From her original collection of folk songs she sang “Lily of the West”, “House of the Rising Sun”, and “Railroad Bill.” Her once small, high, soprano has changed into a stronger, huskier mezzo and she wisely doesn’t attempt the soaring intervals of “Once I knew a pretty girl,” “Silver Dagger” and “Matty Groves”. In the fifty years since she first shared a stage with Dylan, her token protests became deeply politicized and spiritual. Her opening number was a new one for me and spoke of God and a simple belief in the goodness of life and man. The second was “Farewell Angelina.”
The audience garlanded her with affection and appreciation, that flew through the air and landed on stage of the New Theatre. There wasn’t much of a set- bare boards sparsely furnished with a large carmine sofa and a lamp. No one gave her a bouquet, yet she seemed to be surrounded by flowers. Joanie is still very beautiful with snow white hair cropped short instead of her former gleaming ebony locks. She wore blue jeans, tee-shirt and a mannish dark jacket; workmanlike but still elegant.
I had never heard of Dylan or Joanie when I arrived at my hippie Vermont college in 1963, an urban yokel from New Delhi: faded blue jeans, wild hair, six packs, guitars, Blue Grass, other sorts of grass, addressing profs by their first names, hearing the B Minor Mass and late Beethoven quartets for the first time, writing bad poetry, riding in the back seat of VW Beetles, digging trenches for the missiles of the Cuban crisis that never came and surprised by the taste of honey rather than sugar in tea.
Apples grew wild on the Vermont hills, then dropped and became mushy in the frosty nights.There were 84 students and 24 faculty staff. I realized I was a hippy at heart and my tasteful saris, bought in Cottage Industries, remained forever after inside my cabin trunk.