Two of my favorite musicians, Joni Mitchell and Bonnie Raitt, are being feted in this twilight of their careers. Be it the Grammys or social media, I’m thrilled to see them get their due and for more people to be exposed to their brilliance. But as Joni famously sings, “something’s lost and something’s gained, in living every day.” And what’s missing for me is an acknowledgement of the daring brilliance of their lesser known, or at least less celebrated, work: Raitt’s bluesy first six albums and Mitchell’s jazzy 10 album stretch, from 1975’s “Hissing of Summer Lawns” to 1998’s “Taming of the Tiger.” I’ve been returning to them myself recently, and reflecting on what it meant for me to hear them the first time around.

I remember hearing Mitchell in her very early days, her guitar and dulcimer reminiscent of Appalachia, but her lyrics going somewhere newer and more modern. By the time she came out with Blue in 1971, a song like “The Last Time I Saw Richard” spoke deeply to me, not of lost love, but of lost hope. Only two years before, her song “Woodstock” had captured a certain spirit of change, but now she gave voice to my own growing sense of futility. Other than Laura Nyro (who inspired Mitchell to play piano), I had never heard a woman sing songs like that, songs she wrote and played herself, songs that were deep and filled with adult emotions. Her poetry was not Dylanesque imagery but frank, personal and revealing stories. These are still the songs, and this is still the album, she’s most known for, and for good reason.

But by 1974’s “Court and Spark,” she could feel the constraints of her confessional folk rock. Starting with “Hissing of Summer Lawns,” Joni created a new popular genre that melded folk, rock, blues and modern jazz. At the time, I didn’t always appreciate her efforts, and I really didn’t recognize that the people now playing on her albums — Charles Mingus, Wayne Shorter, Pat Metheny, John McLauglin, Herbie Hancock, Jaco Pastorius — were jazz royalty, creating new styles all their own.

But over the years I caught up with her. Now, when I listen to listen to a cut like “The Dry Cleaner from Des Moines,” from her 1979 “Mingus” album,  I’m transported by her interplay with Jaco’s thundering bass, her nimble scatting and just the whole vibe of the song. When I hear an album like “Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter,” where she is joined by most of Weather Report (one of the era’s top fusion bands), I feel like I’m listening to one of those lost albums that’s suddenly cool again. The music constantly surprises, even if it’s not super hummable.

When I was coming of musical age myself, the polarities of disco and heavy metal ruled the radio, but I wanted the spicy, tasty complex musical stew that groups like Traffic, Steely Dan, late Doobie Brothers, early Springsteen were cooking up. What I didn’t realize at the time was how Mitchell was out front of all of them in showing us a way that the threads of commercial pop could evolve and join with jazz. It’s still not everyone’s cup of tea, but I wish more people could taste it or at least get a sniff.

While it’s not what she’s best known for these days, Bonnie Raitt also bucked trends in the 1970s. She interpreted top-notch singer/songwriter types like Jackson Browne, John Prine and Steve Goodman to great effect, but she was first and foremost a blues musician. And Raitt was not only a singer, but a badass slide guitar player. I was deep into blues slide at the time, and she was the only woman I had heard take that on.

It’s still not everyone’s cup of tea, but I wish more people could taste it or at least get a sniff.

We very recently got a taste of Bonnie’s versatility at the Kennedy Center, in the festivities honoring her musical legacy. I was delighted to hear the Keb Mo and Susan Tedeschi version of her take on Robert Johnson’s “Walkin Blues,” but there’s so much more where that came from. Bonnie brought blue fire into her rock. I remember seeing her play “About to make me leave home” in the late ‘70s, at a concert at Muhlenberg College, and just being giddy at how her guitar crackled with energy. In her 1989 comeback album “Nick of Time,” Bonnie seemed different, more focused on healing than howling. That’s the album that seems to have endured, at least if the ubiquitous declaration of “I Can’t Make You Love Me” being one of the the saddest songs ever written is any indication. But sometimes, I miss those howls!

So why don’t we celebrate Raitt’s blues and Mitchell’s jazz when we pay tribute on stage, or just on our Spotify streaming? I think it’s because Raitt’s adult-themed pop rock and Mitchell’s early folk rock feel more comfortable to fans. Raitt’s blues recall her personal struggles. Mitchell’s jazz highlights her unrepentant iconoclasm, her unwillingness to make endless copies of her masterpiece.

Watching Raitt in her mid-1970s blues heyday, we were watching a train wreck in progress — rarely sober, tumultuous relationships, bad karma from the record company. I hear the anger, hurt, sadness and defeat that her slide sang of, but I also feel the defiance and resilience. Isn’t that the benefit of listening to a woman who’s led a long and full life, with all its ups and downs?

Mitchell refuses to disown her jazz, but the Brandi Carlile-led troupe of young musician supporting her seem much more suited to albums like “Ladies of the Canyon” than Joni’s folk jazz. I want to hear Joni with current jazz greats like Charles Lloyd or Bill Frisell, Brad Mehldau or Terence Blanchard, the way Herbie Hancock and Wayne Shorter took her on with their 2007 “River: The Joni Letters.”

I grew up on popular music of the ‘60s, from doo-wop in the early years to psychedelia by the late ‘60s. The borders and barriers between Black and white music, and between the many sub-genres of popular music, were constantly shifting. Simon and Garfunkel were experimenting with reggae and the Beatles with Indian music; Hendrix was all experiment. I remember hearing Santana on their first trip to New York, lighting up Central Park with their never-heard-before Latin rock.

These two women were a key part of that experimentation, but somehow got dinged for it in the public eye. They took many risks to make room for their distinctive voices. They battled the usual prejudices against women in rock and roll. And they carved out musical niches that were new and important, if not always emulated.

All this time later, I still find it thrilling.

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About The Author

Mark Schlack

Cognoscenti contributor

Mark Schlack writes climate fiction, plays jazz guitar, and enjoys woodworking and hiking around his home in Northampton. He was a journalist for four decades, focusing on advanced technologies used in business and healthcare. He’s married to fellow author Julie Wittes Schlack and has two grown daughters and a not so grown-up bernedoodle name Billie.

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