by Laura Joplin
Among the hordes of unfamiliar bodies, long-forgotten faces began appearing, older but still recognizable as our former neighbors. Their presence immediately made the event into a true homecoming. Bodie Pryor, who still lived directly behind our old house, hugged us and said that he came to honor Janis. He was solid and caring, a person who never wavered from his inner sense of faith. “Janis was a wonderful, happy girl. Whatever is written, I don’t care about. I knew her as a wonderful person.”
Bodie and the other familiar faces took seats in the center of the large gymnasiumlike room. There was a stage, with little metal chairs at one end, and a line of dark-suited gentlemen who filled them. They were the local dignitaries who gave the ceremony its civic legitimacy. There were rows of metal chairs in front of the stage and bleachers along both sides of the room, which the growing crowd had long since filled. Those who merely came on time stood, if they could get into the room at all. From time to time a body pushed its way near enough to the stage to yell, “Laura, Laura, do you remember me?” The air was charged with emotional expectancy.
The obvious love displayed for Janis helped me form the words I was planning to speak to the crowd. The rising din of their talking developed into an acoustical roar that was hardly dented by the speaker’s insistent pounding with the gavel. The call to order slowly rippled from the stage as people shushed those around them.
The ceremony began. It could have been a convention of the Kiwanis Club or the Rotarians, I thought, with the dry comments of literal-minded citizens called to stand at the podium. The audience listened politely, waiting. The mayor of Port Arthur, Malcolm Clark, surprised us all by bellowing, “Happy Birthday, Janis!” He tripped the spring that had held the crowd’s bottled-up emotions. The happiness was compelling, overwhelming my mental retreat into reflection, encouraging a feeling of euphoria.
The noise dimmed as the tone returned to proper comments about the ceremony. Sam Monroe announced his pleasure in opening the permanent Janis Joplin exhibit in the Lamar University Library. He was honest in saying that Mayor Malcolm Clark, the chamber of commerce, and the museum hoped that the exhibit would be a success.
Though the fans came because they loved Janis, the local businessmen supported the event to draw visitors to the town. Port Arthur was hurting economically, and they wanted tourist dollars. The mayor got the necessary local support by explaining that Elvis Presley did a lot for Memphis, and so Janis Joplin could do a lot for Port Arthur.
I overheard a local dignitary explain, “God tells us to forgive, and I can forgive Janis.” I think that part of his frustration with Janis was due to her condemnation of a town that he liked. People remembered her derogatory press comments, and they aroused emotion, even in 1988. But much of his anger seemed due to Janis’s press statements about using drugs. It took him twenty years, but he managed to forgive Janis for encouraging others to use drugs by her public conduct. Janis was surely the biggest loser on that score. Drugs killed her, with her youthful folly of thinking she was tough enough to handle them. I have often wondered if Janis and her crowd believed, like Timothy Leary, that drugs were a shortcut to discovering a greater reality. Was it her search for truth, honesty, and self? No matter, they forgave Janis.
Others, however, haven’t forgiven them for their disdain for her kind. Dave Moriaty railed about it to me. “The opinion that irritates me,” he exclaimed, “is that Janis was some kind of singer from hell, that she had a terribly sordid life-style, while society was rewarding the ability to lie and how well someone conformed. Port Arthurans weren’t sexually pure. They had their gays and fornicators! I don’t think Janis was any more orgiastic or amoral or drugged than any of the rest of society at that time. Housewives had speed, Benzedrine, and Seconal so they could go to sleep! Drinking alcohol was the way boys were supposed to prove they were men. My friends nearly killed themselves trying to be men!
“What the hell was Janis doing that was so bad on the West Coast? She wasn’t ripping people off. She wasn’t stealing their money, exploiting her workers, or engaging in a giant con game where she got everybody’s bread and split. . . . Janis just rubbed society’s own prejudices in its face. . . . Janis had a more stringent moral code than normal, because she didn’t engage in the normal polite lies that society requires of us!”
Some people have seen Janis as the embodiment of wrong. The rock-and-rollers who followed her generation built on the shocking behavior of their forebears. To catch up to the new norm, Janis stories became increasingly embellished in order to maintain her reputation for being outrageous. I have been told in serious tones that Janis performed naked at the Texas International Pop Festival. The young man who spoke so authoritatively was not old enough to have attended the event. He knew only by hearsay, and he believed every word of it.
Some people took a superficial meaning from phrases like the song lyric “Get it while you can.” They thought in terms of getting sex, getting money, getting experience, etc. Some, like John Cooke, understood that it had to do with total concentration, a willingness to give all of yourself to the art, to not hold back, to not wait. At any one moment, there is nothing going on but one thing. What someone produces or gets out of that moment depends on how much he or she can concentrate and commit to it. Singing enabled Janis to give all of herself to her performing. Janis often said that she “lived for that half hour onstage,” because it was so real to her.
People heard Janis say, “Get off your butt and feel,” and some felt scared of what they might feel. And Janis could empathize with them too. She said, “Oh, yeah, I’m scared. I think, Oh, it’s so close, can I make it? If I fail, I’ll fail in front of the whole world. If I miss, I’ll never have a second chance on nothing. But I gotta risk it. I never hold back, man. I’m always on the outer edge of probability.”
So the Port Arthur ceremony embodied a local compromise about her. Many citizens didn’t want to honor Janis and wrote angry letters to the editor of the Port Arthur News. To appease that sensitivity, the ceremony grew to encompass all local musicians who were successful in the entertainment industry. The list amazed me. In the exhibit hall, alongside the cabinets holding Janis’s slide rule and high school yearbook, were displays covering the other musicians. There were numerous gold albums and rhinestone-encrusted performing costumes with summary notes beside them.
The son of the Big Bopper was there, accepting the honors for his father, who had been a local disc jockey before he wrote “Chantilly Lace.” Later he toured with Buddy Holly and Ritchie Valens, and the three died in a plane crash together. The list of local stars was long, and included Johnny and Edgar Winter, Tex Ritter, Ivory Joe Hunter, Harry James, Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown, J. P. “Big Bopper” Richardson, Glen Wells, ZZ Top, and George Jones.
When the announcer called each name, a representative mounted the stage to stand in a line before the crowd. I increasingly wondered what it was about this area that produced such talent. I often thought that few people understood Janis’s album Kozmic Blues because they couldn’t relate to its base in Port Arthur. I think it was her rendition of the Louisiana music she had heard in the Big Oak Club, where underage Texans went to dance and drink.
They saved Janis for last, as the chief honoree of the evening. Michael and I were her stand-ins. Even the two of us didn’t give fans what they wanted. We were just the best available. I was asked to speak to the crowd for a moment.
“It’s good to be here tonight,” I began, “back in Texas, back in Port Arthur, back home.” The crowd applauded and whistled on “home.”
“There is just something about home, where all the familiar sights and sounds remind you of pleasant memories of a wonderful time growing up.
“There is just something about being a Texan that sticks in your blood, so that no matter where you live or what you do, you’ll always be a Texan.” The crowd erupted again, and I felt like I had struck a chord with them.
“In many ways I think that Janis was like the quintessent
ial Texan, the oil wildcatter, determined to do whatever was necessary to succeed at her chosen profession.” The developing roar from the crowd forced me to pause.
“In one of her many letters home, Janis wrote of her career. She said that when she was first starting out, she had to work hard to get any success. When she had some success, she found she had to work even harder to maintain it.” The crowd quieted, listening to actual words from Janis: “Then, when you’re number one, why, you have to knock yourself out to stay on top.’” The crowd was then dead silent.
“Certainly, Janis had a way with the press that garnered her much useful publicity. Perhaps it is because of that that I am so pleased to be among friends and neighbors, among those who can, with me, remember the child, the adolescent, the young woman, apart from the flash and glitter that so dominated her time in the spotlight.
“I have mixed emotions about being here tonight. I don’t want to be here. I would prefer being at home, in my kitchen, baking a birthday cake, drinking coffee, and talking with my sister.”
A resounding “Amen” came from the audience, from the cold metal chairs near the stage. I was so grateful. Someone was with me.
“But I can’t be there, and it does give me particular pleasure to be here with you tonight, the people of Port Arthur, remembering the woman, my sister, Janis Joplin.”
The audience roared and stood. As I sat back down, a blue-suited gentleman tapped me on the shoulder and said, “That was wonderful!” I had surprised him. I had intended to say something meaningful, but it was only then that I realized all they had wanted from me was to show up and say, “Thank you.” Oh, well, I had done what I wanted to do.
I continued to reflect until I noticed that everyone onstage was moving aside to watch a twenty-minute clip from the documentary Janis. The excerpts included a wonderful interview with her in Stockholm. She was so young then, hardly twenty-six years old, while I would be forty just a few months after the ceremony. Yet Janis will always be my older sister, and so I felt younger than her.
The movie showed her onstage, singing and looking radiantly happy. On the screen, a reporter asked about her musical influences, and I smiled, knowing the first two: Mom and Pop. Pop, who couldn’t hold a tune, had a musical soul, though. Several times he called us kids to the living room. He sat us on the couch in the living room and said, “Now, just listen.” He carefully selected his favorite record of cello music, Pablo Casals playing “Kol Nidrei,” and placed it on the turntable. As the needle settled into the record’s grooves, our father settled into his chair, transfixed, with tears in his eyes. “Can you kids hear that? The sadness? Just listen,” he pleaded. So, his firstborn child sang her heart out, with her father’s tears woven into her melodies.
The crowd loved the music on the film. I didn’t think the screaming and thundering could get much louder, but it did. We almost felt like a living and breathing animal as we swayed and sang with the music.
Next was the unveiling of the statue. The sculptor, Doug Clark, and his benefactor stood near the drape-covered piece. Though John Palmer liked to explain his reasons to the press, Clark seemed to be a man who preferred to let his art speak for him. Michael and I pulled a cord and revealed the statue. I raised my eyes to get a good view of it. Suddenly, the newsfolk were back. Light bulbs were flashing everywhere. Hands were on me, and someone said, “Stand in front of the statue,” and flash went the cameras. Another person pushed a dozen roses into my hands. I wanted to hold the roses gracefully, like a beauty queen, but the flowers were in a vase full of water. I could hardly hold them upright and get my head over the top. “Smile and look up at the statue. Stand to the side,” the photographers directed. They posed Michael and me repeatedly, but we took it calmly. After all, we had said we would come. We couldn’t say, “Forget it,” just because we hadn’t known how greatly the event would intrigue the press.
The lights were still flashing as the ever-eager reporters were asking, “What do you think of the statue, Laura?” I wanted to give them some glowing and inspiring comment, but I couldn’t even see it because of the blinding flashbulbs! Rush, rush, rush.
The crowd broke up the press action. The stands were emptying and people were trying to get a better glimpse of the statue. Old friends were tugging at our sleeves, trying to get a chance to say hello. It was a great feeling.
Two press people were insistent. They hadn’t gotten an interview, and so they interrupted me as I was talking to one of Janis’s old high school gang, Jim Langdon. His deep voice and piercing eyes challenged me to prove I could recall the girl beyond all of this. I wanted to escape the hubbub around us and find a convivial drinking hole in which to absorb his recollections. I wanted to know what he thought of Janis saying she was a “loner” in high school. All I remembered as a child was Janis continually being with friends.
Then the reality of the event hit me. The fans were loose. Most people milled around in the intensely packed crowd, looking at the exhibits and casting curious glances our way. Their eyes showed calmness, that the ceremony had given them the outlet they had needed. Occasionally someone came close to say, “It’s about time they honored her,” or, “I’m a real fan of Janis’s. Just wanted you to know how much I loved her.” Their voices were somber and at times I felt as though they were reciting a litany and I was an icon.
There were several requests for us to sign a poster from this event. One girl wanted her blue-jean jacket signed, high on the back of the shoulder. People were sweet, loving, and moved, and they were sharing that with us. The mood was joyous and jubilant. No one could have attended this event without feeling the warmth and excitement.
There was also something else, which hit me full force when a fan ran from the crowd and grabbed me from behind with an unwanted bear hug. “I just had to do that,” she said. She grasped my shoulders and stared into my eyes. “Wow!” she said. She could only repeat that word. I tried to pull clear, feeling that she was using my body to hug something in herself, and I wasn’t sure I wanted the job. Later I heard her say, “Why can’t I be Janis Joplin’s sister?” I wondered why that was her wish. If she were going to wish at all, why didn’t she just wish to be Janis?
Perhaps the audience also held someone like the fellow who introduced himself to Mother years ago while she was tending her flowers in the front yard. “I want you to know,” he said, “that the day your daughter died, I quit using drugs. I figured if she wasn’t strong enough to handle it, then I wasn’t either.” Wherever I looked in the faces around me, I relived experiences like those I had heard from others. Pop had told me that the fans didn’t want anything from them, even the ones who wrote years after Janis died. They just wanted Mother and him to know them.
The crowd at the ceremony besieged us, and we felt overwhelmed. I understood why famous people have bodyguards. It was the hands. People reached out from every direction, like elephant trunks searching for peanuts. Michael and I needed to leave.
We stepped outside into the balmy South Texas air. We relaxed as its cool buoyancy pulled us from the intensity of the building. The true magnitude of the event then confronted us. There were loudspeakers on the lawn, which had conveyed our words to hundreds of people unable to fit into the Jefferson County Civic Center. The speakers vibrated with music from the continuing celebration as we stared at the packed parking lot. Automobiles were everywhere—on the grass, on the interstate, and even on the access road.
As we piled into my car, I looked back at the auditorium. Through the open doors I could see the crowd looking at the exhibit. Above them on the wall I saw the display of Janis’s artwork. My eyes clung to the portrait she did of me as an eleven-year-old. I remembered sitting in the bedroom, being still and very bored. I had hoped Janis would paint me as I felt myself. I had fantasized she would give me the image of a beautiful Southern belle in a fancy ball gown standing elegantly beside a fireplace mantel. Instead, she painted me as I was: a bored eleven-year-old looking over her shoulder to see w
hat her big sister was doing.
Janis saw me as I was and loved me as I was. I didn’t need to be a Southern belle to be worthy of her unlimited affection. Throughout her career she gave to her fans in the same way. In her own stumbling, determined fashion, she let them know that all were worthy of total acceptance and love just because of who they were.
She sang songs that helped people find themselves. One woman told the story of her constant vigilance to maintain her sobriety. One morning she had been sorely tempted to drink, until she heard Janis singing “Me and Bobby McGee” on the radio. The line about freedom meaning there’s nothing left to lose released her from her desire to drink. She knew she had something to lose—she had her sobriety.
Because Janis died from drugs, her life can never be separated from the growth of the love generation’s use of alcohol and other drugs. Some people see the sixties generation turning their backs on the standards their parents held, and on moderation in all things. It may be equally true that they merely took the subliminal messages of the culture that raised them and put them into practice. If billboards and advertisements showed men and women romancing with cigarettes and alcohol, the kids inextricably linked them. If sporting events and concerts were promoted by beer companies, then kids equated alcohol with physical health and good, clean fun. If all adult parties and celebrations started with an alcoholic toast, then the kids learned that good times require drink.
Janis’s death was labeled a heroin overdose, allowing people who don’t use heroin to feel safe from such a fate. Yet her death was probably due to the interaction of heroin with alcohol. If so, she died an alcohol-related death. Also, she didn’t start her “drug use” with heroin. She started with tobacco, then went on to alcohol, marijuana, speed, and a smattering of other readily available social drugs.