It's Halloween in Los Angeles.
Much of southern California is ablaze, and ashes are pouring down like
white rain. Despite the wildfires, Rickie Lee Jones is happy to be back
in California, singing again, and still riding the high of completing
The Evening of My Best Day (V2/BMG, www.v2records.com),
her first album of original material in six years. The album, produced
by David Kalish, is receiving much attention in the media for its political
expression. Three songs in particular have earned it this reputation,
one that discusses President Bush, another about the Patriot Act, and
a third about the "little mysteries" that abound in the current
political landscape, including the last presidential election itself.
But the album is about more than politics. It's also about a tree that
Jones passes each day ("A Tree on Allenford"). And it's about
a girl she saw sitting at a bus stop in a mink coat ("Mink Coat
at the Bus Stop").
Jones went a long time
without writing any new songs, and for many years she felt that her
job was to be a good mother. But she was ever alert to the little sparks
that might lead to new songs. "I was listening," she says.
"I was waiting. I was praying to be restored. And that's what happened.
I feel powerful, now. Intact. Ready to heal the world."
Jones first emerged on the
public stage in 1979 with her powerful self-titled debut, Rickie
Lee Jones, which featured her only bonafide hit single, "Chuck
E.'s in Love." That was followed by Pirates (1981), a
masterpiece of songwriting. Next came The Magazine in 1984,
Flying Cowboys (produced by Steely Dan's Walter Becker) in
1989, Traffic from Paradise in 1993, and Ghostyhead
in 1997, her last album of original material. She's also released a
series of cover albums, most notably Live at Red Rocks in 2000
and the glorious Pop Pop in 1991.
Weary of living in southern
California, Jones moved with her daughter to Tacoma, Washington, where
she existed peacefully for a few years as a mother, away from the madness
of the music business. "I was preoccupied with life," she
says. "I was tending my garden and raising my daughter. I had neither
impetus nor inspiration to write. And I found that I stopped singing."
But now that her daughter
is a little older, Jones has come back to LA, and the urge to sing and
write has returned. Many of the songs on the new album developed from
musical and lyrical seeds she carried around in her head for many years,
emerging as exquisite, full-blown songs of great depth and beauty. "I
wake up singing," Jones says. "I've come back with great enthusiasm
for all things Californian. And these songs are the fruit of trees planted
and prayed over for a long time." I spoke with Jones as dark, foreboding
clouds collected over an Angeleno afternoon, as she openly worried if
her daughter Charlotte's trick-or-treating activities would be curtailed
by the rain.
I understand that you
got back into songwriting by studying the work of certain songwriters,
including Paul McCartney.
Jones
That's right. He was one, mostly because of Ram, which I think
is an amazing and still ahead-of-its-time piece of work. It's kind of
the precursor to everything cut-and-paste. But the difference is that
he's got great songs. He's playing everything by hand, and it's all
homemade. And some of them are just fragments of songs, but they're
all beautiful.
Normally you'd think you'd
go to John Lennon, right? Powerful entity, great, amazing songs. And
I do listen to them. But when I listened to Lennon, I didn't go, "I
think I'll write something." I'd go, "Oh wow, that's a real
great song. I'll never write that song." When I listened to Paul
McCartney or Curtis Mayfield, I'd go, "Oh, yeah, yeah, I can go
with that. I could do that. I know that language."
Your songs share a certain
sweetness of melody with McCartney's.
Jones
Yeah. He's very romantic and not afraid to be. Men are mostly the only
people who can get away with that. Men can write unmitigated, innocent,
"I love you so much that butterflies are flying around" songs.
Do you think people
will always hunger for a good melody?
Jones
They hunger for a great song they can take home and sing. One of the
problems, as machines get better, is that they divert us from doing
the first things. So we get really involved with the machines and all
the cool things we can do, but we're not starting with a great song.
One of the things I liked about the idea of Ghostyhead, which
succeeded sometimes, is using the wonderful chaotic things you can do
with machines. But having a great song in the first place, that would
be fun. That was what was great about Ram. McCartney did these
little funny cut-and-paste things, but he started with a cool melody.
You went a long time
without writing songs. Did you feel the need to write during the interim?
Jones
Sure, I wanted to write. But you sit down to write and it hurts. It's
like creating the universe. When you first write, you only have the
little grain of sand. You have no idea what it will be. The first thing
you write might be a terrible, uninteresting song, but there's one part
of it that reminds you of a kind of emotional freedom you'd like to
have. Just a couple bars. Then, a year later, maybe that feeling is
more sophisticated, and now you've written a line. If you really think
about it, you've been working the whole time, waiting to write a greater
song and to be totally engrossed and energized and unafraid of writing.
Because writing is so hard when you stop. And so hard to relearn.
I know how to do it. It's
what I do. But to change my life or bring a good thing to the world
or shake it up or bring some new style . . . Like any athlete, you have
to just keep practicing and practicing and practicing. While I was taking
a break, I was also being restored. There was a year or two in Tacoma
when I realized I never sang. And now I sing all the time. It's almost
like being manic-depressive. Because it's so consuming that when you
open the [songwriting] door, that's all you're going to do and be. And
now that it's open, I'm very happy. But it's very difficult to do or
be anything else but a musician once that door opens. And [softly]
I think I've been trying to just be a mother.
Is it too much to be
a mother and a musician at the same time?
Jones
Yeah. It's one thing to be a good player or a good singer, but to be
devoted to making music and to be a mother, that's kind of
impossible. As my daughter gets older, it's easier for me to turn and
focus on my music.
Has motherhood affected
your songwriting?
Jones
I remember I wrote a song called "A Stranger's Car" about
a little child. I had written it and killed the child. I knew it was
dead. When I went to record the song, I could not bear to leave the
child dead. I wanted to save the character. So I interceded, and the
song became unclear at the end. Well, here's what I learned about that.
That song was supposed to be about death. Because I needed
to tell the story of ultimate sadness. And it took me all these years
to learn that these songs know what they're doing. You can't interfere.
So writing a song is
more a process of following than leading?
Jones
Definitely. I'm following it. I don't try to control it.
Did you ever try to
force the process while working on this album?
Jones
Yeah, in "Second Chance." I was looking really hard for the
right line, just the right line. It's like bringing it into focus. I
wrote that over and over again till I got what I wanted.
"Ugly Man,"
which is about President Bush, is a beautiful song. Do people notice
what you're talking about?
Jones
I think [the music] neutralizes the acid of it a little bit. Some Americans
go, "Well, this is obvious," and some people go, "So
what's this about?" maybe not expecting the answer to be bold.
It's OK to name names and say what you mean and mean what you say. And
take the blow. And stop this suppression of free speech. And the only
way it will happen is by standing up and talking.
Did the urge to talk
about what is happening politically in America trigger these songs?
Jones
Just that song. Some of the record is about a tree on the street I drive
by. Some of it is about the guy who runs the country. Some of it is
economics and California catching on fire. And then I turn and talk
about the heart. One thing I did with this album is keep the pace interesting.
In the past, if I liked a song, I put it on the album. This time I decided,
even though I had great songs, if they brought the pace of the album
down, they weren't going to get on the record. I haven't crafted an
album like that in a long time.
You mentioned the tree
you drive by, which inspired "A Tree on Allenford."
Jones
I wrote it in my car as I drove to work. I would pass this tree every
day. A child had been killed there, and people left flowers and made
it a shrine. I was thinking how the tree had taken on that burden and
about the love of those people. I thought that somewhere in the ether,
the tree and the children are sitting together. The song is about trying
to offer complete relief to the grieving parent, not through the lyric,
but just through my prayer. As I drive by, I say, "All is well,
and we're all part of each other. None of us is gone. If we're not in
the rain, we're in the tree or we're in the thoughts. We're all here."
I've had that happen a few
times, where I got the melody in my head. And I just keep singing it
till I get it to work. I walked right in and said, "We're not going
to do what we planned. I have a new song." I sat down right away
and played it and recorded it. So what you hear is me writing it.
And you played it on
guitar?
Jones
Actually on a keyboard first. I got that little melody [sings repeated
motif], and we got a little oboe sound and put that on. Then later
we brought in players and put that keyboard way in the back with a little
echo on it, so it sounds a little accordionish. What's thrilling about
it, technically, is that it's really the day I wrote it, that version.
Did you write other
songs in your head like that?
Jones
The other one I wrote in my head was "The Mink Coat at the Bus
Stop." I saw this girl at the bus stop early in the morning, when
I was taking my daughter to school, sitting in a mink coat. I wondered
what she was doing there in the morning in a mink coat. Her eyes were
cast upward and never changed. And all these people driving by in their
brand-new cars. And all the people waiting for the bus. What a hard
way to go in this town. You've got to sit and wait for the bus. And
people drive and don't even see them, they don't look at them. And you
do really start to feel an incredible class division. Because that's
what this town is. And it just made me go, "Hey, I'm that
girl at that bus stop. She's not different than me."
Did you write the music
for that one in your car, too?
Jones
Yeah. That was fun because I had this tough blues thing, but I wanted
something else. I remembered that I have a great capacity for writing
an unexpected chorus or an unexpected bridge. And I remembered how to
do it. I said, "I want to go somewhere new," and it said,
"OK, [sings] I look at the people . . ." It is the
commentary on the world. The blues number is down at the bus stop, and
then the other part is me turning to the camera and speaking to you.
Also, it's all kind of urban. Like, Curtis Mayfield would have written
that melody. So they're all cousins, all these kinds of music. You just
have to find a way to patch them together.
This album has a lot
of joy in it. Even in songs where you're urging people to wake up and
see what the world is, like "Tell Somebody."
Jones
Because the idea is to bring them in, not to yell at them or preach
to them, but to bring them in. The recurring messages are: Death doesn't
conquer. You die and you continue. And we are all connected. And redemption
is at hand. And you can change your life in a moment, for the better.
I think that's the permeating message. The record is not a complaint.
It's an affirmation. It's an offering of joy.
And yet you're not afraid
to get political as well.
Jones
I was thinking about Marvin Gaye, Curtis Mayfield. This is what they'd
say. Curtis Mayfield would be overtly political with his melody playing.
And I just went, "Yeah, it's cool. I'm gonna go ahead and do it."
Got the right groove, we can say whatever we want.
"Ugly Man"
also has a great groove, and a great chord progression. Did you write
that on guitar?
Jones
Yeah. It's really easy. I've been playing with that little progression
for a while. I like it a lot. And when the trumpet plays, that melody
is so regal. That horn section was like "Wow!"
You also played with
guitarist Bill Frisell on some songs?
Jones
Yeah. That was a joyful afternoon. We recorded three songs in a day:
"Ugly Man," "Bitchenostrophy," and another one called
"The Eucalyptus Trail," which didn't get on the album. It
was great to play with someone who understood my musical language. I
would play it once, and he'd say, "OK, I got it." Then we
would do the track. He got it right away.
You play a lot of guitar
on this record.
Jones
Yeah. I'm feeling really comfortable playing guitar. Onstage and in
the studio.
Do you always play in
standard tuning?
Jones
No. On "It Takes You There," I'm playing a 12-string with
only eight strings on it. I have it tuned to a triad, with three of
the strings the same note. I used that same tuning on "Rodeo Girl"
and other songs.
Do you play with capos?
Jones
No. I never play with a capo. It's mathematically too difficult for
me to reconfigure the neckboard with a capo. I have to keep the same
amount of dots!
When you write a melody
in your head, is it easy for you to go to a guitar and play it?
Jones
Now it is. I'm a good enough player now that I can replicate what I
hear. And that's very comfortable, because I can sit with all these
men, and I definitely hold my own playing with them. In fact, they're
really dependent on what I play. That's a great feeling, because I think
up to now I felt more like a singer who could play. But now I feel like
a good player. The thing I know how to do, I know how to do really well
[laughs]. I can tell the players feel great. I know how to talk to them
now with an instrument instead of just with my voice. And that's so
fun. It's something I always wanted to be able to do.
So I'm in this kind of great
celebration of my life. I don't have this fear anymore. I know exactly
what I do. If you like it, come and see. If you don't like it, go away
[laughs]. I have my feet on the ground.
What effected this change?
Jones
It's a whole bunch of things, really. Last year my mom had a stroke.
And taking care of my mother, being so close as she almost died, looking
at the people in my family, thinking of my whole life, my dad's life,
my grandfather's life, ten thousand years of people who procreated to
bring me here. When she tries to talk, she can't say it, and she laughs.
Seeing my mom laugh made me go, "What a wonderful world. What a
wonderful human being I grew up with." I always loved her, but
I didn't realize how wonderful she is. Look at her laugh at herself.
I guess it made me turn and go, "OK, no more fooling around. No
more feeling sorry for yourself." There's a whole world of people
who need my help. And I have unlimited energy to give till I die. Because
once you start giving, you have more. You don't give, you don't have
anything to give. You give, you've got a lot to give. And seeing my
mother so close to death made me realize I'm going to die. And some
day all these things I won't have done. And I'm still here, I'm still
young, I could still do them. So maybe it was like It's a Wonderful
Life. And I got to come back with great joy and happiness. I do
feel kind of like him, running around with Zuzu's petals in my pocket.
I think I'm a great writer
and an important character in American art. And I had my career described
as a "downward spiral." I don't want to be tossed away and
have my history rewritten by VH1 as a footnote. That's not true. That
stuff hurt so badly, it made it hard for me to get up. You do need love
from the outside, let's face it. If I made the record, and nobody wanted
to work with me, I wouldn't have this power that I have. But getting
love from people, and people saying, "It's so good to see you working.
You sound great. Great song." Then you feel part of the world.
I need that.
Excerpted from
Acoustic
Guitar magazine, April 2004,
No. 136.
