In the editing process for this upcoming issue of Opt West, I’ve realized that one of the major through-lines is the desert. It’s been about a year since I’ve been, so I go. The “High Desert,” where I drive to, begins around 100 miles east of Los Angeles. My trip lasts 24 hours. I go alone.
I book a room at the Pioneertown Motel. Pioneertown is located up a winding road above Yucca Valley. Originally established in the 1940s as an Old West movie set, the buildings now function as shops and restaurants. An informational newspaper in my motel room explains the location was chosen for its “versatile terrain – scenery of seven western states could be duplicated by immediate surroundings.”
Walking down the main street in town (called Mane Street, here) I pass a bulletin board advertising sound and light therapy (“performed with very precise high quality tuning forks”), a call for volunteers to serve as equestrian patrol for the county sheriff (Qualifications: 18+, own horse), a poster for a nearby church that promises “answers.”
At the General Store (souvenir shop) I purchase a small Pioneertown magnet and a pin with the original Pioneertown sign reading “Live Here and You’ll Live Longer” on it. The girl working asks me if I’m going to the concert tonight. I am. I have always wanted to see live music at the legendary venue Pappy & Harriets, which is located next door to the motel. Tonight, the headliner is a band called Mac Sabbath. I tell her I am not sure what to expect. “It’s a Black Sabbath cover band but all of the songs are about McDonald’s,” she explains.
Pappy & Harriets is larger than I imagined, with walls full of old license plates and concert posters. Outside, I overhear a conversation about a local man named Shenanigans who sells out of his truck. I listen to a group of friends debate which merch to buy. The atmosphere is spirited, festive, if not a bit lawless. The music is loud, all-consuming. At the end of their set, the lead singer from the opening band -Fever Dog- screams out “Yucca Valley” (that’s us) and tells us to keep rock and roll alive forever.
There is an undeniable ghost-like shadow of Gram Parsons over this entire area. I read an article about his regular visits to the recently reopened airport bar, The Copper Room, “his favorite desert hideaway,” for pitchers of margaritas every Friday at sunset. The musician was famously cremated at Cap Rock after overdosing at Joshua Tree Inn (you can read the story here, if you don't know it.) I lean into it and put on his album GP (1973) as I drive through the National Park. “Some of my best friends don’t know just who they belong to” he sings, in A Song for You. “Some can’t get a single thing to work inside.” It’s clear outside, forests of Joshua Trees roll by against a backdrop of the bright blue sky, and snow-covered mountains.
At Cap Rock, there is a small trail I walk to stretch my legs from all of the driving. Someone walking by compares the dried shrub and bushes surrounding us to coral saying, “all of this was under the ocean once.” I guess it was.
The next morning at the cafe, my coffee is poured by a barista wearing a Mac Sabbath t-shirt. Although this has been a short trip, it feels full circle for a moment. I go back to my room to grab my bag. When I’m about to leave, a motel employee walks in the room. “Oh, sorry,” she says, surprised to see me there. “They told me you had left already.”