The angriest hate mail I ever got while writing my jazz column for the LA Weekly was from an old hippie from the canyon who thought I’d slighted Joni Mitchell. Well I had, actually, a little, but that was too much for him. He raged, he fulminated, he would have kicked my punk rock ass. He gave me a long lesson in Joni Mitchelldom. Unfortunately I didn’t save any of the emails, which came to probably a thousand words, beautiful things really, so goddamn angry, but I do remember he called me a young whippersnapper. I didn’t dare tell him I was more of a late middle aged whippersnapper. No, I was nice, said I felt shame, and promised to listen to Court and Spark.
I lied, of course. Once a whippersnapper, always a whippersnapper.