Coachella pt.1

This is the first year I've missed Coachella, but through the wonders of college I didn't miss it too much. But in the spirit I'll recount my previous year's experiences, in three parts: Lawrence Crazy (a reference to Lawrence of Arabia), The Mix, and the Battle of Coachella.

Lawrence Crazy (Day One)

My breath came in thick gasps. My head hung heavy. I watched my black booted feet shuffle along in the sand. The distance stretched on. The walk interminable.

When we arrived at our condo we could hear the bass in the air. It rippled through the dry evening and called us forth to this nightmarish trek. It came from no discernible direction, like a hallucination.

I couldn't hear it anymore. All I sensed was the fence at my right side, the sand under my feet, the conversation behind me. My mind felt gritty. It ground in one direction, directed by sheer annoyance and stress. All I wanted was to move forward, find the entrance, find that bass rippling through the air. My heart pumped laboriously, sweat dripped, blood pounded in my ears. I moved ahead, occasionally swinging around to silently urge everyone ahead.

I could see the Outdoor Stage silhouetted against the clear mountains, but an entire mouldering date palm farm sprouted in our path. Looming in the distance was the stage, along with it the top of a translucent dome. It occurred to me that we would have to walk the entire length of the polo field and the parking lot in order to get in. The traffic police ushered us foward, one step at a time.

We had never approached Coachella from this side. Rather than the huge crowd filtering through the parking fields we were crushed into narrow corridors by the side of the dirt road. My fingers swelled, a bead of blood formed on my forearm. My mind tried in vain to calm my body down, but my blood flushed adrenaline to my very pores and nothing could calm me but the sight of that field, nothing could return me to my rhythm but the bass I had heard in the empty sun-stroked streets.

We came upon the Oasis Dome, the sun shone through it like divine light through stained glass. Beyond it the DoLab had sprouted into a strange garden. Huge three-leafed plant-tents reached for the sun, radiating out from huge flower stalks topped with flame-like blooms. Other tents were onion-bulb shaped, also sprouting flowers. The DJ booth was nestled into an onion, and all the tents faced a central bamboo stage, which was currently misting a small group of grateful Coachellans. The field was beautifully open; everything had been pushed to the edges. The strange organic DoLab filled the usual Cyclecide (bicycle circus) spot. The dangerous bicycle attraction was below it and towards the Sahara accompanied by a great big old steam-powered tractor that ran a carousel. A huge leather belt swung low from the tractor to a huge set of gears that could engage or disengage the carousel from the fleet belt. Its gears ground with a thunderous rumble. Victorian-looking Steam Punks presided over the whole thing with happily bored looks.

We had missed the earlier acts we had planned to see so we wandered around. We went to Digitalism and danced. This was the Sahara Tent I knew and loved, not the distended and partitioned one last year. But the wall behind it lacked its distinctive glowing dots. Later we slipped out to see the polo fields light up. The flowers sprouting from the DoLab pulsed with its DJ's beat. The encircling palms were lit by a more sober white. The Oasis Dome shone, rainbow light glinting from each apex of the geodesic structure, videos flying across polygonal screens.

Jarvis Cocker was late. He had equipment problems. And he was very chatty. "See tha' pretty dome o'er there?"--indicating Oasis-- "I'll be there la'er tonigh' wif my shirt off"-- and the crowd screams-- "Yeah, I 'ope tha' was a cry of fear, cos tha' would be the proper reaction to tha' sight, I'm afraid." Then started his off kilter set, so we melted through the crowd into the field again. We curled up in a DoLab onion and listened to the cacophony of converging music. The flower blinked overhead.

The field became very dark. Sonic Youth came out very late and seemed stoned. They sounded terrible so we sat and waited for Bjork instead.

We were far out, out away from the crazy Bjork fans, like the ones who flooded the lesbian bar The Flame when someone set up a fake show there. When she came on stage she didn't look human, her head was wrapped up in something colorful, but I couldn't tell what it was. Some woman by me crooned, "she's real, she's real!" and Bjork boomed in her childish voice, "Hello Coachella!" before being drowned by the beat of "Earth Intruders".

The most amazing bit of her set, other than her Kasabian-esqe repetition of "Sank you Coachella! Gracias!" was her drum machine. What a machine! For future reference it is called a Reactable (as in react + table). It was a circular table top computer with a ring of cryptic glass tiles around it. The beat emanated from the center like a radar screen. The operator, of which you could only see his hands, picked up tiles and plonked them down on the luminous surface. Each tile then lit up and snail trails connected each tile. The operator would then turn, pick up, put down, and swirl tiles, breaking and forming connections in time to the beat. None of us had ever seen such a beautiful machine, none of us had ever even suspected a machine like it existed. The only shame was that you couldn't run up to it yourself and plonk down tiles and make a huge ruckus.

DJ Shadow was late. We could see from the Main Stage that he hadn't shown up yet. When we slipped away before her encore he was up and playing finally. Sitting on the bleachers we watched him screw around with the crowd, playing audio jokes with his music. At about 12:30 he began to play "Midnight in a Perfect World" at which point Coachella pulled the plug and the glaring house lights came on.