Few expected Joni Mitchell to ever perform again after the singer survived a near-fatal aneurism in 2015. But with the help of Brandi Carlile and other famous fans who turned their invite-only Laurel Canyon Joni Jams into a two-hour performance, Mitchell returned to the stage during a surprise set at the 2022 Newport folk festival.
Since then, the songwriter from Alberta, Canada (real name Roberta Joan Anderson), headlined a show in Washington state and dropped in on this year’s Grammys. It’s a triumphant victory lap for a 80-year-old who, less than a decade ago, this publication wrote a sort of obituary for. Still, when I bought tickets to Mitchell’s second night of a sold-out weekend at the Hollywood Bowl earlier this year, I was expecting a somber turnout from Mitchell, who sings sitting down on a plush velvet loveseat, using a cane to both keep the beat and keep her upright. She’s been written off as fragile, a little shaky.
That ended this weekend, when Mitchell took the Bowl with an almost mischievous swagger, belting out hits such as Big Yellow Taxi, A Case of You and Circle Game (cue full-body sobs) and deep cuts she chose from a career spanning half a century. The greatest thing about seeing Joni Mitchell perform today (other than just that – seeing Joni Mitchell), is her cadre of backup. Carlile, who Mitchell joked brought her “out of retirement”, serves as an emcee and ultimate hype man. (“Shit Joni,” she said near the top of the Sunday set, “I thought you sounded good last night, but …”) Famous faces like Elton John, Meryl Streep, Annie Lennox, Jon Batiste, Prince and the Revolution alums Wendy & Lisa made up the backing band. Marcus Mumford, of Mumford & Sons fame, and responsible for some of the corniest hey ho music of the mid 2010s, redeemed himself via a duet of California, a song that’s both equally beautiful to listen to while lying alone on the floor of your apartment and in the presence of screaming Angelinos at the Bowl.
Though Mitchell’s command of the material indicates she has no intention of going anywhere, and can still work a crowd on her own thank you very much, there is a sense of passing the baton. Much of her band is young, like the British songwriter Jacob Collier, on piano, and Fleet Foxes’ Robin Pecknold, on guitar. There’s a deep, inter-generational appreciation for these songs, a feeling of responsibility for and protection of her work. You could see it on stage, and in the audience – yes, it felt as though just about every boomer woman in southern California was present, but there were lots of young people too, some mother-daughter pairs (I brought my mom, who used to drive me around the suburbs playing Hejira or Ladies of the Canyon).
Mitchell has never held back, in her life and lyrics, and she got mouthy onstage, notably letting out a “fuck Donald Trump”, and calling herself “one of those terrible immigrants … [who should be] rounded up and put in a concentration camp”. At times, Mitchell’s deep cuts veered into the truly morose – Cherokee Louise, from 1991’s Night Ride Home, documents sexual abuse of a childhood friend, and elicited some tense reactions from a crowd more primed for, say, the jingling dulcimer lines of the frothy hippie anthem Carey. But as Carlile said, Mitchell picked the set list, and she’s more than earned that control. Other snapshots from the night that deserve a mention: the comically large glass of white wine Mitchell sipped from in between songs, Mitchell’s blazing white hair, arranged in two braids, Annie Lennox’s vocals on Ladies of the Canyon.
Mitchell is one of those artists who seems to speak directly to you, the listener, making sense out of your darkest days or most personal experiences. That’s partly why the Joni Jam felt so emotional, akin to a church service, or at least a cult meeting. In a timeline where “vulnerability” is a trend and over sharing is the norm, it can be hard to remember how radical it is for a woman to stand behind a microphone and tell – or sing – the truth.
