Best of 2017 - a super-late list, part 1

"Best of" lists are unnecessary but they lend themselves to the Internet so well—platform of scroll-worthy material. Keeping track of creative output within a span of 365 days is an arbitrary measure of quality control but because my brain tends to work in intuitive—not analytical for the most part—ways and I can't remember dates or time-frames well at all, I tried keeping a year-long list starting last January, just to see what would happen. Any time something lodged in my consciousness for more than three weeks, I figured it was a keeper, so here's a little list of some favorite things of 2017. I'll be brief so your scrolling finger doesn't get a callous. May you face 2018 with open minds, hearts and good memories to come.

Books! I love books and I'm usually reading three three to five of them at once, trading them off throughout the day and night. I always seem to have 20 books checked out from the library at all times and when I enter a decent bookstore (which are disappearing from our cities in a terrible online-based epidemic), I usually buy a few books which end up stacked up around the house because all the shelves are full at this point. I'm a book pig, no doubt about it. Here are some I liked this year:

The Sun & the Moon & the Rolling Stones by Rich Cohen
Some notes I took upon reading Vanity Fair/Rolling Stone journalist Cohen's travels with the Stones: Personal, historical, great sentences and editing—an almost-haiku of rock journalism. Includes a lot of (sad) perspective from Marianne Faithfull and the dark and fascinating influence of Anita Pallenberg on the band. Jagger comes off as a narcissist business man, Richards a genius musician and selfish addict. Watts a sweet steady presence who fell apart in middle age, in reverse order to 99% of rock stars. A lot of credit is given to Gram Parsons for his country-rock influence.

History covered: importance and influence of American blues to post-WWII England youth. The blues, its beginnings and its influential recordings are given a lot of weight in this book. The British invasion and hippie mysticism and drug experimentation of the 60s is extensively covered, as is Altamont, of course—its ugliness and impact on celebrity/fan paranoia and separateness that heralded the 70s. The whole Altamont experience reads like a horror story, starting with Mick and Keith wandering through campfire gatherings the night before the concert, as the desolate pass fills to beyond capacity, and ends with their treacherous escape in an overloaded helicopter as the free concert erupts into murder and mayhem.

You also get the stories behind how the Stones' classic albums were recorded, and that's a book in itself. The aftermath, which asks why they still tour, reveals the surprising knowledge that Keith Richards lives in Ridgefield, Connecticut. Great book.


Never a Dull Moment: 1971 The Year that Rock Exploded by David Hepworth
In 1971 I was seven years old—the magic age. The age of reason. But I never considered how many seminal albums were released within that year because, c'mon, I was seven. I did like radio though and my friends and I were grooving to the music big time, listening to KFRC in Concord, California and to our older siblings' and cousins' record collections because they had disposable incomes and we had no choice.

With the breakup of the Beatles in '70, Hepworth dubs '71 the beginning of the rock era. Each chapter of this enjoyable, informative read outlines not only the albums that began the mega-rock industry industrial complex, but how society influenced the artists, how the record industry grew into a mammoth incubator of talent and wealth, and how each album influenced society and the music industry.

Surprisingly Carole King's Tapestry kicks things off into high gear, launching quietly and setting off a popular maelstrom of singer-songwriter folk-rock that today we still equate with sincerity and artistic expression on a grand scale. Hepworth covers the Carpenters, Led Zeppelin, the Stones, Marvin Gaye and Sly and the Family Stone with equal depth and fervor and Bowie coming to America, of course. It's a thrill ride of musical exploration until we hit the pay-dirt wall with The Eagles, a more calculated attempt to mine the infinite riches that would eventually morph into the bloated rock industry that begat the punk rebellion that begat...digital piracy and tumbleweeds blowing down the corridors where once record moguls shared their coke stashes.


What Are You Looking At? by Will Gompertz
This was published in 2013, but it was featured on an end-aisle at Powell's in the art section and I snagged it on a whim. It's a fast and fascinating history of contemporary art, which my knowledge of was spotty at best. If you studied art history in college and never got past the Renaissance era, this is going to fill in so many blanks for you and you'll enjoy it too. Gompertz answers all your contemporary-art questions and concerns, especially: why is this art? And: but my five-year-old could do this! You will finish this book a much more learned creature than when you started and when you visit modern-art museums, you will have all the background you need to appreciate what's been placed in front of you. The timeline of modern art and its iconoclasts are exhilarating and worthy fields of study for any creative person or appreciator.


TV! It lives in our houses. It's in our subconscious. TV is still a powerful entity and don't you forget it.

The Detectorists - No, it didn't start in 2017. 2017 is OVER. But this was the year I finally saw this two- (now three, but not available in the U.S. yet) season British gem. Mackenzie Crook's quietly deadpan take on metal detectorists who hunt the old farmsteads of England looking for historical, possibly pre-Roman finds. They don't just want treasure. They want transcendence. Also starring the great Toby Smith—this show is gentle in the best sense of the world, with shots of nature interspersed with the nuttiest group of small-town obsessives and their prized equipment. This show is soul food and often very funny but also extremely human. Crook is a treasure.

To be continued...

The Fabulous Rock and R&B Fashions of The Midnight Special, 1972 - 1978

The 70s! A special time for rockin'. If you don't believe me, you haven't seen "The Midnight Special." The pilot aired on August 19, 1972, which I missed because I was eight years old and my bedtime was at eight as well. But in subsequent years, I managed to stay up late, nabbing television-watching real estate in one of our suburban-home watching stations after the parents had gone to bed.

Here was a world of live music, onstage, decked in man-made finery the likes the world had never witnessed before. I'm talking about shiny plastic-like fabrics combined with crocheted granny-squares (with acrylic yarn, of course), as if pioneers on the Oregon Trail had ingested some seriously psychedelic mushrooms en route to the promised land. People dressed like pioneers in the 70s, complete with sun bonnets and hand-woven fabrics made from petroleum-derived chemicals. It was a serious mish-mash.

And it shows. Just look at these images I borrowed from "The Midnight Special" DVD documentary-extra, "Star-Studded Stage Fashion." I appreciate that my local library carries several of these DVDs, particularly disc 1, featuring Argent, Linda Ronstadt, Joan Baez and Hall & Oates (don't give me that look—they all rule in their own way, okay?). It is 70s-studded to the extreme. I'm going to title everything I do "________-Studded" from now on.

Have a happy-face-studded day.

As a child, I was open and accepting of all stage fashion. I didn't have a frame-of-reference for such things, so this all seemed completely normal to me. You play in a band or sing? Oh, then you wear these kinds of clothes during performance. No judgment. That was the best way to be during the 70s and accounts for my survival. It's a theory anyway. 

We begin with Helen Reddy, singing "I Am Woman" in a pink crocheted halter top. There are interviews with many of the former performers of "Midnight Special" and they're good sports to look back at their younger selves and comment. Reddy seems somewhat baffled about her fashion choices, which she implies were "one of several options" to choose from (paraphrasing). So I imagine there was some wardrobe person on hand with a trunk full of garments and the performers reached in there and perhaps stoned, drunk or sleep-deprived, this was the result...?

Oh, Helen...

Hot Chocolate! I love these guys. I just heard "Every 1's a Winner" yesterday while shopping at Grocery Outlet Bargain Market, and indeed I felt like a winner while finding good deals on granola bars.

RIP, Errol Brown—great front man with great style

Kool & the Gang! Yes, this is stylish. I miss the masterful R&B horn sections of yore. Playing tightly composed dance tunes while wearing a three-piece suit is not for the faint of heart. It gets hot under those stage lights. Kudos, Kool & the Gang.

Check out Aerosmith's pants. That's gotta affect your ability to stay on pitch.

Tiiiiiiiiiiight (pants)

Looks like hugely successful Fleetwood Mac stopped by. Note: this floaty witchy look only worked on Stevie Nicks.

(Professional rock star - do not attempt this at home)

I can't believe Lindsey Buckingham could play with these ginormous sleeves flapping about, but he is a guitar master

Just who the hell is this anyway? Disc 1 doesn't credit everyone in this documentary, assuming you have the entire set at home at your perusal. These pants are even tighter than Aerosmith's attire. Jesus, ouch with these trousers.

I blame cocaine for this look - I blame cocaine for a lot of things

The Emotions, suited up in white and silver menswear. I love a lady in menswear. I just love menswear—it's comfortable and wears well.

White suits were a thing.

And what was once called leisurewear, although ABBA is taking it too far, as usual.

There was nothing leisurely about the late Barry White. He meant business. He was large and in charge, with the 40-piece Love Unlimited Orchestra to back him up. FORTY-PIECE ORCHESTRA—the 70s were kind of amazing.

Freddy Mercury. We were so dense, we didn't understand that he was out by naming his band Queen. Jumpsuits were big and hard to deal with in public restrooms.

Helen Reddy again, in modestly flamboyant attire.

LaBelle! "Lady Marmalade" was a radio hit that taught us kids how to speak French while singing along to a song about a business man who has mind-blowing sex with a New Orleans prostitute.

I remember these outfits—how could I ever forget?

Patti Labelle is not messing around

The O'Jays - unified elegance. Top-40 radio of the 70s was like a blender full of musical genres—a genre smoothie if you will. It made for an interesting time for early-80s bands that were made up of kids who had grown up listening to a lot of different musical styles.

So O'Jays segueing into Peter Frampton was not weird for us. We adjusted our inner-ear tune-forks accordingly. Out of all the interviewees for this segment, Frampton appears to be the most embarrassed by his bare-chest look, excusing himself slightly by mentioning that Robert Plant pioneered the style and who was he to question it? It's okay, you're still a total cutie, Peter.

Redbone! They were the awesomest. I remember seeing this performance and thinking, these guys look like people in my family. Redbone and Santana—we were glad to see and hear them in our household.

I'm including Kevin Cronin from 1980-era REO Speedwagon only because I had a blazer just like this. It was oversized and evoked a weird blend of dressy combined with circus-clown that made up much of early-80s style.

Sly and the Family Stone. They had it all. They rule the Earth. Forever and ever. Peace and love, Sly.

Check out Tina Turner and the Ikettes. They're still cooler than anyone else to this day.

I don't know what was going on with Todd Rundgren and I'm sure he doesn't either. And that's okay. No judgment.

The great Wolfman Jack pushing the great Little Richard on a swing. Look at Wolfman's ecstatic face. You know he's thinking, "I'm getting paid to push Little Richard on a swing!"

Women dancing seductively in 60s' films while on LSD

There's nothing like a good ol' fashioned 60s-era druggie exploitation flick. They just don't mix up batches of that special LSD that made scantily clad women dance sensuously anymore. You know the kind of LSD I'm talking about—the kind that made the ladies make love to the camera and take off their clothes. I guess the men in these films took the other LSD—the manly variety, because they seemed to keep their clothes on and there was no seductive dancing whatsoever. Just an occasional violent freak out.

In celebration of the new year, let's revisit some classic sensual LSD-laced dance scenes from yesteryear. None were destined to make MGM's "That's Entertainment!" reel, but it's a lost NSFW art-form that could use a little appreciation.

Bibi (Pamela Rodgers) from The Big Cube (1969) is always looking for attention. I can't help but adore her rascally antics. If I was a drag queen, I'd model myself after Bibi—great 60s-wear, big hair, massively exaggerated line delivery, always. Here, she's got a little male competition but nips it in the bud because it's all about her. He must have taken some of that lady acid.





I've never seen Riot on Sunset Strip (1967) in its entirety but perhaps that's unnecessary—this LSD-fueled dance by Andy (Mimsy Farmer) encapsulates its exploitative schlock-factor for nearly eight minutes so well. In a piece-of-crap film like this, it's surprising how much Farmer throws herself into the moment here, during two song cycles before being ravished off-screen by a drug-dealing goon. The second half of her choreography is especially crazed—nearly transcendent. A modern-dance company worth its salt could certainly do justice to her interpretation. Or a drag-queen revue. I would pay to see either.





In an otherwise deadly dull look at LSD culture, here's Peter Fonda in The Trip (1967), about to take a headlong voyage to the bottom of a basement club full of dancing freaks, including a naked body-painted lady doing her hippie groove thang.





I'd be remiss not to include the "The LSD Story" from season 1 of Dragnet. Sure, it's television, but producers managed to sneak in a few moments of sensual-LSD dance during the brief-but-memorable party scene "up in the hills somewhere" in Los Angeles. Sergeant Joe Friday and his partner Bill are here to break up all the fun, as usual (starting around the 4-minute mark), which includes not only the family-friendly sexy dancing, but actual climbing-the-wall dancing. The party boys get more active roles, playing (and rewinding) tunes, eating paint and being mouthy. The girls merely look perplexed and pouty, yelling, "Merry Christmas!" during the drug bust like a bunch of acid-tripping dum-dums. It's an LSD-party glass ceiling is what it is.





Now it's your turn! Make up your own sensual LSD dance. Here's the Strawberry Alarm Clock in Psych-Out (1968) to get you started (young Jack Nicholson sitting in on poseur guitar). Remember to seduce the imaginary camera (male gaze). Clothing removal is optional but in keeping with the hippie ethos. Use all-organic ingredients for your body paint—skin is our largest organ, after all.

Live-blogging the Brady Bunch Davy Jones Episode - 44 years too late

So I'm a grown woman, watching this Brady Bunch "Getting Davy Jones" episode from 1971. None of this makes sense. But hear me out: I've never seen this episode. Me, a Brady Bunch freak. I've seen every episode of this show at least three to four times. Perhaps even more. I was a child during its initial run and it's been syndicated ever since, so do the math.

Anyway, I missed this episode when it first debuted and of course it was THE TALK OF THE PLAYGROUND the next day, only I, who had loved (truly loved) Davy Jones since age eight, had no idea what anyone was talking about. Davy Jones + Brady Bunch = Mystical Convergence to my young mind. And I missed it.

Oh well, I thought, I'll just see it when they rerun it over the summer. Summertime was Brady rerun time, back in the 70s. Except I kept missing it. Over and over again. Forever. It would become a mythical episode for me—the one guest-starring my favorite Monkee (next to Mike Nesmith)—did I dream the entire scenario?

Flash forward 44 years later and I finally decided to see this damn episode. For my own piece of mind, so I could move on. Finally.

I put it in my Netflix queue and waited. Won't be long now, I thought. It's going to be me, the Bradys and Davy Jones, my childhood crush. Except Netflix wouldn't send it. A notification appeared on my account: VERY LONG WAIT for this DVD. WHAT?! I thought. VERY LONG WAIT? How about 44 years, Netflix?! How about that?!

I waited some more. Weeks, months went by. It was kind of good in a way because Netflix, feeling bad that I had such a long wait, kept sending me extra DVDs to compensate for my inconvenience. For the last several months I've had four DVDs at a time in my home, when I'm only paying for two. I figured, well, at this point, I'm making out okay, and if I never get to see this episode, at least I'm getting all these free movies out of it. We can't get everything we want. We're not all Marcia Brady, after all.

But then, one day, it arrived. And at long last, here it is. The Davy Jones episode. I live-blogged it, but I'm going to embellish, not because it's a great episode (it's pretty tossed off, I'd say), but because this is my CHILDHOOD I'm talking about here, as experienced through the warped prism of inexpensive television production values, child-actor labor, and a pop star who had experienced enough career weirdness in three years to last a lifetime. RIP, Davy Jones, consummate showman.

Marcia and her Fillmore Junior High entertainment committee (seems like a lot of responsibility for junior-high girls) need to get a guest star for their prom (that is not believable but I'll just go with it).

Jan interrupts to say Davy Jones is here! He's here! He's here! My reaction would have been: WHAT?! ?!?! But Marcia is nonplussed, saying, Jan, don't interrupt, we're having a very important meeting. THAT'S NOT VERY RESPECTFUL, MARCIA. Then she absorbs what's happening and reacts properly, shouting DAVY JONES!? He's HERE, in THE HOUSE? Even for entitled Princess Marcia, that seems like asking too much. And it is. Jan, voice of reason, says, no, he's in a hotel.

Marcia pulls a framed handwritten note from Davy out from under her pillow. That's not weird at all. She hands it over to her way-cooler cohort, Doreen, to prove that he promised her a favor if he's ever in town since she was president of his fan club. Doreen is like, "Yeah, right. It's just a publicity letter, Marcia." Also, Doreen has a great manicure, so I'm apt to side with her on this one.

Carol says Davy Jones is apparently the best thing since pepperoni pizza--good writing, Brady Bunch script team.

Peter and Bobby are not impressed by Davy Jones. Jan and Cindy say they're jealous of Davy Jones and his 2,000 fan clubs. How many fan clubs does Peter Have? Peter says he hasn't counted them in a while and Jan says it shouldn't take him much time to count to zero. Good one, Jan.

Bobby pretends he's Davy Jones by being a complete spaz, yelling, "All he does is bang on a guitar, singing Ooh, baby! Yeah Yeah! Oooh!" Peter says, "Don't break your gee-tar." Which doesn't make any sense. Everyone knows the proper way to make fun of Davy Jones is to bang upon a giant tambourine with aplomb while crooning, THE SHAVING RAZOR'S COLD AND IT STINGS! ... CHEER UP SLEEPY JEAN!

The prom committee girls are now starting to lose their minds, believing in Marcia, spreading the word that Marcia's going to get Davy Jones. Marcia bombs out at his hotel. This is sort of a manual on "How to Stalk Davy Jones." You know what? I think Marcia's going to get Davy Jones. I really do.

In all the excitement, several Fillmore Junior High girls are inexplicably styled as if they were auditioning for a theater production of "Heidi."

There's already a banner announcing Davy Jones at school, as if everyone was under a mass delusion at this point. The Brady Bunch was sort of a mass delusion of a show, with heartwarming epiphanies. OH MY GOD, MARCIA WALLACE!!!?!?! I didn't know Marcia Wallace was in this episode. She's Marcia's delusional teacher Miss Robbins here, but you may remember her from another classic episode, "Jan Buys an Ugly Wig," in which she shone as "Saleswoman." I'm so glad they hired her for this episode. I love her almost as much as Davy Jones.

Nothing in this episode seems normal because they managed to get Davy Jones in a stunt-casting coup. It's like the Partridge Family episode where Bobby Sherman was hiding out in their garage. I don't remember why he was lurking on their property, but Laurie Partridge was pretty thrilled. The Bradys have the opposite problem—they'd like to lurk in Davy Jones' vicinity but the universe conspires against them.

Here's Greg, trying too hard to compete with the idea of Davy Jones by wearing this overly groovy purple shirt. Everybody's flipping out a little in this episode. I would be too.

Marcia tries writing a telegram to Jones' hotel to NO AVAIL. Mike imparts his parental wisdom: don't promise something you can't deliver. Like Davy Jones at your prom. Of course, this is Marcia, so she'll get her way. She always gets her way.

The prom is a week away. FUCK.

Mike tries to get a golf networking connection going. No dice. I like Marcia's pullover sweater--very flattering. But WHAT is Carol Brady wearing here? Good God.

Man, oh man, Mrs. Brady...

Marcia has a cow over the upcoming loss of all her school-chums after this debacle.

Peter tries calling the hotel under the guise of being an old music buddy of Davy Jones. Jan, Bobby and Cindy pretend to be in his band, singing four different public-domain songs at once, and off-key as well. The hotel operator sees right through that ruse and hangs up on them. That was dumb, kids.

Sam, Alice's boyfriend, who is working class, knows the guy who sells the meat to Davy Jones' hotel. Greg and Marcia dress up as busboys and Marcia uses a deep voice because in the Brady universe, no girl could ever bus anything, ever. And also, maybe they think busboys don't stalk pop stars. But I bet they do. Some of them, anyway.

Marcia, pretending to be a boy, just like in a Shakespearean farce

Davy Jones' manager looks like a perv in a Beatles wig in this sad facsimile of a luxury hotel.

Finally—Davy Jones! He's singing "Girl." It's a promotional tie-in for his first post-Monkees solo album. Those are some big headphones. He's so sincere. This isn't my favorite song. Even when I was a kid it kind of embarrassed me. I've never been into love ballads. He's bobbing like the born showman that he is. I wonder if he missed The Monkees at this point. Probably not. That show was fun to watch but probably a huge cluster-fuck for all involved. Oh now his voice fades out while he's still singing. I hate when shows do that. That's not how it works. You sing multiple choruses and the fade-out is engineered later. The Partridge Family always faded out while they played "live" on stage. That was insulting to our intelligence.

Davy Joooones ....

Anyway, Marcia barges into the studio wearing a mustard-colored acrylic turtle-neck poncho. She's making her case to the perv manager who wants nothing to do with her, tossing her out on her can with an air of genuine disgust. Davy's listening to their exchange in the studio, thinking: that girl's got chutzpah. And she's the president of my fan club... Hmmmm...

Marcia throws in the towel. But DING-DONG—someone's at the door. Who could it be?

Davy Jones is shorter than Florence Henderson. That's so cute. They have similar haircuts too. Ew, Davy Jones is asking Marcia to be his prom date. That's not right. Well, it was the 70s. No one thought that was weird at all.

Do we get to see the prom? The Brady kids are singing "Girl" now. What a nightmare. Mike thinks so too. He yells, "SHUDDAP YOU DOPES!" (my interpretation). Wait, is that the end?

That's IT?! We don't get to see Davy Jones perform? How was the prom? Did he sing "Girl" to all the Heidi girls and Doreen and Marcia Wallace? What the hell?

We would all have to wait until 1995 for The Brady Bunch Movie to finally get our Davy Jones prom scene. Was it worth the wait? I'd say yes. No Doreen though, sadly.



And that's that. A somewhat bitter disappointment. Still, I'm glad I saw it at long last. Cross it off the bucket list. Marcia Wallace was so under-utilized in this.

Happy 50th Anniversary of Your Arrest, Arlo Guthrie

Yes, folks, it was 50 years ago on Thanksgiving that Arlo Guthrie was arrested and tried for littering, which then, two years later (spoiler), exempted him from the draft for the Vietnam War. Because humor is the ultimate in human expression (along with love, compassion and understanding), Guthrie's Thanksgiving tale will always have resonance.





And he's still performing it (on occasion), because: never forget.

PBS will be broadcasting Guthrie's Alice's Restaurant 50th-anniversary concert from Pittsfield, including "The Alice’s Restaurant Massacree" on Thanksgiving evening. Because "Massacree" is 18 minutes long, Guthrie rarely performs it live (it's been ten years since the last time). Here's a preview of the show.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Brady Bunch Mental Health Analysis - Will the Real Jan Brady Please Stand Up? (1971)

No one was more shocked by the success of The Brady Bunch than Robert Reed. He had taken the job of Mike Brady, thinking the show—with its cornball sentimentality and sophomoric humor—would be cancelled immediately. Instead he was forced to play the Brady patriarch for five seasons of polyester-clad purgatory, plus sequels and variety-show embarrassment for years to come. He didn't know the power of the tail-end of baby boomer mass viewership. But we're not here to ponder Robert Reed's economically motivated thespian hell.

This is a second-season look into the dark psyche of the only member of the bunch who's considered to be somewhat of a misfit. If she had been born a few years later, she might have expressed her inarticulate disgruntlement while living amongst the cheerful middle-class suburban bourgeoisie with the angry sounds of punk rock. I'm talking about Jan, of course, would-be dark middle-child, trapped in a sisterhood, all with hair of gold—like their mother. (The youngest one in curls.)

Jan's existential dilemma was not just having a weak sense of identity, but having to live within a clan who refuses to acknowledge that such a thing could hold any importance for her. Her stories revolve around anxiety of the self—of misplacement. And are doubly troubling because her exterior is a perfect example of acceptable Southern California girlhood of 1971, when this was aired. With her long blonde hair, blue eyes, and apple-cheeked American-girl looks, she should have been living it up, sunshine-state style. But because she was sandwiched between a relentlessly groovy older sister and overtly babyish younger sister, she was destined to be unsure of her importance in the world—forever questioning the qualities that made her unique. The making of an artist, if you will.

A feeling that would be expressed so well around the same time by bedraggled boy-men in wigs, spandex, and makeup.




Since twelve-year-old Jan wasn't about to run away to follow The New York Dolls (although what an episode that would be!), she could only try to alter her exterior to match her interior turmoil. With tragic results that only magnify her isolation—as we shall see. And now, Carol Brady, in a cheerful pantsuit, surrounded by wood paneling, welcomes you back to the 70s!

With special-guest star, the late, great Marcia Wallace, who I believe was a big influence on my art, as "Saleswoman."

It all starts when Jan receives an invitation to Lucy Winters' birthday party. Hooray—apparently Jan's no wallflower. But, Jesus Christ, what's this? her supposed friend addressed the envelope to Marcia, even though the invitation was for Jan. That's weird—who does that? Was Lucy subconsciously wishing Marcia would come to her party? Was she thinking of Marcia the entire time she addressed the invite? Does she have some kind of crush on Marcia (understandable, who didn't?). In any case, it triggers something deep and disturbing in Jan's psyche. And she's pissed.

Jan's all, "Fuck this shit!"

She tries to explain her feeling of invisibility and unimportance to her mom, but Carol, like so many socially successful people, doesn't get it. She tells Jan she's overreacting and after all, the invitation was for her, not Marcia. Jan's not convinced.

As always with this show, I think a different outfit would have helped

She searches a nearby magazine for answers and there, in marketing-speak, is her salvation. Or so she thinks. WHICH ONE STANDS OUT IN A CROWD?

Why, the BRUNETTE, of course.

Jan realizes that nobody cares about stupid old BLONDES

This advertisement for something that involves GLITTER, in sparkly surround-font, portrays exactly what Jan's problem is. Yes, a hint of delusional thinking—we'll get to that soon. It's HAIR. Hers is the wrong color.

Do I have to spell it out? These are the psychological implications of wrong-colored hair. And as a life-long brunette, I know of what I speak:

Check out the impressive bitch-face on repressed rage—she earned her model salary

Jan's blonde angst has all the hallmarks of a budding punk misfit. But instead of picking up a guitar, she totes her little purse to the nearby department store to buy a wig. That's right—a wig. Jan will seize the day and stand out in the crowd with synthetic hair as her trademark. Nowadays, she would just dip her hair in pink Kool-Aid and be done with it, but she's a little too ahead-of-her-time yet behind the times for that.

Set design was not the show's strong point

The awesome Marcia Wallace, ladies and gentlemen, always ready for a little caustic underplaying no matter what the situation.

Unlike Carol Brady, she grasps Jan's problem immediately and promises to remedy her fixation with a shot of endorphin-producing consumer-based impulse gratification. The interplay between Jan and Saleswoman is the best and funniest part of this episode, but that's no surprise. Wallace was a warm presence with the ability to reveal all her sardonic thoughts beneath her quirky exterior. Just think if she had played Carol Brady. The implications are implosive to my brain.

As a child, I thought this wig was kind of cool. It's called Midnight Persuasion, or something like that. It's not right for Jan's coloring but it fits her mood pretty well. Still, even the Saleswoman admits it's too sophisticated for our protagonist. She's apparently not that desperate to make a sale.

I'll admit that this scene had some kind of profound effect on me that inspired a lifelong fascination with false hair and persona. It's a good thing I ended up in a band who appreciates the power that comes from wearing a good wig. I was lucky. Jan, not so much so.

There's a number of ways Jan could have gone with this wig-wearing thing. 1971 was not the most radically fashionable year, but let's explore the possibilities available to a young girl, searching for a sense of self at that time. (Please excuse my poor Photoshop—it's not like I'm on salary here.)

She could maybe pull off Cher, during one of Cher's variety-show musical introductions.

Or go full-on David Cassidy—teen heart throb with a shag cut.

Or really stepped it up and do it up in a Raquel Welch-inspired do. Coincidentally Raquel Welch is known for her line of wigs. How cool if she had had a wig reference so long ago?

I'm so sorry about this Photoshop—I gave up at this point, obviously

But maybe that wig saleswoman was desperate for a sale, because here's what Jan settled on:

Oh dear god no

And even worse—she LOVES it. Kudos to Eve Plumb for the power of her acting imagination, because she sells us on the idea that Jan thinks she looks terrific in this wig. Even in the face of harsh criticism from her sisters.

Marcia cannot roll her eyes hard enough

And condemnation from her parents, as well as ridicule from Greg and Bobby (but notably not Peter, who has his own B-plot issues in this episode). Jan believes in this wig and demands to be able to wear it to Lucy Winters' party, as a showcase of her new identity.

The humanity

First of all, your friend's birthday party is not the time nor place for such a gesture—it's not about you, Jan. Second of all—things are getting pretty scary here, mental-health wise. This is delusional thinking to an extreme degree. But it was 1971 and no one cared. Do your thing!—that was our motto. Let it all hang out! Flip your wig! (See celebrity hairstyles above.) Mr. and Mrs. Brady, instead of riffling through the yellow pages for a competent child psychologist, capitulate and let Jan find out the hard way that suburban twelve-year-olds are the biggest conformists of all.

Here we see Jan's full-on psychosis in effect. She's totally into her new identity, which would work in John Waters' "Female Trouble," but is under-appreciated in the Brady universe.

Cindy's too old for pigtails and a doll, but that's for another post

Check it out, she's got a MIRROR to admire her new look. The Brady girls, although dismissive of their sister, carry on with their card game—the game of DENIAL.

Sad—like Liz Taylor in rehab

While Jan's desire for her own look is played for laughs, the producers of The Brady Bunch continued to dye Mike Lookinland's blond hair so he would match his brothers.  Et tu, Sherwood Schwartz?

The night of the party arrives! Jan makes a grand entrance on Lucy Winters' porch. Jan wouldn't have come across as a complete lunatic if it had been her own birthday party, but oh well. On top of all her other problems, she's got narcissistic tendencies (probably the root cause of her issues, but I'm not rewriting this now).

It does not go well. Lucy (played by ubiquitous child actress of the 70s, Pamelyn Ferdin) thinks it's the best joke Jan's ever played. And since Jan's never played a joke, nor ever shown a sense of humor during the series' run, this stings. Ruining Lucy's party, but not caring one iota, Jan runs home in tears (more good acting by Eve Plumb—it's a shame she felt compelled to follow up on the Bradys with with schlocky Dawn, Portrait of a Teenage Runaway—another Hollywood dream bubble popped).
 

Peter, having to contend with obsessive lovesick stalker, Margie Rimple, is powerless to step in and mediate this tense social situation.

And now it's Lucy's turn to cry, Lucy's turn to cry, Lucy's turn to cry-yy-yy

And Jan must come to her own realization that she's going to have to learn self-acceptance if she's going to party in the suburbs.

Don't worry—middle boy child, Peter, who understands where Jan's coming from—intervenes. Lucy has to leave her birthday celebration to apologize and beg Jan to come back, assuring her that everyone's envious of her real hair. Jan's all, "Wellll, I guess I'd like that." Then the gang, including Peter's stalker, head back for cake and punch. You know Jan's not getting invited next year.

Carol and Mike are all, "We are the BEST PARENTS EVER."

And the wig? Jan lets it go. She passes it on to Alice, who brandishes it like a wig of power, to the everlasting horror of the Bradys. The wig lives on in perpetuity, as do all synthetic hairpieces.

Now that we've analyzed that problem, what's up with this lamp?

Another set design tragedy