The VW bus rocked and giggled inside, snowflakes falling like feathers that night on Providence. Drawn to the clouds of piney smoke seeping from the bus, I couldn’t cover my loud laughter. As the doors flung open, I was pulled inside Big Brother and the Holding Company’s makeshift dressing room and handed a lit joint.
They would be performing that night at Rhode Island School of Design with Janis Joplin from their album Cheap Thrills, and with this chance meeting I hoped the stars were lining up in a cosmic gateway for me to meet the stellar Janis. They did, and I did.
One of the Brothers, bearded with a mop top of dirty blond hair, opened another door for me into the commercial kitchen just off the cafeteria doubling as an auditorium. He gestured in a courtly bow to Janis, saying as if rendering me as an offering to the Queen of Sex, Drugs, and Rock ’n Roll: “A fan for you, m’lady.”
My then soon to be ex-husband had already let me in on how to sneak into the kitchen to get in for free, but I was flying high to be ushered in by one of the stars. My husband refused to accompany me to the concert griping, “I don’t want to be around you and your girl crush,” as he put a headset on me blasting Janis’ rendition of “Ball and Chain.”
When the soft spoken and demure Janis asked me what I was doing there alone, I told her what he said and about the headset antic. She lowered her head and muttered in a gravelly voice, “That’s really fucked up.”
That’s when I blurted out “I love you.”
She followed with “I love you, too. Without fans like you I would be nothing.”
Called to the stage, she dashed off, layered silks swishing, cascade of beads jingling, rainbow boas a flurry in her hair, a full tilt boogey storming the stage.
A young woman standing up front handed me an open pint of Southern Comfort. After taking a swig, I slid it onto the stage floor for Janis who grabbed and chugalugged it, laughing infectiously as she announced: “I hope you put some acid in it,” as she nodded my way, then belted out “Piece of My Heart.”
A year later at Woodstock I heard her sing “To Love Somebody,” sending my girl crush surging through me once again. Little did anyone know then that she was not long for this burst of fame and fans. Another year later in a Hollywood hotel room, her princess heel sandal would be caught in the shag rug next to the bed where she was rumored to have tripped then fell stoned while waiting for her male and female lovers who never showed up. But these are common fare tabloid speculations. There is, however, one fact of which I am entirely certain: I would have never stood her up.
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