Laurel Canyon
When I made my reluctant exodus from NYC to LA in the 90s I desperately wanted to find a place to live that was unique to Los Angeles so I wouldn’t keep comparing it to (and missing) my beloved Manhattan.
What I wound up being drawn to was a woodsy, bohemian haven of a refuge in between the bustle of the city and the normalcy of the valley. There was a tiny artsy public school called Wonderland that a child Adam and I didn’t yet have might go to one day. There seemed to be more birds chirping in Laurel Canyon, an abundance of global citizens. And…rich musical history. We were…musicians. Maybe we secretly hoped it would rub off.
Edit to twenty years later, Adam and I subscribed to Epix just to see the two-part Laurel Canyon documentary (not to be confused with the inferior 2018 Echos In The Canyon in which Joni Mitchell was strangely absent. I ask you, how can you make a film about Laurel Canyon without Joni Mitchell?)
We were all-in for a new flick centered around the place we call home. I was especially excited when the street where we live was included on the arial-view map at the very beginning of the footage. So far so good. Pass the popcorn.
From 1966-1972 Laurel Canyon was a creative mecca — the center of the universe for dozens of yet-to-be-discovered musicians and now legendary artists. That Joni, Mama Cass Elliot, Graham Nash, Neil Young, Jackson Browne, Roger McGuinn, Hendrix, Stephen Stills, Arthur Lee, Linda Ronstadt, Glenn Frey, Jim Morrison ALL miraculously found their way to the same quarter-of-a-mile radius at the same moment in time is unfathomably coincidental. Stars colliding at their best — akin to all 4 Beatles being born in Liverpool over a 3 year span. Fairy dust I tell you!
This community of undiscovereds wandered in and out each other’s cottages. They shared food, beer, beds, yards, drugs, partners, money, song-starts, managers. They welcomed outsiders into the tightly knit friend group (as they would call it today). “Desperado,” “Doctor My Eyes,” “California Dreamin,’” to (literally) name a few, were bubbling under. 😳
Henry Diltz,* who first came onto the scene as a fellow musician, thankfully carried a camera wherever he went. He captured the camaraderie — the intimate as well as the playful moments, future iconic album covers, the mesmerized look on Eric Clapton’s face when he first laid eyes (and ears) on Joni’s open guitar tuning.
We hear from the sources about the moment CSNY discovered how magical their voices blended together; how the first line of “Our House” came directly after Graham Nash suggested that Joni pick some flowers to put in a vase that she just purchased…while he of course, lit a fire. More popcorn, please! Songwriter porn!
My sister, who was a little older than I (and a budding hippie at the time) used to play the albums that emerged from that era. I was addicted to Songs For Beginners. Maybe because I was one. I got an education through the shared wall of our adjacent bedrooms. So much so that when I was trying to decide where to go to college I heard “Cowgirl In The Sand” coming from an open dorm window on one of the campuses (campii?) and that was that — the sign I waited for. “Cowgirl in the Sand” is the reason I chose my alma mater. Go Figure. Songs are f*cking powerful.
Every so often I’ll fire up Sonos and tap on Four Way Street and I’m at Woodstock, especially if I just had a hit of a joint. It doesn’t matter that I wasn’t actually there. Joni, who penned “Woodstock,” the quintessential masterpiece about the festival, wasn’t there either. She was a vessel. She was stardust. She was golden. She channeled a movement.
David Crosby reminds us that everything they were writing was a reflection of whatever was going on sociopolitically at the time. That’s where it was at. Neil Young wrote “Ohio” the night of the Kent State shootings. It was recorded the following day and released the next. Bam. Urgent. Essential!
Where is our Ohio?
My colleague Suzan Koc theorizes that in contemporary culture when life gets too dark young people have often looked to uplifting material to dance their way through. Today she follows up with, “This is no time to escape.”
Joni first recorded “Woodstock” on Ladies Of The Canyon. In my mind I am one of them. A lady. Of the canyon. Especially now, with my cavewoman hair (that hasn’t been styled or trimmed since March), Birkenstocks and bandanas, I feel like I belong here more than ever.
Curving up the main canyon thoroughfare this morning on the way back from an “essential” appointment I spontaneously detoured into the triangular shaped parking lot of the Canyon Country Store, a local bodega for canyon dwellers in need of quick provisions. It’s nestled on a tiny island of land across the street from the house where Jim Morrison lived.
Did I need milk? Not necessarily. Perhaps it just felt good to make a stop after sheltering for so long. And…maybe there was something in there I needed to see…
Art by Spike Stewart
The country store is also the landmark to which Laurel Canyonites descend every October for the annual Laurel Canyon Photo Day. The framed photos are then displayed on the walls inside the store. It’s getting crowded but they always find room for the next generation.
Regrettably, I never made it down to Photo Day. I was either out of town or lazy. My daughter Layla however, wangled her way into this photo in 2007. Good girl! Represent!
Then there’s Caioti — the restaurant attached to the country store (renamed Pace) which for decades has offered a dish called “The Salad.” Lore has it there’s an ingredient in the dressing that sends pregnant women into labor. Adam and I frequented Caioti the summer I was with child (1997) being that it was the only walkable eatery from our then home on Laurelmont Drive (where “Bitch” was also conceived same year. Very fertile year!) Five days before my due date, I ordered The Salad but before the waiter even delivered it to our table my water broke. To this day, Layla can’t wait to get back to Pace. Canyon girl all the way. Apples…falling…trees.
This October I’m going to make it my business to get down the hill for the Photo Op and put a stamp on my existence. We may all have to wear face masks but so be it. We’ll have lived through it (hopefully) and there’ll be a photo to prove it.
Sometimes I stand on my deck in my yard and look out over the winding roads, the rustic hills and the San Fernando mountains (which Layla used to assume were Egyptian pyramids) and ponder this destination. I guess I wanted to be in proximity to the history…history that that body of creative fire had no clue they were making.
Like the foods we eat and the friends we make, the places we choose to live shape our lives and who we become. We’re drawn there for a reason. I might not have realized what I was looking for all those years ago. But I do now.
Oh, and there are definitely more birds chirping in Laurel Canyon.
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Below is a new song from my friend Siedah Garrett, who also wrote “Man In The Mirror” (with Glen Ballard) which strangely resonates even more powerfully today.
“I'm starting with the man in the mirror
I'm asking him to change his ways
And no message could have been any clearer
If you want to make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself, and then make a change”
*Henry Diltz has generously donated several pieces of photography to SONA (Songwriters of N. America) in order to raise money for our cause
*Photographer Nurit Wilde also contributed narrative and many images
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