Your father, Chuck Collins, was a singer and pianist who greatly influenced your early musical development. How would you describe your relationship with him and its importance in your beginnings as a professional singer?
Well, I was very fortunate because my dad was a wonderful singer and a very interesting man. He was blind from the age of four but didn't want to be known as different. He really insisted on getting around the world without a cane, without a dog, and he didn't want anybody to help him. He traveled, he went to the University of Idaho, graduated summa cum laude, had a great career, and was also extremely well educated. I was raised on what my father got from the Library of Congress. He got his braille books from there, whether it was Russian writers like Fyodor Dostoevsky or American writers like Mark Twain. That's also where he got all of his recordings—all the shows, you know: Guys and Dolls and Oklahoma!.
What did you learn from all the music he was bringing home?
He would pick out the very best songs. That's what I learned from him: to pick out the very best. But he would also get from the Library of Congress what he called ‘talking books.' So he got a lot of Shakespearean plays read by people like Judith Anderson and all the great English actors of the time. He was multi-talented. He had a radio show for 30 years. He spoke about politics. He spoke about the war in Vietnam. He spoke about Joseph McCarthy and Douglas MacArthur. And he was funny. He would tell Mae West jokes, you know, like, ‘I like restraint, if it doesn't go too far' (laughs). He really had a strong effect on me because I saw all these things that he did, and I wanted to do them.
First you started with classical music training, and then you transitioned into folk music. What made you want to take that route instead?
Well, I was always surrounded by music—so much of it. My father sang the Great American Songbook, you know, the songs of Rodgers and Hart and Rodgers and Hammerstein. But he also sang Irish, English, and Scottish folk songs, like Danny Boy, with his best friend, Holden Bowler, who was a professional singer and had his debut at Carnegie Hall. So I knew those songs. And when I was about 16, I was listening to the radio instead of practicing the piano, which I was supposed to be doing, and I heard a song called The Gypsy Rover. I just flipped over it. I said to my father, "I don't think I want to play the piano anymore."
Well, it seems you didn't quite stick to that statement...
Of course, I'm sitting here today talking to you, Guido, but after we speak, I'm going to go into my studio and practice because I still practice the piano. I've been playing the piano now for 82 years, actually. It's been a long time (laughs). But the thing is, when I heard this song, I went down to the music store in Denver, where we lived, and I looked up on the wall. I saw Pete Seeger and The Clancy Brothers and Josh White. And, you know, I just fell in love with this music, and I knew I wanted to be a part of that. I started immediately learning songs, and my father got me a guitar. He rented it. And I always say, "Because he was an optimist, he had the feeling that I would fall out of love with this." But I never have.
You've long been recognized for helping bring attention to then-unknown artists in the 1960s. In 1966, on your fifth studio album, you were the first to record Suzanne and Dress Rehearsal Rag, both written by Leonard Cohen. How did you first come across his songs, and what drew you to his work so early on?
I was very friendly with a woman named Mary, a friend of Leonard's who went to school with him in Canada and grew up together. They all lived in the same neighborhood. She worked in the music business in New York, and we would all go have dinner and talk, and she would always mention Leonard because she and her friends thought that he was the smartest person they knew, and they were very disappointed because he was not going anywhere and didn't seem to be the great shining individual they thought he should be. But then, a couple of years later, Mary called me and said, "You know, Leonard wants to come in and play you his songs." She had told me previously that his poetry was very obscure, which is why they thought he was going to be a failure.
What was that encounter like?
He came to the house. He said to me, "I can't sing, I can't play the guitar, and I don't know if this is a song..." And then he sang to me, "Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river..." And I said, "Leonard, that is a song, and I'm going to record it tomorrow," which I did. I went straight into the studio with it.
Well, shortly after, you recorded a widely acclaimed version of Both Sides Now by Joni Mitchell, which reached number eight on the Billboard Hot 100 and earned you a Grammy. What do you recall from the phone call you had with her about the song?
Well, it was three o'clock in the morning in 1967, and my old friend Al Kooper, from Blood, Sweat & Tears, called me. He knew my phone number by heart, so I was the one who got the phone call because he had followed her home, and she told him that she wrote songs. When he got to her house, she sang him Both Sides Now. And he said, "Oh, hold on. I have to call Judy because she has to hear this. I know she's recording tomorrow." I've known Al for a long time, so he knew what I was up to. And he said, "I called you at three in the morning because I've got this girl that I followed home, and she really writes good songs." Then he put Joni Mitchell on the phone, and she sang me Both Sides Now.
What did you do next?
I called Jac Holzman, the president of Elektra Records, in the morning, and I said, "Guess what? You have to come over here for breakfast, and then we have to go over to this girl's house so she can play us this song." And he said, "OK, OK. I'll be right over." I was in the process of making Wildflowers, my sixth studio album.
Stephen Stills famously wrote Suite: Judy Blue Eyes about you, its lyrics tracing the arc of your relationship and eventual breakup. What was it like to hear that musical tribute for the first time?
He came to my hotel room in May 1969, and we had just broken up, but I didn't know about the song yet. So he brought me flowers, and he brought me a guitar—a beautiful guitar, which I still have. And then he sang me Suite: Judy Blue Eyes. When he finished singing, we were both weeping, and I said to him, "You know, it's beautiful, but it's not getting me back" (laughs).
But you happen to be friends to this day, right?
I have been friends with Stephen Stills for almost 60 years, and we have a wonderful friendship. In fact, he came to New York on March 8th, a couple of months ago, to join me at the end of a big concert I was doing with all kinds of people singing songs that I had either written or recorded. He came to the stage, and at the end, he and I sang Helplessly Hoping, one of the songs that I think he actually wrote for me, though he never said that. My husband Louis had just died in December, and they had been good friends. Onstage, Stephen said to me—and to the audience—"She married the right guy," which I thought was perfection. I mean, this is a guy who knows how to write lyrics for sure. It was very, very touching.
Didn't you tour together back in 2017 and 2018?
Yes, we did 115 shows over the course of a year and a half, and we had the best time. We were onstage for two hours, singing everything together. At the end of the show, we sang Suite: Judy Blue Eyes, all the choruses. We didn't sing the front part because he said, "Well, it's very insulting to you" (laughs).
In 1975, you chose to record Send in the Clowns, a song that was covered by many artists both before and after your version. How did your eclectic musical tastes guide you to that song?
Well, I was lucky that an old friend of Leonard Cohen's—who he introduced me to in 1966—was a woman named Nancy Bacal. They were so close that I believe she was one of the last people to see him alive. They lived in California, and she was in and out of his house like nobody's business. We became tight friends immediately when he introduced us. She was a wonderful, interesting woman and made a film about Ravi Shankar called Raga, which you should watch. His widow kept it off the market after Ravi died, but it's now available. Anyway, she and I lived close together here in New York. She called me up and said, "I'm bringing this record to your doorman. I want you to listen to this song and put the needle on the cut."
Were you acquainted with Stephen Sondheim's work?
No, I didn't know Sondheim. I didn't know anything about what he did, what his musicals were, or anything else. But I called his producer, Hal Prince, and he said, "Oh, I know who you are. You're the Both Sides Now girl." We laughed about that. Then I said to him, "Well, you have this song on the A Little Night Music album. It's a wonderful song." I think the play had opened in April, so this must have been June or July. And he said, "Well, I'm glad you like it. Two hundred people have already recorded it." I said, "I don't care. I mean, I have to sing it."
You were determined to record it because you probably saw the song's potential to become something bigger...
You know, there was a woman at Elektra Records, my record company, named Ann Purtill. She was somebody who screened a lot of new songs, and she would send them to me if she liked them. I don't think I ever recorded anything that she sent. But she had passed on this song. I don't mean to insult her, but it had come through the Elektra doors, and she had listened and said, "Nah, nothing really." And I heard it and just went nuts. I said to Hal, "I'm working on an album right now—who should do the orchestration?" And he replied, "Well, of course, Jonathan Tunick," because Jonathan Tunick orchestrated many of Sondheim's shows. Since then, he's done a lot of recordings for me, including an album of my favorite Sondheim songs other than Send in the Clowns.
Why do you think that your version of Send in the Clowns remains the definitive one, even though it has been recorded by so many artists?
You're right. I will never quite understand it. This is the only version of a Sondheim song that has become a true hit out of all the songs he's written—and he's written so many wonderful songs—that it is kind of strange that Send in the Clowns is the only one that is way up there on the charts. I think, if I were to venture a reason, most of the other versions are a little too decorated, or the orchestration kind of steps off in another direction. I think that Jonathan's idea to open with the English horn—you know, you can't avoid that when you hear it—it just comes right out at you, and it's a genius move that he made. I guess it was also my fortune that I was kind of early in the game of recording Sondheim, so I'm lucky.
If there is one thing that has defined you throughout your life, it has been political and social activism. For example, in the Chicago Seven trial, you testified as a witness and even began singing Where Have All the Flowers Gone in court. What motivated you to bring music into the courtroom?
Well, of course, when I started singing it, one of the clerks moved up to me and put his hand across my mouth. I really went into shock right then and there. It's not often that somebody stops me from singing (laughs). The whole thing stopped for me when that happened. I didn't remember that the conversation about this went on and on, but then I saw the transcript of the trial. Judge Julius Hoffman said, "She can't sing in the court." And then the lawyer, who was a wonderful man, said, "Well, couldn't she say the words?" And he would reply, "No, she can't say the words. She can just talk about what she did."
Why were you there in the first place?
The reason I was invited to the trial was that I had been at their first press conference the year before in New York City. It was Phil Ochs who came and knocked on my door at 7:30 in the morning, and he said, "We have to go down to this Americana Hotel, and you have to sing Where Have All the Flowers Gone, because they're explaining what the Yippies are. And they're becoming this group, which is going to go to Washington and defy the national issue, which is the war in Vietnam."
In 1973, you wrote Che, a song about the Argentine revolutionary Che Guevara. Why did you feel it was important to tell his story through a song?
Well, it was such a haunting situation. You know, he was killed, and the whole situation in Cuba was, I think, on many people's minds. It was around the time when the Russians put in some kind of weapon, and then, of course, Kennedy became involved in a difficult political situation—one that could have caused a war in 1962. I remember the feeling of devastation that we were just on the brink. You know, it seems like we're always on the brink, doesn't it? We have a very, very challenging situation here, and that was one of those challenging situations. I saw Che Guevara as a very romantic character. It looked like he was part of an old-fashioned French war drama. You know, there was something that was so appealing and so innocent about him.
Did you feel a certain urgency to address this topic?
I saw that his story was a nightmare, but it was worth trying to capture. It was a combination of political sympathy for what was going on down there, and also sympathy for a character who became kind of a folk hero. In our culture, folk heroes had a huge effect on the folk music of the '60s. You know, there were ballads about John Henry and about this one and that one. I developed what was a kind of short story about him within the song so that maybe you get the feeling of that political turmoil. So these romantic characters, who come to life in a conflict and have a point of view that's very idealistic, I guess, stand out. I thought I would get something out of it, which I did. You know, it was a very important piece of my writing at that point.
Was it easy or challenging to write a song with such deep themes?
You know, the first song that I wrote was called Since You Asked, and that was when Leonard Cohen had said to me, "I don't understand why you're not writing your own songs." I came home to my piano—the one that still sits in my studio—and I wrote Since You Asked. It took me about 40 minutes to write that song. It was very fast, and it was done. It took me about five years to finish writing the song about Che Guevara. I mean, I just couldn't get it done.
In the mid-70s, you received an Oscar nomination for your documentary Antonia: A Portrait of the Woman. Given that feminism was not yet as visible or mainstream as it is today, how did you approach telling Antonia Brico's story?
I was a student of Antonia's from when I was 11. She was the first woman to conduct major symphonies like the New York Philharmonic and the Berlin Philharmonic, and many, many orchestras everywhere. She was always told, when she was younger, that she could never be a conductor because she was a woman. And then—and I think this is part of the story that I couldn't tell in the movie, but it's very important—she came to New York on a scholarship at Juilliard, and she was studying the piano with a big, famous teacher. One night, she was on 57th Street, I think, near Carnegie Hall, and an Indian guru was making an appearance. His name was Paramahansa Yogananda, and he was the one who wrote Autobiography of a Yogi. She followed him all over the country and became a complete devotee of his.
What did that lead to in her life?
He said to her, "You can't let people tell you what you can't do and can do. If you want to be a conductor, then let's get you to Berlin, get you into the academy of conducting, and you'll learn how to conduct, and then you'll be a conductor." Which happened. Her first job was in 1929 with the Berlin Philharmonic. She was 27 years old. So I think it's fabulous that her guru was the one who made the difference. She got rave reviews all over the world. She also did things like going to Africa to study Bach with Albert Schweitzer. He had a little organ in the jungle, and there are pictures of her with her white hat on—that you have to wear when you go to the jungle because there are all kinds of things falling and flying. I learned all about Antonia as I was growing up because I was always studying with her.
How did she end up in Denver, where you lived?
The Denver Orchestra said to her, "Why don't you move to Denver, and then we'll make you the conductor of our orchestra?" It made a difference in my life, of course, and in hers. She moved to Denver with everything, including two Steinways. At 11, she handed me the score of the Mozart Two Piano Concerto, K. 365, and said, "OK, I want you to start memorizing this right now, because you're going to play it with my orchestra when you're 13." Which I did. From then on, it was practice, practice, practice—all the time. When I got to be 16, I was practicing one day, and that was the day I turned on the radio and heard The Gypsy Rover. The Gypsy Rover was probably also the inspiration for the Che Guevara song. Everything sort of connects.
You performed at President Bill Clinton's inauguration in 1993. How do you remember that day, and what is your relationship with him like?
Well, it was quite spellbinding. He is a great man. He's a breath of fresh air in this particular country with its particular issues. And he is a hell of a guy—very smart and charming. You always feel energized when you're with Clinton. He's just full of optimism. It doesn't matter how bad things get; he'll find a way to be positive about it, which is wonderful. We had a very nice relationship. My husband, Louis, and I visited the White House regularly for about eight years because we got friendly with them at the inaugural. I was able to sing a couple of times there as well. At the end of those years, Louis was given the job of designing the Korean War Memorial on the National Mall in Washington, D.C.
Do you have any memories of that time?
The Koreans just flocked to it. It's quite an amazing piece of work. Louis and I were at the big event, which included an enormous parade for them, and the Korean president came. We just had a wonderful experience, and I remember going through that with Louis being the hero because he designed it. It was very special. I'm sitting here looking at Bill's phone number because I'm going to call him. He never forgets to send me a birthday card. It's so sweet.
On a different note, you struggled with severe alcoholism for many years. But in 1978, you made the decision to end it and begin your journey toward recovery. How would you describe that difficult time, and what prompted you to take that step and overcome the addiction?
My father was what they call a periodic alcoholic. He wasn't always drinking, but when he was it was upsetting. When I was about 19, I realized that whatever it was he had, I had it too. I was very controlled for about 20 years. I got going in my career without many problems. I mean, I wasn't in a bad way. I was one of those drinkers who can't stop, but then they don't drink too much. I wouldn't drink on the day that I was working. I wouldn't drink until after the show. I made sure that I was always on time for things. People in my crowd were not drinking, but they were doing drugs or whatever, which I never did because I was afraid they would interfere with my drinking. But then, of course, it all came crashing down about 20 years into my addiction.
What was a major red flag?
I had a year where I couldn't work. I canceled many, many shows. I could not stop drinking. There was a guy who was an actor, a wonderful fellow. I got in touch with his wife and asked her what was going on with him, because I didn't see him around town. She said, "Oh, well. He stopped drinking. You can call him up. He'd be happy to talk to you." He told me where to go, what meetings to attend, and what doctor to see. And the doctor I went to told me what rehab to go to. Then, on April 16th, 1978, I accepted an invitation to a big party for the Equal Rights Amendment. There, a friend of mine introduced me to Louis Nelson, the man I would spend the next 46 years with. And then, four days later, I got into treatment. When I came out, we got together and have been together ever since, until he died.
How do you reflect on your path?
I was lucky because I go to a program that is devoted to recovery from alcohol. But there are also other branches that address other addictions—certainly NA, which is Narcotics Anonymous, and the food programs, and gambling addictions. People have terrible gambling addictions. So I was lucky. I got into the fold, so to speak, and I've been here ever since. I don't know how people get through life if they don't get sober. I don't know how people handle the planet. The planet handles you, you know (laughs).
You've also talked about depression being present in your family—from your father, yourself, and later your son. You've spoken about your son's suicide and your surviving a suicide attempt. What's your take on the importance of how mental health issues are addressed now compared to what it was like back then?
Well, I think that for most of us, at the time that Clark took his life, there was a very heavy taboo about talking about these things. And in the years that have followed, that has very much changed. There were practically no books on suicide, and there was little conversation. One day, when Clark killed himself, I was so out of my mind that I started to cancel all my shows. And I remember standing here down the hallway, and the phone rang—it was Joan Rivers. She was in Las Vegas, getting ready to go out and work, and her husband had just killed himself. She said to me, "You cannot cancel your shows. If you do, you won't get through this, you won't survive this properly. So you've got to do your shows."
Did you take her advice?
Yes, I did. I listened to her, and I put everything back on the schedule, and you know, it has helped me. Also, when Louis died, I had a full half year ahead of me, and I've been out most of the past few months. The only thing that helps me is working. I have said to many of my audiences in the past year, "Tonight, you are my grief group." And, you know, everybody identifies with this, and they all understand, because everybody's got something in their lives that's dark and terrifying and has brought something hard into their minds and hearts, and they need music and laughter and discussion and contact. And I think that's the reason—the talk about all this has evaporated the taboo to some extent.
Where do you see that taboo being broken?
If you go to a bookstore, you'll see dozens of books about these kinds of issues. People talk about the kids that they have who are depressed and who are getting some therapy. And, you know, there are books about all kinds of issues: eating disorders, same thing. I was bulimic for a while, and Princess Diana was the first person that I heard speak out publicly about this. She was very brave. And I think she must have helped possibly millions of people, certainly me. I think it's all about breaking the taboo so that we can feel free enough to get some help and free enough to talk to somebody.
Is there ever such a thing as closure?
I don't think so. These kinds of difficult emotional blasts that blow your life apart, you know, go on forever. They're not going to disappear. You're going to have to deal with them. But I think, as frightening as this may be, going through them leads you to recoveries of one kind or another. If you are serious about it, if you talk about it openly, I think it helps you, but it helps other people too.
A song you recorded in 1970, but it's a timeless classic, is Amazing Grace, which is a hymn with a very powerful message about spiritual awakening for moments like these. What place does it have in your body of work?
Well, it was very interesting because it was 1969, and I was involved in an encounter group, and people talked about their issues. And my producer, who was there and a member of the group, said to me, "You know, I think you should sing something because people are getting very hot under the collar." And so I sang Amazing Grace because it was the only thing I could think of. My grandmother had sung it in church, and so I knew it. The next day, he called me and said, "We have to record that song," which I did. And then it became a huge hit.
Do you know the story behind how that song was created?
Well, it was written by a slave trader named John Newton, who had a shipwreck and when he woke up, he said, "OK, I'm going to change my life entirely." And he decided to start writing hymns. Amazing Grace was his first one, actually. I didn't know any of this when I recorded it. I found out that later. It was just like a magical moment. Everybody went crazy about the song. It was on the charts in England for 70 weeks or something like that. And then it came here and the same thing happened. My record company was astonished. But about four years after I made the record, I got a big package. It was a book called Amazing Grace from a guy named Steve Turner. There was a note that said, "I'd like you to write the dedication to this book." And there was also a letter attached to it.
What did it say?
What he said in the letter was, "Your recording of Amazing Grace brought this song back to life because it was dwindling from churches, it was falling out of their songbooks, their hymnals, and people were not recording it. And your song has lifted it into the general public's attention." So I then learned a lot about John Newton. And there was also a man named William Wilberforce, who was a parliamentarian in the English legal structure, that was trying to pass a bill to get rid of the slave ship business in England, and so he would come to the church in Olney because he would talk to John Newton and John Newton would rally him forth and say, "Don't give up, don't give up. Just keep working on this because you're gonna get it through one of these years."
What have you been working on over the past few years, and what are you looking forward to in the near future?
Good question. I'm working on a number of manuscripts for a new book. I've got a bunch of things going, you know, 100 pages, and I haven't really settled on one. I have written the songs for a new musical, which we'll see what happens. And we're busy having two films made: a documentary of my life, which has already begun with a number of concerts and interviews that have happened in the past, maybe, six months; and an adaptation of one of my books called Suite: Judy Blue Eyes. So we're on the way with that, and it should be interesting. Also, I'm trying to practice every day. I work pretty much about a hundred shows a year, so I have to be ready and keep my technique working. But there's a lot going on, I must say.