Monday, May 03, 2004
Coachella '04
What kind of self-respecting blogger would I be, if I didn't write about the two day tragi-comedy that was the Coachella Music and Arts Festival. Can't say there were any big epiphanies or anything, except that when hot enough, even eye balls can sweat. And sadly, the trucker hat tally was more than I bargained for. Every third person wore one. We counted 20 in 10 minutes and folded under the force of so much ironic-sloganed mesh. But it's the details, the parts of the sum, that made it worth it.
Saturday
3pm. As we walk from the parking field to the entrance, I utter the instantly regrettable "ya know, I thought it was gonna be hotter. This isn't so bad". Once in, we zig-zag through the sea of thousands to slide into a giant tent to see Stellastar. They're fun. Pop-punk. People dance. After 5 songs, I realize I'm starving. Not to mention cooked in sweat. We get in line for food. Definitely the low point of the weekend. The 100+ degrees finally settles. Marah looks ready to pass out. I want to destroy everyone around me just 'cause they're there. It's apparent I won't be able to find any other friends, despite cell phones. The only saving grace is Trail of Dead playing in the distance.
4:30. After eating in the shade and taking a few minutes to breathe and shift into Festival Mode, we attempt Beck, who's in another small-ish tent. The promoters underestimate his draw. There's a bizillion people surrounding the tent. People who can't even see in. Not so fun if he's just playing a guitar. "F this". We go see Death Cab. Despite Benjamin Gibbard's whining about monitor problems, and the fact that they don't play anything from the second record, they rock. The outdoors energizes them in a way I haven't seen. A shirtless ex Frat Boy roars, "Yeah!" over a particularly heartbroken lyric. Surreal.
There's a surprising absence of corporate logos.
5:30. The Black Keys. Holy shit these guys are good. Just a coupla farm-bred white boys playing dirty, dirty blues rock. Like a stripped down Jon Spencer Blues Explosion minus the hubris.
6:30. We stake our plot for The Pixies. Our friends, Lacey and Scott find us, miraculously. After some much-appreciated sitting time, we're on our feet when the enormous crowd starts cheering (someone estimated over 10,000). "Bone Machine" starts and I see that, despite being old and fat (which only adds to their charm), they play just as passionately as any anyone else on the bill. More so, actually, 'cause they tear through an hour and a half set without stopping for air or between-song banter. Kim Deal (Kim or Kelly? I always forget which sister's in which band), casually nurses cigarette after cigarette. They draw mostly from Doolittle and Surfer Rosa, which delights the fans -- something I figured out after watching this 40 year old guy nearly cream himself on the Jumbotron-ish screen after they burst into "This Monkey's Gone to Heaven". After the last note, they come down stage and soak up the applause. They're all giddy smiles -- understandable, if your music is just as relevant today as it was ten years ago.
The sun's finally set, temperature's a much more tolerable 80.
9. The crowd thins out a little, so we move up closer. Radiohead comes on. I'm expecting mellow 'cause most of their music is so abstract and atmospheric. But with all his jumping and flailing, Thom Yorke proves to be much more charismatic than the whiny, tortured man-child I thought he was. The songs spark. We only stay for three quarters of the set to beat exiting traffic, but even the songs I don't know are made kinda fascinating live. The bass player kicks ass.
11. We drive up a curvy moutain road to middle-of-nowhere desert, arrive at our friend, Bert's family's li'l cabin. Lacey and Scott show up. Over beers and smores, we speculate how the setting would be perfect for a horror movie, and I insist that, should a homicidal maniac attack, they band together to protect me since I clearly have the most to offer the world.
Sunday
2pm. We stop at a roadside cafe to avoid the hunger crisis from yesterday. We're happy to see the grounds at half-capacity. Makes things like walking so much easier. Also brings the weird spider-y sculptures (the "arts" part of the festival) into relief. The Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra takes the stage. 10 people playing so many different instruments, and a lot of dancing. Lotta hippies, too. It is Terry Hovey's favorite band, after all. We finish watching from the luxurious shade of the beer garden.
There's a guy wearing nothing but a woman's mini skirt. Definitely not in drag. Maybe gay, but more likely he's just a fashionable dipshit.
3:30. Broken Social Scene. So, so good. They avoid typical rock riffs for more hypnotic songwriting, which works surprisingly well in the 110 degree heat. Just before the last song, after going on about how excited they are to tour with their friends and loved ones, one of the guys takes a knee and proposes to his girlfriend. She says yes. The crowd issues a collective "awww".
4:45. We crowd in the back of a tent to watch The Thrills. My skin feels like it's melting away in centimeters. Or I'm just sweating. Can't tell. They're fun and Irish, but play with a piano-y country twang. Like the record, though, their songs kinda blend into each other.
5:30. Recess in the beer garden. We make our way over to Cursive, who are sufficiently emo-y, but I'm distracted by this white guy in a doo rag who's dancing around all suggestively like he's on The Grind or some shit. After a few songs, we go to the big stage to see Belle and Sebastian. Good sundown music.
7. Bright Eyes. It's really, really crowded now. Lots a ladies and apparently some dudes love them the Conner Oberst. Mostly new songs, which are more folk-y than the older, whinier stuff. At one point, Conner says it sucks to go on after Cursive. Dramatically brushing the hair off his face, I can hear the strained sincerity in his voice.
8. Marah and I go to a tent to see The Sleepy Jackson. By this point, the tent REEKS of B.O. and the ground's littered with bottles, cigarettes, etc. We stand just outside to avoid the stench. They're really tight straight up rock, like they've been playing together forever. Which they have.
9. It's dark. The crowd seems mellower. The Flaming Lips come on. Save for The Pixies, this was the highlight of the weekend. First, they all dress in bunny suits. Rad. Before they start, the singer (who's maybe the most positive, thankful, enthusiastic man in rock -- a likeable motivational speaker) gets in a giant bubble and tumbles around on the hands of the fans, a la Tommy Lee in the "Dr. Feelgood" video. The bunny guitarist keeps exclaiming "that's so cool!". They unleash giant balloons for the crowd to bounce up and down. If their music wasn't so quirky and innovative, their enthusiasm'd be pretty obnoxious. They close with a sing-along "Yoshimi".
10:30. We wait and wait and wait for The Cure, even though we're totally beat. Then we wait and wait some more. Still nothing, so we bail. Then we get lost in the parking lot for 20 minutes looking for my car. Even neon green don't show up in pitch black.
Around 1am, I drop Marah off, go home. Crash on my bed before I remember to brush my teeth or set my alarm. It's a pretty sweet exhaustion, though.
What kind of self-respecting blogger would I be, if I didn't write about the two day tragi-comedy that was the Coachella Music and Arts Festival. Can't say there were any big epiphanies or anything, except that when hot enough, even eye balls can sweat. And sadly, the trucker hat tally was more than I bargained for. Every third person wore one. We counted 20 in 10 minutes and folded under the force of so much ironic-sloganed mesh. But it's the details, the parts of the sum, that made it worth it.
Saturday
3pm. As we walk from the parking field to the entrance, I utter the instantly regrettable "ya know, I thought it was gonna be hotter. This isn't so bad". Once in, we zig-zag through the sea of thousands to slide into a giant tent to see Stellastar. They're fun. Pop-punk. People dance. After 5 songs, I realize I'm starving. Not to mention cooked in sweat. We get in line for food. Definitely the low point of the weekend. The 100+ degrees finally settles. Marah looks ready to pass out. I want to destroy everyone around me just 'cause they're there. It's apparent I won't be able to find any other friends, despite cell phones. The only saving grace is Trail of Dead playing in the distance.
4:30. After eating in the shade and taking a few minutes to breathe and shift into Festival Mode, we attempt Beck, who's in another small-ish tent. The promoters underestimate his draw. There's a bizillion people surrounding the tent. People who can't even see in. Not so fun if he's just playing a guitar. "F this". We go see Death Cab. Despite Benjamin Gibbard's whining about monitor problems, and the fact that they don't play anything from the second record, they rock. The outdoors energizes them in a way I haven't seen. A shirtless ex Frat Boy roars, "Yeah!" over a particularly heartbroken lyric. Surreal.
There's a surprising absence of corporate logos.
5:30. The Black Keys. Holy shit these guys are good. Just a coupla farm-bred white boys playing dirty, dirty blues rock. Like a stripped down Jon Spencer Blues Explosion minus the hubris.
6:30. We stake our plot for The Pixies. Our friends, Lacey and Scott find us, miraculously. After some much-appreciated sitting time, we're on our feet when the enormous crowd starts cheering (someone estimated over 10,000). "Bone Machine" starts and I see that, despite being old and fat (which only adds to their charm), they play just as passionately as any anyone else on the bill. More so, actually, 'cause they tear through an hour and a half set without stopping for air or between-song banter. Kim Deal (Kim or Kelly? I always forget which sister's in which band), casually nurses cigarette after cigarette. They draw mostly from Doolittle and Surfer Rosa, which delights the fans -- something I figured out after watching this 40 year old guy nearly cream himself on the Jumbotron-ish screen after they burst into "This Monkey's Gone to Heaven". After the last note, they come down stage and soak up the applause. They're all giddy smiles -- understandable, if your music is just as relevant today as it was ten years ago.
The sun's finally set, temperature's a much more tolerable 80.
9. The crowd thins out a little, so we move up closer. Radiohead comes on. I'm expecting mellow 'cause most of their music is so abstract and atmospheric. But with all his jumping and flailing, Thom Yorke proves to be much more charismatic than the whiny, tortured man-child I thought he was. The songs spark. We only stay for three quarters of the set to beat exiting traffic, but even the songs I don't know are made kinda fascinating live. The bass player kicks ass.
11. We drive up a curvy moutain road to middle-of-nowhere desert, arrive at our friend, Bert's family's li'l cabin. Lacey and Scott show up. Over beers and smores, we speculate how the setting would be perfect for a horror movie, and I insist that, should a homicidal maniac attack, they band together to protect me since I clearly have the most to offer the world.
Sunday
2pm. We stop at a roadside cafe to avoid the hunger crisis from yesterday. We're happy to see the grounds at half-capacity. Makes things like walking so much easier. Also brings the weird spider-y sculptures (the "arts" part of the festival) into relief. The Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra takes the stage. 10 people playing so many different instruments, and a lot of dancing. Lotta hippies, too. It is Terry Hovey's favorite band, after all. We finish watching from the luxurious shade of the beer garden.
There's a guy wearing nothing but a woman's mini skirt. Definitely not in drag. Maybe gay, but more likely he's just a fashionable dipshit.
3:30. Broken Social Scene. So, so good. They avoid typical rock riffs for more hypnotic songwriting, which works surprisingly well in the 110 degree heat. Just before the last song, after going on about how excited they are to tour with their friends and loved ones, one of the guys takes a knee and proposes to his girlfriend. She says yes. The crowd issues a collective "awww".
4:45. We crowd in the back of a tent to watch The Thrills. My skin feels like it's melting away in centimeters. Or I'm just sweating. Can't tell. They're fun and Irish, but play with a piano-y country twang. Like the record, though, their songs kinda blend into each other.
5:30. Recess in the beer garden. We make our way over to Cursive, who are sufficiently emo-y, but I'm distracted by this white guy in a doo rag who's dancing around all suggestively like he's on The Grind or some shit. After a few songs, we go to the big stage to see Belle and Sebastian. Good sundown music.
7. Bright Eyes. It's really, really crowded now. Lots a ladies and apparently some dudes love them the Conner Oberst. Mostly new songs, which are more folk-y than the older, whinier stuff. At one point, Conner says it sucks to go on after Cursive. Dramatically brushing the hair off his face, I can hear the strained sincerity in his voice.
8. Marah and I go to a tent to see The Sleepy Jackson. By this point, the tent REEKS of B.O. and the ground's littered with bottles, cigarettes, etc. We stand just outside to avoid the stench. They're really tight straight up rock, like they've been playing together forever. Which they have.
9. It's dark. The crowd seems mellower. The Flaming Lips come on. Save for The Pixies, this was the highlight of the weekend. First, they all dress in bunny suits. Rad. Before they start, the singer (who's maybe the most positive, thankful, enthusiastic man in rock -- a likeable motivational speaker) gets in a giant bubble and tumbles around on the hands of the fans, a la Tommy Lee in the "Dr. Feelgood" video. The bunny guitarist keeps exclaiming "that's so cool!". They unleash giant balloons for the crowd to bounce up and down. If their music wasn't so quirky and innovative, their enthusiasm'd be pretty obnoxious. They close with a sing-along "Yoshimi".
10:30. We wait and wait and wait for The Cure, even though we're totally beat. Then we wait and wait some more. Still nothing, so we bail. Then we get lost in the parking lot for 20 minutes looking for my car. Even neon green don't show up in pitch black.
Around 1am, I drop Marah off, go home. Crash on my bed before I remember to brush my teeth or set my alarm. It's a pretty sweet exhaustion, though.
