Ah, the last stab at youth called one’s twenties. Sure, it’s still a period in a “girl’s” life when she can get away with being a fuck-up and engaging in the puerile behaviors that were once more endearing when it was still acceptable for her to suck on lollipops and wear Mary Janes with ankle socks. But what it is not is a time for “fresh discovery” of the likes of Janis Joplin (or Amy Winehouse, or The Smiths, or Joy Division for that matter). For some reason, however, the “woman” still grasping at some quaint notion of fatalism being endearing or some such bullshit seems to think that it’s a good idea to turn to Janis at a time in her life when being the tragic victim is a little much to take seriously (after all, twenty is the new sixty in this climate called despising the old guard).
Maybe it’s that Janis appeals to the maligned “woman” at any age, that her brand of being shat upon by a “man” transcends the generations. Yet, at a certain point, playing the part of the sad, chain-smoking alcoholic in order to better appreciate the place the music of Janis was coming from can become more exhausting than liberating. Anyway, it’s certainly not helpful to one’s lungs or potbelly. Or even one’s musical growth, for Janis’ music tends to hit a wall pretty quickly, what with her solo artistic output consisting of I Got Dem Ol’ Kozmic Blues Again Mama! and Pearl.
In any event, the “woman” who has “just” realized how “groovy” Janis is in her twenties can’t really be deemed anything other than someone who could never take another piece of your heart now darlin’–’cause she didn’t have one to earlier apprehend that feelings, if we ever have them/choose to embrace them, can only come in the dawn–not the twilight–of our youth. Everything after is just a feigned attempt at emotionalism.