Cut It Like Johnette Napolitano
At twenty one, my too thick Spanish hair swept way down my waist. Often I’d get it coloured midnight blue black.
Most hairdressers became child like playful, curling rope like strands around their dye stained fingers.
Holding them like rare dark silk flat against their palms, finishing in serious tones, “Don’t ever cut your hair.”
Strangers sitting behind me, silently in buses, trams and trains would gently tug at my hair testing, to feel, if it was real.
On Melbourne city streets, day or night, whether alone, or with friends, men were bolder.
Barely a step behind me, their entitled fingers violently pull my hair hard, expecting a wig to fall, like a black blanket onto the concrete pavement.
Sharp pain whips me around.
Disbelief, shock, sometimes embarrassment, sweep across their male faces, one after the other, like an unwanted slide show, “Yes my hair is real. Don’t touch me again.”
I hid behind my too long hair for years.
Used it as an unpractical Shield.
Yet it still drew undesired male attention, my way, anyway.
To be trusted someone had to be able, willing, ready, to look past my hair and a few extra kilos, to see me.
I was too concerned with being tough, to trust allowing anyone in.
Still hiding who I was, even from myself.
My hair a symptom.
Until at twenty two, one Corner Hotel Friday night, I saw Concrete Blonde play live during their Australian FREE tour.
Imagine witnessing musical magic.
It was there, amongst the smell of new sweat, on-tap chilled beer, and Dunhill cigarettes.
Naked, tangible stripped bare magic, created by two men, and one extraordinary woman.
Using a deep throbbing drum, two guitars, all three were at home up on stage.
Together letting loose a tsunami of sound below, above and all around us.
Johnette Napolitano.
The Alternative Rock Poet Queen standing proud, on stage, in all black.
Strong and gorgeous, she turned her back, bowing low, revealing her moon pale neck.
A blood rose tattoo gleaming light, like a mystical signal, taking, mesmerising, the crowd’s breath away.
Johnette Napolitano held hundreds under her welcome spell.
Commanded us all into her bass guitar, her husky, desert singing voice swelled with power, so gutsy clear, its ALL we wanted to hear.
All you could hear.
The chatter of the crowd, didn’t stand a chance, against Johnette Napolitano’s magical noise.
After the gig, invited upstairs, I saw them all together on the floor, saying goodbye to Have A Nice Day, joking about mothers and lasagna.
Johnette sat listening to her band mates banter, holding her knees, with her back against the wall.
Sitting down opposite her, she winked, hello.
We both sat back, enjoying the conversation between joker Irish Paul and thoughtful Jimmy.
Taking me off guard. Johnette like the older sister I’ve never had, leaned over me, softly brushing my hair aside, to expose my private face.
She saw me. I saw her, and for moments we were locked into a bubble
I thought back, how alone at night, with my headphones on tight, I’ve listened hypnotised, a thousand times, by her unmistakable voice
Johnette’s sound soaring, rising past the two am sky.
Being carried away by Angels, echoing, lingering above the clouds, overwhelming the moon, before floating down, to sooth me, into dream sleep.
Ohhh Johnette Napolitano, your voice, your words, your rock poetry, turns my soul into a Supernova.
That night, this time, the only time, Johnette was opposite me, moving closer.
Her curious, dark chocolate eyes, holding my nervous stare.
Her dyed blue black hair, falling like a night shadow, framing her perfect, adult woman’s face
There I was ALL hair, in black and velvet jade, wearing my only leather jacket and Doc Martin boots.
Life experience was all over her face, whereas I had only begun.
I felt like John Cusack’s Lloyd, in the movie Say Anything, with his arms outstretched high.
His desperate, in love fingers, holding up a Boom Box stereo, for Ione Skye’s, Diane.
Say something Cristina. Say anything, “I love Roses Grow only it ends too soon. It sounds like it needs an extra stanza”
Johnette slapped her right knee, with eyes bright, she smiled wide.
I saw strong, bold white teeth, as I imagined a Joshua Tree sunset, light up, heat up, her amazing face
She laughed, even her machine gun laugh was musical, an opposite sound to her alto deep, throaty voice, yet so contagious, her laughter silenced everyone.
“You’re right Cristina. I told you boys Roses Grow is too short.”
To each other, we talked about her music, her songs, her lyrics, her spoken voice a L.A. noise.
What a voice, warm like an old souls hug, yet edgy and round, all at the same time.
We talked about Leonard Cohen, Natalie Merchant and Nick Cave.
We moved onto Anne Rice, Herman Hesse and Milan Kundera, his ‘Unbearable Lightness Of Being'
With unexpected affection, Johnette’s right hand, cradled the left side of my face. Her gifted fingers touching my cheek bone as she said, “You remind me of my little sister. You even look like my little sister.”
The lyrics of her song ‘Little Sister’, rippled through my mind.
Johnette was ‘only half a heart away’, just a heart beat away…from me
I wanted to say back to her.
One day Johnette I want to write like you, make a world wide difference like you.
I want to make people feel what I feel when I hear your words.
Your voice. I know it was hard to find.
Your words, pour, dance, bounce, replays over, and over, on my mind’s radio.
I want to be wild and wise like you.
Be strong and powerful like you.
Sexy and knowing like you.
Holding people close with words, like only you, and Sinead O’Connor can do.
Yes, I even want to look like you, so maybe, yes maybe, one destined day, I will grow up, as pure inspirations channel, and be as good of a Poet as you.
Able to cut through the bullshit, to feel, touch, reach, find, and get to the truth like you
So Star Struck. So crazy young. I didn’t say it. Yet I meant it.
That night, I had a little conversation with Johnette Napolitano.
It left me all in grateful pieces. Yet it was just time enough
After everyone had left, gone home, happy, I reached into my jacket pocket, feeling Johnette’s mailing address safe inside, paper rough against my fingers.
I walked out of the Corner Hotel in Richmond onto Swan Street…different.
The very next Friday afternoon, down on Greville Street, I took my usual seat looking into the wall wide mirror at Matt standing behind me.
My hairdresser for the last year, he had become a friend.
Matt glanced back at me, holding my too long hair in his gentle skilled hands.
Unlike any hair stylist before, as Matt always did, he asked me, “Do you want a trim Cristina, or are you ready to cut it all off?”
Laughing, staring directly back into his blue, mirrored eyes, I said, “I’m ready Matt. Cut it like Johnette Napolitano.”
(C) Cut It Like Johnette Napolitano By Cristina Munoz 2016
By the way, I chose this particular image on my video of Johnette Napolitano on stage playing her bass guitar with Concrete Blonde, as that’s the hair style she had when I met her. And it’s the first hair style I had Matt do after he cut off all my ridiculously long hair.
It was the age before mobile cameras so I don’t have any real photos of me back then to show you, however TripleJ included a black & white photo of me from those days in their Word Up Anthology. I hope it’s better than nothing:-
Johnette Napolitano, along with Sinead O’Connor’s intimate, honest, emotive, poetic song writing style has been and remains a constant inspiration for me. Both artists remind me to stay true to my voice, to have the guts as a Poet and writer to reveal on the page what honestly goes on in my mind, heart and soul.
I hope you enjoyed Cut It Like Johnette Napolitano, which I realised after I got it down, is really all about not hiding yourself, and instead taking those first steps to being true to yourself.
It’s recent work, so currently unpublished, so if you are a publisher interested in publishing it please feel free to contact me.
It also, jumped of the page, demanding to be read out loud, so I also have a recording of it up on YouTube.
