Coachella pt.2

The Mix (Day Two)

It was well into Saturday when we got back to the condo. I scarfed down some doughnuts we had bought at Food 4 Less as we sat talking. The next morning I woke from a dreamless sleep at a classically early 8:40. I tottered up and opened the shutters, looking out at the parched mountains which stood out clearly against the brilliant blue sky.

We had a huge breakfast and I donned my long-planned Coachella outfit, a bright magenta dress and a long pure white lab coat I got from UCSD. It was already glaringly hot outside.

We drove this time, vowing never again to attempt something so daft as to walk to Coachella.

Today is the wandering day. We watched the skilled roll about on Cyclecide bikes and listened to bad jokes courtesy of the bike circus's announcer, and to the grinding of the gears in the carousel. We stood in the empty and silent Oasis Dome as technicians set up the table. We saw either the Fields or the Cribs, I don't know which.

By 4:00 PM it had become incredibly hot. I had spent the early afternoon not moving far from the shade and the misters of the Energy Factory, a somewhat shoddy affair that would not have interested me much but for a rather spacey surfer dude with a small screen printing shop. For one dollar he took my pristine coat and printed something large and green on it. We all lounged around waiting for my coat to be relinquished.

In Hot Chip sweat poured off every body. We met Flora in the dripping fray along with a withered punk who complimented me on my coat. We danced like crazy in spite of the phenomenal heat, a mixture of the desert, the crowd, and the heat trapped in the Mojave's pitched roof.

Afterwards we limped off to melt into the lawn at the New Pornographers, the lead singer of which almost constantly complained of the heat, his high hipster voice shrill "Fuck it's hot!". No one moved. The set was not too rousing, by that I mean the most interesting part was when the lead and the female singer bantered about yogurt. "Do you know that the lead singer of the Yardbirds was killed by yogurt? Yeah, in 1968. He was electrocuted." My mind wandered.

Andrew Bird, tall, gangly, stork-like, stalked onto stage with a violin. From my vantage point the two horns of Bird's strange phonograph stuck out from his head. The insides of the horns were a strange, veinous red. As he launched into his weird, warbling set the phonograph began to spin
at such a speed that the bloody red bled into the brassy outside and Bird's head grew two stubby ruddy wings as his shaded eyes reflected the setting sun. I soared with the music.

The sun had set behind the mountains as Arcade Fire's strange intro came blaring onto the huge screens at either side of the Main Stage. It was a zealous woman, barking out religious affirmation to a faceless crowd. She herself was faceless, and almost completely unintelligible, the video was so degraded. All that came through was her hawking voice and blurred gestures and fiery conviction, yet all meaningless. The stage was decked out in neon and a pipe organ. Win's waxen face, haloed in a few ashen wisps of hair replaced the zealot as he launched into "Intervention" and sang with fiery cynicism, his voice leaping, screaming, whispering, whimpering, shouting.

The stage filled my vision, becoming a blue-purple blur that merged with the blue-black sky. Everything became illegible except for the screens and the Queens of the Stone Age plane that would blink into my frame of vision and snap me out of my reverie. Their set was like nothing I had felt since the first searing notes of "Idioteque" three years ago. I sang mindlessly to the singing in my nerves, the colors in my head. This time there was no "Creep" to ruin it. I swayed in ecstasy.

LCD Soundsystem brought a rough, wild dance party with clashing drums, a dry beat and screaming lyrics. We slipped out when things quieted down for "New York" and I sat not far away at the patterned light show transfixed by the smooth white sine waves.

For Tiesto we hunkered down in the point of a DoLab leaf. He had a ridiculously long intro, then began a set that was as violent and artless as an earthquake, and it felt like one too. It was possibly the loudest thing I have ever heard. On the ground my body recoiled from every percussive shock. Suddenly a violent wind picked up. It shook the leaf and buffeted people across the open field. The flame-like flower light above us swayed dangerously. A potted palm fell, its feathery crown whacked right down on Tati's legs. We ran out in fear. I gathered my lab coat around me. Tiesto boomed senselessly through the turbulent atmosphere.