The last time I was in Los Angeles, in February 2020, I had told a white lie. My taxi driver asked me what I was doing there. “I’m here to write about Joni Mitchell,” I said. I wanted to have a story. Earlier this month, I landed at LAX airport, returning to see Mitchell play at the Hollywood Bowl.
In 2020, the idea she would perform again seemed like fantasy. In 2015 she had an aneurysm that left her unable to speak or walk, and even before that, her public performances had been rare. But over the past few years, Mitchell has hosted musicians at her home for a “jam” in her living room. For a long time, she listened to others sing her songs to her, but then, gradually, she began to sing along. In 2022, she made a surprise appearance at the Newport folk festival in Rhode Island and, last year, headlined a show in Washington state. I failed to get tickets. In the days after, I’d watch videos of it people posted on Instagram, but with the sound down because it felt too painful to listen to, as though I was seeing the love of my life get married to someone else. I wanted to hold on to an idea I’d hear her for myself one day.
