tarmac with other folks, waiting for the little twin-engine commuter plane that was flying Janis to the Golden Triangle Airport. When she stepped off the plane and hugged us, we realized that the people around us were from the press. She mussed my hair, asking, “How you doing, frizzy?” By this time in life, I had let my hair grow, adopting the hippie style of parting it in the middle and letting it fall naturally. As Janis walked on, a woman rushed up to me, notebook and pencil in hand. “Is that her nickname for you, ‘Frizzy’?” “What? No, it isn’t, just an offhand comment,” I quickly replied.

  In spite of the emotional groundwork she had laid on the Cavett Show, we felt little of it from her. She was coming home, ready to visit and have a good time. Full of stories, she told how she preferred shopping at Paraphernalia, where they knew her on sight, setting things aside, saying, “I know you’ll like this, Miss Joplin.” Other stores, Janis explained, snubbed her because of her attire, in spite of her paying with an American Express card! Realizing that meant nothing to us, she added, “You have to make fifty thousand dollars to even get one!” She was trotting out the trappings of success to impress the locals.

  “Please come,” she kept asking me. “Please come to the reunion committee meeting with me. I don’t want to go by myself.” I finally relented, and was glad for the opportunity to visit with Janis alone. Our relation
ship needed time to catch up with our evolving selves. By 1970 I was adopting hippie dress and ideas as much as was possible in Port Arthur. Driving in my car at night, Janis asked, “Getting enough sex?” I grumbled angrily, “Enough for me, though not for you, I gather.” Her whole countenance changed, to one of shock and innocence. “You mean, you’re not a . . .” she exclaimed softly. I glared, saying, “You’re not the only one who grows up, you know, Janis!” While we were at it, I said, “I resent your comments about me to the press. Think about it, Janis. I’m in college, my sister is queen of the college circuit, and she says, ‘My brother’s really cool, but my sister’s in a rut!’ Thanks a lot.” Her words had flown like barbs straight to my heart. I loved her and she was denying me in public. Not many college students get the benefit of nationally aired, individualized social judgments by one so awesome as Janis! She sighed. I fumed, asking, “How the hell do you think that makes me feel?” She just sat with her head bowed. Thoughts ran through my mind. Should I be surprised? Did she ever think how her actions might affect others? Not in my experience. “You can be awfully frustrating, Janis.” She looked up. “Yeah, I’m sorry.” At least it was out in the open. Venting my anger and seeing that she was sorry mended my ruffled feathers a bit. The conversation cleared the air for the rest of our visit.

  Arriving at a former classmate’s house, we sat in the living room and I listened to Janis reply to their anxious questions about the reunion. “What do you want, Janis?” “Nothing special,” she explained. “I just came to see everyone.” Who was she kidding? Nothing special? Why, she wanted them to plan a lengthy toast, hold a receiving line, and ask her to say something to the crowd. She wanted them to publicly recognize her success! But they took her at her word. Sam Monroe, a member of the committee, asked, “We’ve had several requests for interviews, Janis. How should we handle that?” She nodded. “Yes, I guess a special place for interviews and a set time would be good.” After her comments on Dick Cavett, the reunion steering committee was afraid the event was going to become a three-ring circus. They wanted reassurance, and she gave it to them. Together they planned a method of handling the press. Before departing, Glenda South asked Janis the hard question, the one that burned everyone’s ears in Port Arthur. “Janis, why did you think some of us didn’t like you?” Gasp, she was going to have to explain it to one of them! She tried, with a parade of stories punctuated by language that was uncommon in Port Arthur’s social circles. She said that people had called her names in the halls and spit at her. Unmoved, all Glenda could reply was, “I didn’t know any of that, and wasn’t part of it.” They felt unjustly vilified in the national press. Most hadn’t hated her. They didn’t realize that their worst crime, in her eyes, was not recognizing the correctness of her views and the wrongness of their own!

  Several people had been crude and rude to Janis in high school, but she had not been alone in receiving their attention. However, Janis had let their taunts grind deeper and deeper into her psyche, until the events were elaborately woven into her personal mythology.

  It affected even as good a friend as Karleen. Karleen had been in the beauty shop and overheard Glenda South share her excitement about seeing Janis. Karleen thought, Why are you glad to see her now? You never were before. Karleen decided to put Janis’s friendship on the line. Karleen thought, If Janis wants to see me, she’ll call. I don’t want to add to the Glenda calls. Karleen found out later that when Janis asked Mom about Karleen, Mom said she had moved to Houston. Janis did not call, and Karleen didn’t go to the reunion. Janis’s best friend in the class was not there to run excitedly through the crowd and give her the bear hug that she so desperately wanted.

  Turning onto our street and approaching the house, we realized we would not have another undisturbed moment. It forced Janis to ask the question that was choking her. “Are Mama and Daddy proud of me?” I breathed deeply, grasping the significance of that question. “Yes, Janis, they are fairly bursting with pride!” I answered. “But you don’t make it easy on them, you know. Janis, you told the national press that they kicked you out of the house at age fourteen! That’s not true! How can you say that? What are they supposed to do around town? Laugh lightly and say, ‘Oh, she didn’t mean it.’” Janis sucked in her breath and then sighed deep and long, saying, “Oh,” and slumping back into her bucket seat, too aware of the whole mess. The caricature of the woman who was known as Janis Joplin had even affected her relationships in the family. Janis was very clever in getting press attention and slinging out one-liners that cried, “Headline.” But the quotes had changed people’s views of her.

  On the morning of the reunion, Janis rose, eager to play hostess to the entourage who had arrived to attend the events with her. She had them come for show, but also for the very practical need of security. A public person making a public appearance needs some muscle around. Janis had wanted to bring Tary Owens, a San Francisco musician and also a classmate. She had offered to pay his way, but he declined, too absorbed in his drugs at the time to deal with the rest of the world. Janis entertained gaily by making eggs Benedict for everyone. Mom and Pop made their excuses, saying they had a prior obligation to attend a friend’s daughter’s wedding. Janis was miffed that they would leave while she was at home, but the folks resented the way she had come home. They weren’t going to give up their commitments for her sporadic visits. She was only one of five people in the family. After they left, the rest of us hung out in the kitchen, talking and watching Janis stir the sauce and tell stories.

  I stopped her cold in the midst of the brouhaha and asked the obvious: “But are you happy?” Pausing, she reflected and then caught herself, all in a split second. “I’m on top of the world!” she shouted. “I know,” I said, “but are you happy?” Turning aside, all she could do was mumble some sounds that meant she wasn’t going to answer a dumb question like that.

  Janis excused herself to dress for the afternoon and evening events. The next I saw of her was when we walked out to the waiting rented luxury auto. She had on San Francisco rock clothes—complete with beads, bangles, and feathers in her hair. It was the feathers that bothered me. I turned and asked, “Why are you wearing those? This isn’t a concert, you know.” She replied curtly, “This isn’t your business.” I didn’t let up. “Janis, this is a group of people coming to see people, not stars. Just be yourself!” Her eyes flashed daggers. “Stay out of other people’s business.” I began to dread the event, a party that wasn’t a celebration but a contest of one-upmanship.

  Arriving at the Goodhue Hotel, we walked up the street. Following was Janis’s entourage of John Cooke, Bobby Neuwirth, and a New York chauffeur, John Fisher, brought along to drive her through the town in style. Regrettably, he had been unable to rent a limousine for the event.

  Janis strolled over to the room set aside for the press. The Port Arthur News wrote, “Drink in hand, she approaches a long table filled with reporters. ‘Looks like the Last Supper, doesn’t it?’ she asks.” Janis was in a playful mood, trying to be honest but having fun with the press. Someone asked, “What do you think about Port Arthur now?” She replied, “Well, it seems to have loosened up a little bit since I left. There’s a lot of long hair and rock, which also means drug use, you know. Looks like it’s doing just about what the rest of the country’s doing: getting loose, getting together.” The follow-up was, “Does it surprise you to see Port Arthur that way?” “Yeah, quite a bit,” she replied.

  Microphones were grouped on a cloth-covered table. Janis sat, tossing her hair, smoking a cigarette, and smiling at the cameras. I looked at the scene, framed by the picture window’s view of the downtown streets of Port Arthur. John Cooke smiled and then grabbed me. He shoved me into the limelight, saying, “Go sit with Janis.” “No,” I kept repeating, until Janis and the press noticed. She called, “Hey, Laura, come sit beside me.” I smiled and sat beside her as the questions continued.

  Question: “What do you think young people are looking for today?” An
swer: “Sincerity and a good time.” Question: “Did you entertain in high school?” Answer: “Only when I walked down the aisles. No, I didn’t. I was a painter, sort of a recluse, in high school. I’ve changed.” Question: “What happened?” Answer: “I got liberated. No, I don’t know. I just started to sing and singing makes you want to come out, whereas painting, I feel, really keeps you inside. When I started singing it just sort of made you want to talk to people more and go out more.”

  The reporters asked several questions about her unhappy times in high school, feelings about the hometown since, etc. She answered them in many different ways. To a query on how she was different, she said, “Why don’t you ask them?” Asked if she was an eccentric in high school, she quipped, “I think I thought of myself as being eccentric. I wasn’t even old enough to be an eccentric.” Asked about whether she had attended her high school prom, Janis said seriously, “No, I don’t think they wanted to take me.” Then she laughed and added, “And I’ve been suffering ever since. It’s enough to make you want to sing the blues.”

  They asked about her new band, the new record, special songs on it, her producer, etc. They wanted to know if she would do a concert in Port Arthur or Austin and she said, “Yes, if they pay me.”

  The only time she got upset was at a question about her nickname, which the reporter thought was “Pearl Barley.” Janis was flustered, replying, “That name was not supposed to reach the press. I was telling that to my mother. I didn’t realize I was surrounded by reporters. That name’s a private name for my friends to call me so they won’t have to call me Janis Joplin. It’s just for my friends to say, ‘Hey, Pearl, fix me another drink.’ It’s actually not a new name. It’s just a nickname.”