TOP 40 DEBUT: November 24, 1979
PEAK POSITION: #14 (January 19, 1980)
What do you do when your band loses not one, but two lead singers within the span of three months? If you’re Jefferson Starship, AKA The Artists Formerly Known As Jefferson Airplane, you regroup and reload, like you’ve done over and over (and over) since 1970. You find a new singer and a new producer. You blow up your old sound, along with the final remnants of your hippie-centric audience. And you create a song that, almost accidentally, becomes the poster child for early 80’s album-oriented rock (AOR) radio. “Jane” is that song, and its brazenly commercial, unapologetically over-the-topness never fails to make me smile. Almost as much as imagining all those aging flower children hearing this for the first time and having their heads collectively explode.
The long, strange journey to arrive at “Jane” began back in San Francisco, where Jefferson Airplane first formed in early 1965. Over the next four years, the band would pioneer psychedelic rock, headline both Monterey and Woodstock, and bring the underground to the masses via their two classic singles from 1967’s “Summer Of Love”: the #5 “Somebody To Love” (an 8) and the #8 “White Rabbit” (a 10). The Airplane would then spend the next four years slowly falling apart. Co-founder and vocalist Marty Balin quit in 1971; his replacement (David Freiberg, formerly of Quicksilver Messenger Service) wouldn’t arrive until 1972. Guitarist Jorma Kaukonen and bassist Jack Casady were next to leave, splitting in 1973 to focus on their side project, Hot Tuna.
That left lead vocalist Grace Slick and guitarist/co-founder Paul Kantner. The on-again-off-again couple, having already collaborated on several albums together, decided to start a brand-new band by absorbing the remnants of the Airplane into their existing clutch of musicians. But in choosing the Jefferson Starship moniker, they inadvertently doomed the fledgling unit to a lifetime of (almost always unfavorable) comparisons back to their earlier work.
The name “Jefferson Starship” first appeared on Kantner’s 1970 solo effort Blows Against The Empire. Back then, said credit was an in-joke, playing into the sci-fi overtones of the album while also acknowledging its sprawling cast of contributors (including most of Jefferson Airplane, two-thirds of Crosby, Stills & Nash, and Jerry Garcia and Mickey Hart from the Grateful Dead). But with 1974’s Dragon Fly, the Jefferson Starship name returned, taking third billing behind Slick and Kantner. By the next year, the Starship were an official unit—and ostensibly bigger than the Airplane had ever been.
1975’s Red Octopus is the album where Balin returns to the fold, writes the biggest hit of everyone’s career (the #3 smash “Miracles”), and kick-starts the narrative of Jefferson Starship as a slick, soulless betrayal of every “hippie ideal” the Airplane ever stood for. The reality was, as always, a bit more complicated. Yes, “Miracles” is pure AM pop with all the rough edges removed (it’s a 6), and yes, that single is the main reason Red Octopus hit #1 and went double platinum. But the album itself is still a deeply weird affair. Seven of the eight band members have a hand in songwriting; the fiddle player gets an instrumental, as does the bassist. Slick’s vocal showcases—like “Fast Buck Freddie” and “Play On Love”—are shaggy, wooly rockers, and even Balin cuts loose (more or less) on “Sweeter Than Honey.” And let’s not kid ourselves; in post-Watergate 1975, hippie ideals were already dead, with or without the Starship’s help. But as every successive Jefferson Starship hit (“With Your Love,” “Count On Me”) dipped further and further into sappy sentiment, the “sellout” accusations only grew louder.
Given time, Kantner and company might’ve eventually pivoted to a harder-edged sound anyway, but the loss of both lead singers in rapid succession certainly hastened the process. In July 1978, Slick was either fired or quit in embarrassment, thanks to one of the most disastrous live performances ever; three months later, the always-ambivalent Balin bailed on his bandmates for the second time. (His final recorded appearance with Jefferson Starship? Performing “Light The Sky On Fire” for the infamous Star Wars Holiday Special, which is one hell of an exit.) And the changes kept coming: Drummer John Barbata was injured in a car accident and replaced by Aynsley Dunbar of Journey; Ron Nevison came on board as the first outside producer in Jefferson Airplane/Starship history. Even before the group found its new lead singer, the transformation was well underway.
Mickey Thomas first came to national attention after singing lead on “Fooled Around And Fell In Love,” a #3 smash in 1976 for Elvin Bishop. (It’s a 9.) But he wasn’t an obvious choice to front Jefferson Starship, as Thomas recounts in a 2014 interview with Ultimate Classic Rock: “I had recently left the Elvin Bishop Band, which was all about the blues and soul music and R&B and country and every other kind of roots or organic music you could think of. I’m thinking, based on my influences and where I was coming from at that point in time: 'How in the world is this going to fit?'” Thomas didn’t sing hard rock; his new bandmates didn’t perform it. Yet “Jane”—originally written as a folk number during the Balin era—eventually morphed into a pitch-perfect microcosm of gleaming, shiny, early ‘80s AOR. So how, exactly, did that happen?
The easiest target for credit (or blame) is Nevison, who’d built his reputation on no-frills mainstream acts like UFO and The Babys and undoubtedly steered Jefferson Starship towards a more radio-friendly sound. Yet I would argue the pivot happening organically. Nothing sparks an aging outfit like the infusion of new blood, and that’s what I hear throughout “Jane”: Kantner and Freiberg leaning into Dunbar’s arena-rock stomp, lead guitarist Craig Chaquico clearly relishing every second of his shred-tastic solo, bassist Pete Sears pounding that piano like his life depends on it. And above it all sits Thomas’ pure, powerful tenor, already aligned perfectly with the newer spate of hard-rock vocalists—Journey’s Steve Perry, Foreigner’s Lou Gramm, and Boston’s Brad Delp—beginning to dominate FM radio. Either through fate or dumb luck, Jefferson Starship hit the AOR bullseye on their very first try. Within a few years, the central hook of “Jane”—that driving keyboard line with guitar accents underneath—would influence everyone from upstarts to already-established giants.
Music critics of the time despised “Jane” with the fury of a thousand suns—which makes sense, given that most of them had worshiped the Airplane during its counterculture heyday. So to hear their former idols now courting the same troglodytes who bought Foreigner albums? That must've been a real kick in the balls. But for those of us too young to remember (or care about) the Sixties, “Jane” was gloriously stupid trailer-park rock’n’roll at its finest, no apologies necessary. I probably love the song more for all its ridiculous touches: That cheap, scuzzy guitar sound. The 20-second diversion into white-boy reggae. The operatic high note of “playing a gaaaaaaaame!!” Chaquico’s shred-tastic solo. (Yes, I’m mentioning it again). Thomas doing his best Robert Plant impression at 3:24. And, of course, the earth-swallowing vocal hook that consumes the final minute of the song. (“Jane, Jane, JAAAAANE!!”) Hell, just the opening flanged guitar riff sparks enough time-capsule memories to fill an entire movie. (Ahem.)
At the risk of overpraising Jefferson Starship 2.0, it must be noted that, opening track aside, Freedom At Point Zero is a lousy album. And the records that follow don’t get any better. And the decision to keep chasing mainstream success at all costs eventually bottomed out with the formation of Starship, the kind of residual effect you wouldn’t wish upon your worst enemy. But does any of that affect my enjoyment of “Jane”? Absolutely not. It’s the kind of song that owns its excess and wears it like a crown. No regrets—or apologies—necessary.
GRADE: 8/10
BONUS BITS: The opening of the brilliant cult comedy Wet Hot American Summer almost singlehandedly revived the reputation of “Jane” with one perfectly-placed needle-drop. I’ll admit I probably rated this song an extra couple points solely because of this intro. It’s that good.
BONUS BONUS BITS: Late-period DMX is not the good DMX. And this 2010 track that samples “Jane” is really, really not good.