For years now, when I’m getting ready to host a dinner party, Janis’s is the music I listen to as I sweep the floors. This connection between Janis and domesticity feels dissonant in a productive way. I might be chopping vegetables and making bread and wiping counters, but just listen to that scratching, full-bodied rock howl.
This fall, I put a Janis CD on in my car. In recent months, life has leveled me. But here is Janis. Honest and complex and full of raw, defiant jubilance. And here I am in my car, holding somewhere inside a glimmer of renaissance — of possibility — listening to Janis wail.