Joan Jones

Biographies are hard to write. I’ve never once read a biography that has inspired me to delve into someone’s work. Instead, I’ve always chosen to explore the work of an artist and what makes that person “tick” by peeking through the imaginary door they create with their music. And then, if I’m inspired enough, I can kick the door right on through. On the other hand, if there must be a bio, who better to tell my story that me? So it is with some ambivalence that I share a bit of insight into myself with this one.

I was born and raised in Hollywood, CA. I come from a fiery, combative, fiercely competetive, large family. The second youngest of eight siblings — we were all all determined to be nonconformists and express ourselves as individuals — I found my expression through music. I learned to drink at an all-girl Catholic school and later found redemption in the Los Angeles music scene while attending Hollywood High School.

Before I soaked up Exene and Martha Davis in places like the Whisky, Madame Wong’s, and the Starwood, I grew up hearing Spike Jones’ records around the house and hearing my father’s own singing (he’s a great singer!). Even my friends who started their own bands and played block parties in the Hollywood Hills were a source of inspiration for me. Stevie Wonder kept me dreaming as I sang along to his records in my parents’ basement. He didn’t just get me to dream about my own aspirations; he literally transported me to another place with his music, keeping me in a constant state of awe. There were others who inspired me, and still do: the Doors, Van Morrison, Carly Simon, Paul Weller, Lucinda Williams, Neil Young, Prince, the Replacements, U2, and Big Head Todd & the Monsters.

I eventually started my own band, SUN60. It was the love of my life. We were together from 1987 to 1996. In that time we played practically every night in every club in Los Angeles. We put out three albums through Epic Records (“SUN60,” “Only,” and “Headjoy”). We toured constantly and had the privilege of supporting such acts as Crowded House, Paul Weller, and Big Head Todd & the Monsters. We built a loyal following across the country and made many friends along the way. SUN60 had a great run, but all runs have their finish line. We realized the time had come to move on and rediscover ourselves as individuals.

To be honest, I was terrified of this change. My days, my camaraderie with the band, and my perspective were no longer the same. I had become accustomed to the “tour de force” of a band. I had finally seen this band realized, and BOOM! — it was over. Starting over was a horrifying thought. It took a while until I figured out it was okay to be afraid. I used this feeling as motivation to push myself harder than I ever had before. Even though SUN60 had always prided itself on pushing the creative envelope, I realized I could push the boundaries even further on my own.

I began writing songs for “Starlite Criminal” shortly after SUN60 broke up. I sent the first batch to Nick DiDia, an engineer and producer (Pearl Jam, Rage Against The Machine, Neil Young, Stone Temple Pilots, Matthew Sweet) who had coproduced and mixed the last SUN60 record, “Headjoy.” The process was simple: I’d write for a couple of weeks at home and then hitch my way to Atlanta, where Nick would inspect and magnify my progress. In working this way, I was allowed to experiment and see if the songs had their own legs. It was also a new time for me vocally. Without a band structure, my writing and singing styles began to roam.

We began recording “Starlite Criminal” in Nick’s home studio in Atlanta in the summer of ’96, only after Nick had enslaved me and some of our friends to help build it. Literally. Before we could begin recording we had to transform Nick’s basement into a recording studio. Before we poured our hearts into the recording, we poured our sweat into the studio.

Living in Nick’s house during the recording process meant that time was immaterial. We could follow the song where it led us, even if that meant late-night, refrigerator-lit snacking and all-night jamming.

Twenty songs and a few extra pounds into it, “Everyday Down” appeared. This particular song seemed to set the tone for the record. It embodied everything thematically for me: a struggle to be accepted, to perservere, to fall apart, to keep it together — to live the shit out of life!

“Wide Eyed Devil” and “Change (Won’t Be Good)” were part of the initial batch of songs and seemed to bookend my internal split. “Wide Eyed Devil” was a song determined to fulfill its will. It’s about seeking out one’s most explosive and intimate desires, about being fearless, about daring to risk it all without dreading what it is you might lose. And “Change (Won’t Be Good)” is a brutally honest exploration of resignation, fear, and the dismay of loss. “Party” is an explicit examination of summer barbecue orgies with my friends.

To explain any further about my songs is uncomfortable for me. If I am any good as a writer my imagery should strap readers or listeners in and blast them off into their own space.

I feel as though we are all Starlite Criminals in a sense:

We steal the getaway look and have trouble living up to the role.
We steal to feed our need.
We reach through the flames to grab what we want.
We reach beyond ourselves for what we don’t understand.
We reach out for lovers, for friends, for other places, for distant stars.
What’s in front of us is never enough.

That’s how the record started. I was brokenhearted and

“…we were all just going for broke
and that’s what we wanted, what everybody wants –to break even just doing the things you love.”

–from “Starlite Criminal”