Janis Joplin: Lock Up Your Sons

SHE WEARS a micro-length dress with a neckline plunging down to the navel. She swoops around the stage like some kind of female bat about to get a kinky thrill from drinking your blood. Her voice rises to a hoarse screech, then falls to a husky whisper whose tone promises unmentionable pleasures. She wears a wildly decorated cape which she suddenly discards with the showmanship of a good stripper, and a shudder runs through the audience.