I was visiting my father when Joni Mitchell and my dad first met. I was sitting at the table across from them. That apartment at Manhattan Plaza could be overflowing with people, or there might be a knock at the door and Dexter Gordon, or another legend who lived in the building, would drop by. But that seemed was special.
At first, it didn’t start off well. They began talking about music. My father’s disease hadn’t yet taken away his ability to talk, but he was struggling. He asked someone to bring a lead sheet for Joni, and a page was placed in front of her. At that time, my father was still composing — singing into a tape recorder while someone transcribed it. I believe this was one of those pieces.
When Joni saw the page, she said something like, “I can’t read that, it’s chicken scratch to me.” My father visibly recoiled. I don’t think it was about Joni’s inability to read it — it was hearing his music called chicken scratch. But that moment, as tense as it was, turned out to be a spark. It began a genuine respect and love between them. They bonded like a pair of old souls.
While my father was out of the room, Joni asked me what music I listened to. I told her reggae — Bob Marley, Jimmy Cliff, Burning Spear. I was a teenager, and it felt like a real conversation. Before my father came back, she wrote me a quick note. She said she had a friend at Island Records and that I should send it to him.
When I got home, I did just that. Though part of me was sad to part with Joni’s signature, I carefully wrote a letter: “Dear Chris, Joni said I should send this to you.” I mailed it off from Rosendale, NY to Los Angeles, CA.
Then came the waiting. Six long summer weeks of doing teenager things. I remember cutting the lawn with one of those roller mowers — after the last time I used the gas mower, I sent a rock flying from our high lawn straight across the street, blowing a hole in a house and shattering the window shutter. I was just about to start sharpening the blades when a big panel truck pulled up. Two men got out and asked if “Aric Mangus” was there. I said, “That’s me.” They opened the back of the truck and unloaded box after box onto our porch. They handed me an envelope, had me sign a paper, and drove away.
I pulled out my pocketknife — yes, I carried one even as a teenager. Partly because I was a Mingus (my dad started me on knife skills early), and partly because of Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts. It was a tool — and perfect for opening boxes.
To my ultimate joy, the boxes were filled with what looked like the entire Island Records reggae catalog. I hauled them up two flights of stairs — our house had once been a boarding house, big and rickety. In my room I had a great stereo, a gift from my sister Keki, who also gave me her old records when they weren’t cool for her anymore (sorry U2, but that’s how I discovered Boy and October). I pulled out a Burning Spear record, dropped the needle, and started an amazing listening journey.
In the envelope the men handed me was a letter: “Eric, here are the records Joni asked me to send you. Enjoy. — Chris.”
The joy Joni Mitchell brought me that summer has never left. Not long after, I was headed to Mexico to see my father for the last time.
Those were amazing and difficult times — me growing into a man while my father was fading away. Joni was kind in a way that stayed with me. She asked about me, not just what it was like to be Charles Mingus’s son, which is what so many wanted to know. So often I felt in my father’s shadow, just sitting and observing. It meant the world that Joni cared enough to ask even a simple thing like what music I listened to.
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