Where Are You Now My Son?: The Musical Journalism of Joan Baez
“I am passing on to you, as clearly and powerfully as I can, the gift which was extended to me by the sheer chance of being somewhere at the right time in history and living through it. The war in Indochina is not yet over, and the war against violence has barely begun,” says Joan Baez in the record sleeve’s notes. In December of 1971, Joan Baez, along with a group of journalists, fellow artists and veterans, stayed in Hanoi, the capital of Vietnam. Their mission was to visit American prisoners of war as well as build solidarity with the Vietnamese people. Baez recorded many of her conversations and performances during the trip, resulting in Where Are You Now, My Son? This album is at once a journalistic investigation, a memorial, and an elegy. The album featured audio clips from the war zone as well as studio-recorded songs written as Baez reflected on her experience. Where Are You Now, My Son? captures a unique perspective in a painful and complicated moment in history.
To understand this album, I suggest we start at the ending, with the singular and titular song on the record’s second side. This ballad opens with the sounds of war. For a full minute there is no noise except for an American B-52 flying overhead and the sounds of distant bombs crashing like heavy percussion. An American man begins to speak, describing his surroundings: “It’s Thursday morning, quarter of eight, and we’re going off to see Nam Thanh street… where the bombing was extremely heavy the past couple nights.” In the background you can hear locals speaking, mourning their missing loved ones, neighbors assisting each other with their searches, and discussing the number of casualties. The man brings attention to a woman’s cries in the background, “Ơi trời ơi, trời ơi, làm sao mà cố lên này… con tôi đâu rồi?” she cries, “Oh my god, my god, how can I go on like this?… Where is my son?” As the mother continues to wail, a piano begins to solemnly play while Baez speaks:
It's walking to the battleground that always makes me cry
I've met so few folks in my time who weren't afraid to die
But dawn bleeds with the people here and morning skies are red
As young girls load up bicycles with flowers for the dead.
The recordings took place during the 1972 Christmas bombing, and included audio of the Christmas service, as well as conversations with Vietnamese and foreign citizens who were secluded in a bomb shelter with Baez and company. While the track continues, Baez recounts her experiences interacting with the Vietnamese as audio clips of her visit play in the background. Her tone is formal yet somber, as if she is reading a eulogy. At one point while Baez performs, explosions begin in the background and the music suddenly stops, then she continues to play as an evacuation undergos. Despite the tense situation, the environment is warm. A man in a heavy French accent bonds with Joan over the possibility of their demise stating, “We are not afraid together. If we die, we die. That’s all,” after which Baez begins to sing a rendition of ‘Que será, será.’ A jet flies overhead to which Joan chides, “that was my stomach.” Even as the alarm sounds and bombs rain, the air is filled with celebration. Two Vietnamese women joyfully sing a song about Saigon, before the ballad returns to Baez’ words:
Oh people of the shelters what a gift you've given me
To smile at me and quietly let me share your agony
And I can only bow in utter humbleness and ask
Forgiveness and forgiveness for the things we've brought to pass.
For a final time, she belts the chorus: “I heard that the war is done. Then where are you, my son?” and with that, the song reaches a close.
Hearing “Where Are You Now, My Son?” for the first time, I was struck with the nuance Baez displays while creating this track. The song itself is a journalistic feat, creating a compilation which perfectly captures the complexity that is to live under a war. Devoid of visual accompaniment, all we can do is listen—to the grief experienced by all parties, to the noises of their environments, to Baez’ own thoughtful monologue, and to the laughter and music which persists nonetheless. The portrait she paints of Hanoi is one of overflowing love and generosity, despite the constant pain of war.
Flipping over the record, let’s now focus on the first side of the album, which features songs recorded in Nashville in 1973. Themes of grief and renewal shine throughout the first half. In the opening track, “Only Heaven Knows (Ah, The Sad Wind Blows),” Baez laments the loss of a lover. The track is bittersweet, detailing both the heavenly feeling of being in love as well as the melancholy in knowing the relationship will someday fizzle.
Take me in your arms my darling
While the sad wind blows
Tell me that this pain will leave me
Tell me how it goes.
The next track, “Less Than A Song,” is a gospel-inspired piece which inspires hope no matter the path taken in life. As Baez sings,
Different minds, different ways
Different reasons to believe
Some far journeys we have taken
Some sweet dreams we've had to leave.
In a similar vein, “A Young Gypsy” tells a tale of a traveller and his adventures. Next up, “Mary Call,” tells the story of a bright and strong young woman,
Mary Call, Mary Call
You never stumble, you never fall
Silver stars and lilies call
For the yearning of a young one
Named Mary Call.
As Baez sings and finger plucks her guitar, a chorus joins her, creating the feeling of a communal gathering. “Mary Call” represents a rebirth from the sadness experienced earlier in the album.
The final three songs on this side of the album signal a goodbye. In “Rider, Pass By,” Baez sings:
But who can dare to judge us
The women or the men?
If freedom's wings shall not be clipped
We all can love again
So the choice is not of etiquette
Or finding lonesome ways to die
But liberty to ships at sea
And riders passing by
These lyrics conjure imagery of a loved one waving goodbye at a harbor. Not only does the song represent a farewell to a singular person, but also a changing of tides and shift towards a new zeitgeist. The next track, “Best of Friends” comes as a conclusion to the earlier qualms of love in the album. As Baez assuages,
We may not always be the best of lovers
But if you leave it to me I think I can see
We'll always be the best of friends.
A comforting sentiment, the song shows that love will always exist, even when it takes on another form. Last of all, “Windrose” is an instrumental suite, featuring primarily a piano and orchestra. Windrose acts as an overture before entering the aforementioned final track, “Where Are You Now, My Son?”
Overall, the first half of the album carries a melancholy yet wistful tone. Baez, in writing her lyrics, uses rich imagery and symbolism to convey oftentimes incommunicable feelings associated with change. Every track in the first half is sonically different. For instance, “Only Heaven Knows” features an orchestra while “Less Than a Song” uses experimental percussion and “A Young Gypsy” is majorly finger-picked guitar. While the songs are distinct, they work together to create a portrait of the melancholy and beauty experienced throughout life. It is easy to see the influence that Baez’ trip to Vietnam had on her songwriting, possibly prompting her to question her own values and mortality. The result is a reflective piece, chronicling Baez’ own contemplation when faced with tragedy.
The two sides of the album—the first seven songs on the first side and the journalistic exploration on the second side—work to paint a vivid portrait of this period in history. The album itself is full of every form of grief, but also with every form of love imaginable. In her artistry, Baez utilizes music as a tool of healing. Where Are You Now, My Son? serves as a two-fold reminder: first, of the horrors of war but secondly, and more importantly, as a tale of resilience. Baez denies no truth in her exploration of life in Vietnam, but she allows the viewer to see past the tragedy. After all, it is so easy to look at history books and see faces, unnamed and unknown, suffering and simply reduce them to that tragedy. What Baez did was allow for viewers to finally hear the voices of the oppressed. At the time of this album’s release, the U.S. had declared a supposed peace and was evacuating the country they had initially invaded. But, as many of us know, the war will never be over.
While most Americans regard music made about the war as historical, the war is still alive for millions of Vietnamese people across the globe. Every year refugees still mourn their lost relatives and homeland, and even in Vietnam the devastating effects of the war can be felt today. To this day, buildings remain destroyed and mass graves are continually rediscovered. The living memory of the generations past will never let the youth today forget what we, as a nation, lost. As a Vietnamese person, it often feels like the war never ended. The pain is seared so deeply into the memory of my ancestors that I often feel like I inherited my parent’s grief. The woman wailing, mourning her lost son, feels real and familiar. Where Are You Now, My Son? serves as a memorial to that history that will never fade away as long as our people continue to sing.
What we can learn from Joan Baez today is that art and music will always have a role in activism. It can be a way to insight consciousness amongst listeners, otherwise music allows us to preserve the memory of periods of tumult. Nowadays, we can see a similar sentiment reflected in the music primarily of Black musicians reacting to today’s racial climate, from the likes of Childish Gambino, Kendrick Lamar, and Kanye offering their perspectives. Of course, they learned from their own predecessors—from 90s rap to blues and jazz and folk—continuing a tradition of resilience while creating authentic music.
To Joan, I extend my sincerest gratitude.