A recurring motif in Reckless Daughter is the attempt to find a suitable comparison for Joni Mitchell. The author, the subejct, and contemporaries of hers take their best shot; Miles Davis, Rembrandt, Beethoven, Schubert, Van Gogh, and Picasso are all mentioned. Joni, who always considered herself as much a painter as a musician, would appreciate the cross-medium comparisons, and as someone who grew up loving Rachmaninoff and Debussy and took pride in her compositions, she wouldn’t mind being mentioned alongside classical giants either. And indeed, the mere realm in which people grasp for comparisons is impressive and perhaps even the least bit useful when considering Mitchell’s place in the all-time artistic firmament. But mostly, they, like all comparisons, do a double disservice, to Mitchell and the other party.
Having crudely delimited the rarefied artistic territory Mitchell inhabits, Yaffe does little to build on her status as a musical genius. He struggles to find a tone—he’s sometimes loving, sometimes clinical, and mostly just bored-seeming—and as a result, the Joni Mitchell rendered by the book never feels like a person; his effort comes slightly closer to portraying a career, but even in that regard, the book falls significantly short of offering up a multidimensional narrative, instead often feeling like a folder of newspaper clippings. Yaffe is happy to ineffectually co-opt Mitchell’s lyrics and turns of phrase in a transparent effort to atone for his own lack of imagination and prose style, but by coldly taking her words and none of their feeling, he misses her biggest lesson and fails to insert any of himself and any personality he might have into his book.
This lack of life on the part of the author seems linked to the lack of life breathed into a subject who has never before been accused of seeming lifeless. I’m not sure Yaffe could necessarily have salvaged this effort, but he might have been able to if he adopted a more personal approach to the material, almost structuring it as a backdoor-memoir by discussing the way his life has been affected by her work; from his occasional efforts at a more academic tone analyzing her music, I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t have had the technical chops to take the only other reasonable tack, that of a more rigorously clinical analysis of her corpus. By focusing on Mitchell’s effect on him, he would be able to sidestep the problem of approaching a genius as merely a person, or of approaching a person as merely a genius; also, straight analysis, even by someone with the skill to pull it off, would risk coming off as comically, woefully insufficient.
There are too rare moments where Yaffe essentially does this; he doesn’t quite make it personal, but he gets at how music and lyrics work together to produce a certain effect, and it’s great, often providing real insight to a certain degree of the immense power of Mitchell’s music. But more often, his offerings are trite, if not downright specious. There are also successful instances of contextualizing Mitchell’s songwriting without trying to explain it outright, draw parallels, or make explicit connections, but much more often Yaffe falls into the trap—all the more frustrating since he specifically mentions this fallacy early on, which raised my hopes that he would, you know, avoid it—of treating her songs as strictly biographical, in so doing unintentionally (hopefully) and wrongly undercutting her imaginative and artistic contributions.
Yaffe undercuts his subject in other ways as well, including unsourced speculation at various points, even when it flies in the face of on-record statements, as if he wants to include certain famous (and certainly famously disproven) myths in the book to ensure that they were part of the historical record. It doesn’t seem ill-intentioned, quite, just careless. It’s perhaps another hint of his authorial timidity; he’s willing to occasionally allow flatly contradictory interviews, but does little digging to help contextualize for his reader which of two or more sides might most likely be true. This lack of forcefulness or pushback (or one might more cruelly, but fairly, say “journalistic rigor”) often makes the book read more like an oral history, or an “as told to” memoir.
The endnotes suggest that Yaffe relied on interviews far more than any archival material in writing Reckless Daughter, and besides being lazy, this approach also causes real distortion in the narrative at points. Yaffe gives enormous space to less eventful periods of Mitchell’s career simply because the relevant interview subjects of the time period were more voluble. I’ll note in passing that further bloat occurs because of Yaffe’s willingness to include page-long quotes in which little of consequence is said; as indifferently written as Reckless Daughter mostly is, the straight transcripts from the interviews are even less considered, and far less valuable than would have been actual discourse on the less well known portions of her career.
Fortunately, Joni Mitchell herself was interviewed at length, and her voice in direct quotes is probably the single best aspect of the book; just getting to hear her casual phrasing, wordings, and tossed-off lines is a treat. There are occasionally anecdotes offered by Yaffe that are worthy and new even to the well-versed Joniphile: a lengthy elaboration on her famous quote about feeling like the cellophane on a packet of cigarettes; the source of the first two lines of “Don’t Interrupt the Sorrow;” the cause for the string section being out of tune in the middle of “Paprika Plains;” the reason Joni had to accompany Neil Young’s The Last Waltz rendition of “Helpless” from off-stage; and an examination of the degree to which Mitchell and Charles Mingus hardly knew, or even knew of, each other before collaborating. But the worthwhile anecdotes, the great Joni quotes, feel like breadcrumbs not dropped as a trail but merely fallen to the earth more or less at random after being tossed indiscriminately upwards.
There’s a disconnectedness to the material that can make it feel as though it’s on the verge of devolving into merely a collection of trivia. More times than I cared to count, Yaffe seemed to forget that he had already mentioned facts or events, not only repeating the substance of what he’d already said but with virtually the same wording; similarly, he repeatedly failed to make obvious connections forward or backward. The structure, to the extent that it exists, is the most rudimentary imaginable; Yaffe intends to proceed straightforward chronologically, yet still manages to make a muddled jumble of events, overlapping timelines without apparent intent. This carelessness is pervasive. There are missing words, misused punctuation marks, awkward phrasings, factual errors, sloppy misattribution of dialogue; the endnotes are skimpy, the index is incomplete and indifferent. Even at its smoothest, Yaffe’s prose is clipped, quippy, and glib in a way that feels jumpy and dashed-off, ill-suited to such a meticulous subject.
Taken in combination with his apparent lack of rigor in researching Mitchell—biography is a genre in which I would always be happy to see some of the work in the writing—none of this is surprising after a while; while Reckless Daughter lacks anything in the way of an authorial point-of-view, it at least has an obvious reason for existing: Yaffe pretty clearly wanted to be the first in the market with a major, substantial Joni Mitchell biography. The lack of competition in the marketplace is all too apparent in the lack of effort and polish—“substantial” would be much too generous for this book, and “major” is flat out of the question—but now that an attempt has been made, however insufficient, I’m eager to see the next efforts.