If you enjoy listening to my songs, huge yesss!! I love y’all, Joan Baez!!!
Sure! Here’s an 800-word piece in the voice of Joan Baez—warm, heartfelt, and resonant, like one of her live speeches or letters to her audience:
If You Enjoy Listening to My Songs, Huge Yesss!! I Love Y’all – Joan Baez
If you enjoy listening to my songs… huge yesss from me! That means the world. It really does. And I want to say this loud and clear: I love y’all. Every single one of you who has ever sat in the quiet of your room or the bustle of a crowd and let one of my songs speak to your spirit—you’re the reason I sing. You always have been.
Sometimes people ask me why I kept singing all those years, through the heartbreak and the headlines, through protests and peace rallies, through the hard winters and the sweet, burning summers of change. The answer’s not complicated: I sang because it connected me to something greater than myself. And I kept singing because you listened.
I never wrote or sang with the intention of becoming famous. That part just happened—more like a tide that swept me off my feet in the ’60s and never quite set me back down. But the heart of it, always, was the music. The songs. The words that came when there was nothing else to say. The melodies that wrapped themselves around pain and turned it into something beautiful. The harmonies that made hope feel real. Music was my rebellion, my prayer, my lifeline. And somehow, it became yours too.
So when you say you enjoy my songs, know that you’re not just enjoying melodies. You’re stepping into decades of longing, defiance, heartbreak, and love. You’re stepping into memories of marching arm in arm with strangers for justice. You’re stepping into candlelit vigils, into packed concert halls where silence meant solidarity. You’re stepping into the soul of a woman who tried her best to sing the truth—even when her voice shook, even when the world was burning.
I sang for the ones without a voice. For the children in the rice fields and the soldiers in the jungle. For the dreamers locked in cages and the lovers separated by borders and bombs. I sang for Dr. King, and later I sang through tears when he was taken from us. I sang in Hanoi during the bombings, because somebody needed to. I sang at Woodstock soaked to the skin. I sang Bob Dylan’s songs when they were new and raw and full of fire. And I sang my own, when I finally found the courage to write what was in my heart.
I’ll never forget the faces of those early audiences—young people with eyes wide open, searching for something they could believe in. And you believed in me. That was a responsibility I never took lightly. Still don’t. And to those of you who discovered me years later—on vinyl in a parent’s attic, or maybe through a playlist online—I want to say thank you. Thank you for hearing something timeless in what we made. Thank you for letting the past speak into your present.
Music is strange magic, isn’t it? It binds generations together. It speaks when words fail. It softens the hardest hearts. And sometimes, when we need it most, it sets us free. If my voice has ever done that for you, even once—if it’s ever made you feel stronger, or softer, or less alone—then everything I gave was worth it.
There were times I doubted myself. Times I wondered if I had anything left to say. The world kept changing—new wars, new presidents, new causes, new generations rising up with fire in their bellies. And I wondered, do I still belong? But every time I stepped on stage, and saw your eyes, heard your cheers, felt that collective hush when the first chord rang out—I knew. I belonged because you made room for me.
Even now, in the quiet hours of reflection, when my voice is a little more fragile and my heart beats slower, I carry you with me. You, the audience. You, the friends I never met. You, the voices who sang along when I couldn’t hit the high notes anymore. You’re part of my journey. And I’m part of yours. Isn’t that something beautiful?
You gave me a life filled with meaning. You gave me laughter, and tears, and stories I’ll carry until the end. You made my protest songs anthems. You turned ballads into bridges. You made my silences powerful. And every time you pressed play, every time you closed your eyes and listened, you reminded me that music still matters. That it always will.
So yes—if you enjoy listening to my songs, huge yesss, with open arms and open heart. I love y’all. More than you know. You’ve given me a lifetime of music and memory, and I’ll never stop being grateful.
With all my love,
Joan
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