96 Hour Party People

I have dreams about my first Coachella music festival.  It all started with one sentence in January 2004 uttered by some afternoon DJ on 105.3 KITS in the Bay Area, “Radiohead’s only US date is at Coachella this year.”  What the fuck is a Coachella?  We scored tickets and were woefully unprepared.  We got to the campground a little too early and spent the early afternoon searching for shade.  Finding none, we drove out to the Salton Sea for a bit.  Finally setting up our camp as the sun was setting was beautiful.  We tossed a gallon of Jack Daniels over the security fence to some waiting party members.  Our neighbors were LA vampires who wore all black in the 110+ degree heat!  We also met a group of people who snuck into the campground and the venue both days.  All five were road tripping around the US, met on the road, and were from five different states: Montana, Missouri, Georgia, Florida and Virginia.  They looked like they just started a bluegrass band.  We also met a guy named Squirrel who took too much Ecstasy and need supervision.

Pickle gives me shit for liking the Radiohead performance so much.  Yes, the Pixies reunion show was great and all (does anyone not like “Where is my mind?”) and The Flaming Lips show and astro-ball descending from outer space is listed as one of Rolling Stone magazine’s best shows ever, but rock was made for the night.  Night is where everything is hidden, waiting to be discovered, where possibility lives, and anticipation is frenzied.  By the time Radiohead came on that night I had lost my friends, made some new ones and we all sang along, grooving to the music, completely mesmerized.  Kraftwerk was ‘ok’ too.  Along with The Killers, Elephant, Paul Van Dyke and The Cure.  The night was electric.  It was like New Year’s Eve in April.  I couldn’t wait to do it all over again, albeit with more pre-bought shade.  Much more.

The 2005-2006 Coachella’s had some surprising standouts, but I mainly went for the fun of being at a crazy show and camping with my friends. I remember 20,000 girls dancing to “Erection” by The Faint in 2005 at the Outdoor stage, and there again, in the front row, for “Tear You Apart” by She Wants Revenge in 2006.  2007 was the last decent lineup of that initial run and it definitely delivered.  Manu Chao and the Rage Against the Machine reunion show, with the fire in the monstrous mosh pit, are times that I will never forget.  And I doubt I’ll ever top Gogol Bordello, for my first time, in the intimate Gobi tent thanks to Tiffanie and Momus.  We didn’t go again until 2010, where LCD Soundsystem got it (re)started, Les Claypool took us to Venus, and Atoms For Peace was a funk juggernaught made from meteorites crashing into the Outdoor Stage.  AFP played Thom Yorke’s entire solo album with Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers (whom are henceforth known as “The Flea Show”).  Flea is the Muppet’s Animal on the bass, furiously attacking the stage next to Thom’s beautiful, spastic dance. You are always surprised at Coachella, you will find interesting, new bands, make new friends from around the world, and all at around two dollars per act.

That brings me to 2011.  The overall impression is the lineup isn’t as good as past years. Have to camp if we go.  I dragged my feet.  Bad decision.  It turns out that it was a foregone conclusion that we would all meet again in the desert.  My girlfriend had invited her sister from the UK and I wasn’t going to let them go alone.  An industry contact let us know when the festival tickets were almost sold out, so we got most of the tickets in time.  Ticketmaster added $50 for a mandatory shuttle pass the last day.  Fuckers.  We just needed two camping passes, but unfortunately they were long gone, before festival passes were even on sale.  I watched eBay like a hawk, even installed the app on my phone.  It was crazy.  I watched my bids at work, at dinner, at the bar, non-stop.  I saw people using bots steal my camping fun in the last few femtoseconds.  I felt my ego cringe every time I upped my offer.  Months go by and I get one, then magically a week later… two camping passes!  When would they arrive?  “As soon as I have them, you will have them the next day,” both sellers told me repeatedly through email.  I felt like an addict paging his dealer.  Agonizing.  Overpriced and ill timed.  Luckily, just two days before we are scheduled to depart, both camping passes arrive.  Next day, my ass.

During this whole camping pass debacle I needed to convince the Camping Master of the Universe, Tiffanie, and her husband Momus to go.  Lots of drinking at bars and concerts, subtle (and not so subtle) hints, overt threats and finally (thank you gods of overwork!!) we are all in desperate need of a break and are a GO for launch.  We have two cars, and will meet up with a third car full of 96 Hour Party People.  Having never renewed my driver’s license since moving to San Francisco I didn’t even have to drive this time!  Holy Shit!  In 2006 my completely sober driver fell asleep at the wheel and I, still buzzed from the club and up all night, had to drive the remaining 450 miles.  The torturous and monotonous 5 freeway over the Grapevine, to the 210, to the 10, past Palm Springs made me delirious by the time we arrived.  Then I had to drive the entire way back because I didn’t trust his ass not to fall asleep again!  Incredibly this was all done at the speed limit because he doesn’t like driving fast!  It makes him car sick, even while sleeping apparently.

This time the drive was great.  Having been banned from drinking the whole way down, since the two hour drunken sales job interview in 2007, I loved being the sober navigator/passenger.  It was great being in control of the tunes.  Some people just don’t get the need for upbeat, energizing music for a long drive.  The one and only rule for the drive to Coachella: No listening to bands we’re going to see.  The girls’ car was all ponies, bubblegum, make-up and Britney Spears (or whatever girls talk about) and the boys discussed the modern meaning of punk (why Johnny Cash was punk), our collective love of Henry Rollins, and major issues in our culture today (Yes, I believe in the death penalty even though it is a logical paradox; No, I would never vote for it in it’s current form).  Upon arrival, the car camping (you camp next to your car) line moves fast compared to previous years, we met some Canucks, score a great campground, and the car next to us takes off.  Bonus spot!  Next we learn that the guy on the other side is sleeping in his car.  Even more space to spread out.  Our neighbors are in from Arizona, young and insane party animals, and we get along great.  Apparently the punk scene in AZ is pretty vicious, along with the drugs.

The festival was it’s usual long, hot, wet, loud and bumpy ride.  We saw old friends and made new ones. Chromeo was seriously fucking funky.  Gogol Bordello overcame triple digit heat and inspired huge afternoon smiles.  One Day as a Lion descended on the rowdy Mojave crowd like only Zach De La Rocha can, and The Strokes rocked the Main Stage (although they still won’t play ‘Heart In a Cage’ dammit)!  When the girlfriend and I went to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico last week a waitress at my favorite Cuban joint on earth, La Bodeguita Del Medio, noticed my 2010 Coachella shirt and asked us if we went this year.  We told her yeah and she said, “I spent $100 US entering a Coachella contest and won!  I camped and it was great!  Chromeo was the shit!”  Coachella will always surprise you, sometimes months afterwards, and in this case, other countries.  Coachella is always on my mind and never drags me down.

Comments

[Muahahaha]

No Rape tent?!?!

[José-Ariel Cuevas]

Last time I went, I was at the beer garden (beer being a big [alliterative] mistake in 100 degree weather) and there were some folks from Sinaloa in front of me. Good, sun-baked times.