There are fewer cultural exports from Sacramento that elicit such an unflinching sense of pride than the band Cake*. Which is why, of course, I replied faster than you can say perhaps perhaps perhaps when Arielle texted me about taking her extra ticket to see them at the Greek on the summer solstice. She had been seeing a guy and had planned for a gorgeous evening for the two of them by splurging on the good seats. But he turned out to be a scumbag, and a few weeks prior she (rightfully) dumped him. She kept the tickets because Arielle is not the kind of person to cancel what will definitely be a good time because of a man. I feel up to the challenge to make sure my friend gets the good time she planned, plus I had never seen Cake live (judge if you will, I’ve made my peace.)
In our Lyft, I give Arielle a rundown of my hometown love for this band. She’s a good friend and nods along, asking questions. Slightly tipsy from our pre-show drinks at my place, we jump out of the car at a Chevron station in Los Feliz into a stream of other fans, ascending the bumpy pavement up the hill to Griffith Park by foot. We pass the uplit Observatory, which makes me think of my parents, because I took them when they visited once. Hiking up on a belly full of Napa rosé (also from my parents) on the uneven sidewalks makes me very glad I wore my seven-year-old Vans. I remember buying these trusty shoes one day at Arden Fair Mall, arguably Sacramento’s most nostalgic and identifying shopping center. The people in the cars next to us are listening to Cake at high volumes. Everything makes me think of Sacramento tonight.
There was no place like Sacramento at the turn of the millennium, the Sacramento of Cake’s origin. This was the City of Trees in an era that I don’t think anyone knew, or still knows, quite how to capture in words all these years later - almost like you had to be there. This was the backdrop to the reign of the Kings and Mitch Richmond* and Bobby Jackson and Chris Webber. Local newscasters were celebrities; I lived across the street from one, and she often gifted me her makeup samples. Going to the city meant driving an hour and a half west on 80 to San Francisco for day trips to Pier 39 or Fisherman’s Wharf. Sacramento in the nineties and aughts was, for me, warm and comfortable.
Sacramento grew, but slowly. Things changed and evolved and got better at a welcome speed; back then it felt like a community that was relatively insulated for better or worse. Today, I’ve heard it’s booming. I haven’t been back to Sac since January, and even then only stayed within the walls of my childhood home in the eastern suburbs. Truthfully, I have been missing it terribly; while LA is where I have rooted in adulthood, Sacramento holds so many stories, energies, people, and emotions that made me who I am today. I still respond with Sacramento when someone asks where I’m from, usually followed by but I live in LA.
Inside the Greek, it is the perfect evening. The sun’s late setting feels celebratory, as if it was holding tightly onto every moment of light for us. The band’s ease on stage reminds me that they have been doing this for decades and again, it feels comfortable. We dance as only two dancer friends can - in synchronized rhythm and sways, and we sing at the top of our lungs when our favorite songs come on. The band’s vocalist, John, comes out with a young oak tree in his hands. He brings a man onstage to give it to him, but first makes him vow in front of the faceless crowd that he will plant and take good care of this tree. I text Eric (who is also from Sacramento) about finally witnessing this tree giveaway ritual; he responds, “that’s how you know it’s a band from the City of Trees.” Something deep in my chest aches.
When the show ends, Arielle and I clumsily make our way back down the hill and find a spot to call a Lyft. While we wait we talk about our hometowns; hers in Rockland County, New York, mine in (obviously) Sac. We talk about Los Angeles and how it too feels like home, a different kind of home. I let the nostalgia, the homesickness I had been processing that night (and all the nights before) sit there in my chest while Arielle and I gush over this city and I realize that no one is stopping me from calling multiple places home. Los Angeles is the home where I come alive, Sacramento is the home where I feel safe. It feels like a good compromise.
The Lyft finally arrives, its driver a nice man who grew up in Los Angeles, and Arielle slips back into her New York accent as I cackle all the way to FatBurger for midnight onion rings and sweet potato fries. We scarf them down before we hug and then stumble back to our respective apartments, two blocks away from each other. And then as I walk through the front door I feel an extra kind of warmth and happiness that I didn’t have before I left. I’m home.
*I feel like I can speak for most Sacramentans when I say: yes we know John McCrea is known for being a bit of an asshole
**who I interviewed in 1997 for my first published article, in The Sacramento Bee, at ten years old - a story for a later post
Awww I loved this so much!!! What a beautiful recounting of an awesome evening with an exquisite friend! I love you and I love our friendship! 🖤🙏🏽✨🎂