I used to be a big U2 fan. Around 15 years ago I saw them play at Busch Stadium in St. Louis, along with young CJ, which was really special. But at the end of the night, something prompted me to think, “Good time. Now that’s enough of that,” and I lost my interest in the band.
U2’s The Joshua Tree was in constant rotation when I was pregnant, a perfect album for channeling the excitement and terror of becoming a mother. A few weeks before CJ was born I was undergoing some unnecessary tests including one where they measured CJ’s movements and heart rate to make sure they were in alignment. Kid was passed out cold and refused to move. To the point of scaring me. But then “Where the Streets Have No Name” came on and suddenly, this child was seriously awake, somersaulting and twirling in utero, speed building with the growing tempo and expanding arrangement of the song as Bono sang:
I want to run I want to hide I want to tear down the walls that hold me inside.
What a perfect missive for a child who was ready to be born. Even with losing interest in the band, I know that there will always be a place in me for that song, and that album, because of that moment.
When I made my first visit to the Joshua Tree National Park area of California’s Mojave Desert in 2024, a friend asked if I listened to the album while driving through the park. I was a little embarrassed and surprised that the idea hadn’t crossed my mind. As I drove through the park I listened to Queens of the Stone Age’s Songs for the Deaf, which is a concept album designed to sound like scrolling radio stations while driving from Los Angeles to Joshua Tree. And I’d do it again, because that’s what the album is designed to do. The Joshua Tree, while being one of the great albums of its century, wasn’t.
But damn if I didn’t have that opening to “Where the Streets Have No Name” going through my head during my California desert trip last weekend.
I arrived on Sunday, stopping only to have a date shake at Hadley Fruit Orchard outside of Palm Springs. Date shakes are a regional food that have been around for nearly a century. That’s right up my alley, but I’d never heard of them until that first Joshua Tree trip. On the way in I was running late to see a friend. On the way out I was racing to get to my flight in Burbank. And failing. I didn’t have time to do much more than register the existence of date shakes.
But this trip, I had time, even though I’d forgotten about date shakes until I saw a billboard. Ice cream and milk blended with sweet and pulpy locally-grown Medjool dates from an indigenous-owned business, slurped down in the dry Mojave heat ? I’m down!
I was still on a schedule for my arrival. I had a ticket to the final night of the Afghan Whigs’ tour at Pappy + Harriet’s. But first I had to get hopelessly lost in the desert by putting a one where I should have put an eight in my place’s address in Apple Maps.
When traveling to Yucca Valley, California, know that you’re always no more than two turns away from losing the paved road. I took some very scenic routes on rutted sand roads. Originally I had rented a small SUV for the trip, but I hate driving an SUV in Los Angeles when a sedan is so much easier.
I should have kept the SUV.
To the next driver who rents that Hyundai Elantra, I apologize for the sins committed against that car’s suspension. It’s gonna ride like a buggy from now on.
Once I realized my stupid navigating mistake, I got myself going the right direction and found my quarters partway up a mountain on the other side of 29 Palms Highway, which was one turn off the paved highway and several miles through extremely rugged, ungraded one-way sand trails.
When I booked my place, I laughed at it being described as a “glamping” spot. The description of the place didn’t seem too rustic, since there was heat, air conditioning, and indoor plumbing. And there was a hot tub, and deck for watching the stars. Perfect!
Guys. I don’t “glamp.” Nor do I camp. Or do anything in between the two. I paid those dues long before I hit adulthood, thanks.
Okay, so maybe the description should have said that the bedroom was the only actual “room” in the structure, but that was fine. It was air conditioned, had a super comfy bed, and the cutest vintage desert decor. The kitchen had a tin roof, three walls, and a barn door that slid open to a view of the mountains. The bathroom was in a lean-to attached to the kitchen.
Honestly, I had zero complaints that couldn’t be chalked up to my own outdoors ignorance. Like maybe leaving the bathroom light on overnight was a bad idea. I walked right into a big bug party when I had to pee in the middle of the night. That was definitely my bad.
Anyway, back to Sunday night’s plan: dinner with friends and show at Pappy + Harriet’s. I’d been to the venue the last time I was in the area, to see Patti Smith. I’d arrived very shortly before the show and somehow grabbed an excellent parking spot and place to view the show. On the way out, I got a little lost and wound up running into Patti and her band backstage, thus making it THE GREATEST VENUE EVER.
This time I arrived much earlier, since the show start time was earlier and there was dinner to be eaten.
What I didn’t realize was that the music venue is just part of the Pappy + Harriet’s enterprise. It’s part of a whole fake frontier town.
And being dinnertime on the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend, it was full of families with children lost to The Witching Hour—the time when they should have been taken home an hour earlier for dinner and bedtime rituals but were instead being dragged along by exhausted parents in search of food, shade, and a goddamn break.
There was a lot of crying. And it wasn’t all from me this time, although I did contribute.
When I parked, the attendant looked at me, waved me off and said, “Oh, you’ve been here and know where to go…”
Not sure what gave him the impression I had any clue where I was going, unless he said that to all of us who were wearing black (the entirety of the venue guests).
I wandered over the rough, uneven sand into the fake town, already feeling dizzy and wobbly since my brain only accepts walking on flat surfaces. Plus there was the sun. And all the screaming. But no maps or guides on where the restaurant and venue were located, and almost no cell signal to get in touch with my dinner mates.
The longer I deal with my vestibular issues, the better I get at predicting what scenarios are going to trigger a migraine. And I knew without a doubt that the uneven ground, glare of the sun, noise, crowd, and stress of having no clue what I was doing where a terrible combination. If/when I found the venue, I’d likely being throwing up, exhausted, or both. After doing my best to find the places I needed to be with no luck, I bailed.
On Tuesday, over coffee in Hollywood before I went to the airport, a friend commented that I must have been so disappointed to miss the final show. I considered this, because I did feel a pang of disappointment at the time, and had the moment of delusion when I thought I could fix the situation. Ultimately, I felt a calmness that comes from knowing I was doing what I needed to do for myself.
I was disappointed to a degree, but I would have been far more disappointed had I not gone to California, made the drive, peed with bugs, and at least tried to go. Staying home, just assuming I couldn’t do it, was a far worse option than having tried.
How can I be disappointed with this view from my deck?
Is it possible to be sad when this is growing in my yard, serving as a hiding place for giant blue-gray jackrabbits and fan-tailed road runners that zoomed across the rocky sand trails in front of my car?
Okay, so I didn’t get one of the main things I went to the desert to get. Didn’t run into the band while wandering around lot. That’s okay. The desert has gifts that I can never begin to predict, cloaked under spiny shade, and breathing sighs in the sagebrush. It’s hard to be disappointed.
Know what’s greatly appreciated in the desert? Gifted coffee.
"Now that's enough of that" 🤣 I've always wondered what it is about U2 that make fans genuinely reach their limit with them. Something about them bypasses the part of the brain that allows us to endlessly binge other artists.
(It's Bono. He is that something.)