Under perfect circumstances, in a pricey box seat, the preshow hang at the Hollywood Bowl confers a magical vibe. Optimism abounds under a canyon breeze, the sun drops to the sound of wine glass clinks, and the crowd revels in a rare SoCal sense of community. On a normal night, it may prove more memorable than the headliner. But Joni Mitchell’s homecoming concert, on Saturday, October 19, was anything but normal. It was miraculous.
Let’s not mince words. Joni’s lucky to be alive. In her post-aneurysm state, forced to relearn basic living skills, let alone musical abilities, the resumption of her career took on a supernatural quality. Not many can own an audience merely by sitting in a Baroque armchair, like royalty. When the turntable on the stage spun around and Joni’s regal blue gown faced the sea of humanity, the adoration was palpable. Multigenerational love roared like a giant ocean wave.
Never one to succumb to the demands of the “star maker machinery,” Joni made it clear from the start she wouldn’t mindlessly sail through a greatest hits set list curated to please critics. Opening with the superhip “Be Cool,” from 1982’s Wild Things Run Fast, she picked tunes that spoke to her in this special time and place. The instigator of her renaissance, Brandi Carlile, sat by her side in the faint light of a stained-glass lampshade, more emcee than bandleader. The “Joni Jammers” came off more like the Joni Orchestra, with two dozen distinguished members that at various times included Marcus Mumford, Jon Batiste, Annie Lennox, Taylor Goldsmith, Lucius, the twins from Brandi’s band, Phil and Tim Hanseroth, and too many others to list, all perfectionists in their own rights. Carlile expressed the prevailing sentiment when she declared that she was “overjoyed” we were all there.
“Harlem in Havana” came next, the opening cut from Joni’s sixteenth album, 1998’s Taming the Tiger. Hardly vintage, but it kept up the pace. For Joni lovers of a certain age, the title number off Hejira recited the swift passage of our days. It touched Carlile, too, for she, a relative youngster at 43, exclaimed, “We just heard Joni Mitchell sing “Hejira!” Pumped-up listeners screamed, and I felt a surge of grateful disbelief. “Cherokee Louise,” another rarity, worked well, but the better known Hejira single “Coyote” strayed off-track. After that, Joni took us on the sing-along journey of “Carey.” Her voice no longer hits those high notes, but Carlile covered the melody. Joni, like the rest of us, for better and worse, isn’t the person she was back in the day. Like the Pinot Grigio she sipped, her pink is mixed with gray.
Throughout every moment, Joni used her cane to accentuate the beats. With her right arm extended, she tapped out messages in a secret code, a painter sketching contours for rhythmic patterns only she could see. A stream of throaty chortles from Joni punctuated the evening, as if she couldn’t control her glee. That joy spread quickly, row by row, seat by seat.
Until Carlile took control and said “Joni is about to destroy us.” I wouldn’t typically buy into such hyperbole, but it turned into an understatement when the wise matriarch gave her elegiac read of Blue’s “A Case of You.” The world-weary melancholy in Joni’s late-in-life low alto sank her—and my—sadness Mariana Trench deep. That song alone turned the unconscionable price of admission into a bargain. It froze the clock, transported us to the heavenly gates, and reclaimed our lost hope and faith. It transcended the fifty-three years since Blue gave permission for other artists to slice open their veins, bleed into vinyl, and share human feelings without shame.
Brandi Carlile, a brilliant woman with a catalog of beautiful songs, probably hasn’t yet achieved her creative peak. But the gift she has given us, the return of Joni Mitchell, stands as her greatest contribution to culture. As the night air cooled and the sweaters came off seats, we heard “Both Sides Now,” “Raised on Robbery,” “California,” and even Elton John’s “I’m Still Standing.” Fans aged eight to eighty-eight raised their cellphone lights during “Shine,” merging into a unified sense of incandescent celestial energy, and it didn’t seem corny in the least.
When Joni bid goodbye with “Circle Game” and the turntable flipped around on the stage, it brought us back to where we started: to the stardust, to the golden, to the garden, where we once dared to believe. To the canyons, to the ladies, to sunshine hours and beads, filled with forgotten promises of universal love and peace.