Joan Baez, then and now
 On Tuesday I saw I Am a Noise, the Joan Baez documentary. In the early 1960s the folk music revival was hopping in the Cambridge/Boston area. The music community was tight; everyone knew everyone, and we had 'pickin' parties' several nights a week. I was in the thick of it, co-managing the Folklore Center (most fun job EVER) just down Mt. Auburn Street from the Club 47, where Joanie got her start.
Two of my friends and I shared an amazing 3-bedroom flat ($125/month!) nearby. It was on the 2nd floor over Henry’s Market, which closed at 6. Since no one was above us, our place was an ideal party pad. Most of the time it was just a handful of us, noodling on our guitars, singing bluegrass tunes in harmony.
In the spring of 1963 we’d issued a casual “drop in after the show” kind of invite to a few people at the 47. Word must have got out or the stars just aligned; everyone came--Joanie, Bob Dylan, Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, Doc Watson, Jim Kweskin, Geoff Muldaur, and others, including a couple of record label scouts. The joint was jumpin’—music happening in every single room until the wee hours. It became Cambridge legend. Here are two grainy photos in my kitchen that night, copied from Baby Let me Follow You Down, a book about those years.
Muldaur, Kweskin, Joanie, Ric Von Schmidt.
And Dylan with a record producer.
Those were the days. I could go on. But I'd rather focus on:
My more universal takeaways from the movie:
1. We were young, and many of us were obnoxious. Joan was a stage hog. Dylan was a grubby sleazy kid who sang and played out of tune. (I was no saint either). But time passes and we become much nicer, better people. We make significant contributions to society. Joan dedicated herself to racial justice and non-violence from the time she was a young girl. It's a reminder to be patient with our young people—most will “grow out of it,” whatever "it" is, and they'll surprise us with who they become.
2. We have no way of knowing what others are going through—what they struggle with, the pain they can’t speak about. I was stunned to learn of the crippling depressions and panic attacks that plagued both Joan and her gorgeous younger sister Mimi all their lives. And yet they kept on keeping on.
Mimi always seemed so blithe and gay. I hated her back then because she stole the affections of the guy I’d hoped would be my perfect mate, Dick Fariña. I’d been staying with him in Paris (summer 1962), but the moment she arrived in town I was toast. In the documentary, Mimi says the three years she spent with him were the happiest days of her life--perhaps the only ones. Tragically, Dick died in a motorcycle crash right after his best-selling novel came out. So sad; they both were such bright lights.
Side Note: My first paint job ever was in that Cambridge kitchen. Acrylic paints had recently come on the market, although in limited colors. I chose a toothpasty shade of mint green to paint the kitchen. Glad these pix weren't in color because the results were hideous. I didn't stop there, however: I went on to inflict a powder blue color in the tiny teaching spaces at the Folklore Center.
Every color consultant has to start somewhere--ugly mistakes are how we learn.
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