Author: Eric Jensen, Managing Editor
To attend Coachella is to become Coachella. Bodies sifting through the Empire Polo Field gates fuse into a divine writhing knot of dyed cotton and sunburned skin. They reel in the desert heat until they evaporate into the very air they’re breathing and lounge on a carpet of cigarette butts and paper cups for so long that their bones curve to fit its contours. They inhale every breath of second-hand smoke and swap sweat from shoulder to shoulder, to become that singular oozing receptacle for melodic climax so that when an artist calls out, “What up, Coachella?”, they know they’ve been summoned by name.
Kate Herring (senior) returned to Coachella this year after her first trip in 2004. “It’s like you vanish into this little bubble with 100,000 people in the desert and listen to the coolest music in the most beautiful landscape,” she said. “If I died and Coachella was heaven (minus the heat and dust), I think I’d be totally happy . . . as a music lover, it’s something you have to experience.”
The Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival is a calculated effort to cultivate that immediate and spontaneous sense of unity among a throng of disparate strangers-towering men in sleeveless basketball jerseys flank leggy, freckled teenagers in pink bikinis; bespectacled middle-aged couples peeking out from under straw hats apply their SPF 45 alongside a pack of 20-somethings sporting mowhawks and rolling joints. With five stages and a lineup of over 100 bands ranging from French electronic duo Justice to Roger Waters of Pink Floyd to independent hip-hop group The Cool Kids, it comes as no surprise that Coachella draws diversity.
Friday set concertgoers at the threshold of the festival’s sensory labyrinth. The suspiciously lush field was sprinkled with outrageous art installations, like Mike Ross’s “Big Rig Jig,” a massive sculpture made of two 18-wheeler tanker trucks and DoLab, a colorful tent environment that offered shade, water misters and DJs throughout the day. Although the impending doom of Jack Johnson’s tedious main stage performance somewhat sullied the joyful day, the terrifying brilliance of the Raconteurs’ nighttime set was enough to redeem Coachella’s credibility.
The Swell Season delivered a stunning acoustic performance of their Grammy-nominated “Falling Slowly,” and the Verve’s live version of “Bittersweet Symphony” was absolutely life-affirming.
On Saturday, the Fullerton-based Cold War Kids cranked out a raw, intense show through the dusty heat, introducing a slew of riveting new material like “Every Man I Fall For.” Irish-American band Flogging Molly followed after dark at the Outdoor Theatre, working the crowd with their wild Celtic punk and softer anthem “If I Ever Leave This World Alive.” Prince closed the evening, strutting onto the main stage in a sequined, flowing white outfit and looking eerily youthful. His set was tight and energetic, but with his 50th birthday fast approaching, perhaps the loudest applause ought to have been directed towards Prince’s plastic surgeon.
On Sunday, Gogol Bordello frontman Eugene Hütz, zipped up tight in a pair of purple striped pants and sneering under his jumbo moustache, barreled through their set, snarling fan favorites like “Start Wearing Purple” in his thick Ukrainian accent. The band’s members hail from around the world-Israel, Ecuador, Japan, Romania, Ethiopia, Russia, Scotland and America. Hütz slurped a bottle of red wine as he catapulted from one side of the stage to the other, while the rest of the band exploded into the particular brand of vibrant chaos that pours from their gypsy punk music, pumping their arms, leaping in and out of the audience and beating their instruments as if to punish them.
MURS, a Los Angeles rapper whose name stands for Making Underground Raw Shit, arrived on the Mojave stage with his voluminous dreadlocks swallowed up in an Upper Playground beanie. His show at Oxy’s Music For the Soul last weekend was only a taste of his Coachella show, during which he performed some of his most famous songs with punk band Whole Wheat, and then brought out his crew Living Legends. His tribute to Eazy E’s “Boyz in the Hood” drove the crowd nuts, as did “Bad Man” and “L.A.”
Sunday, on the whole, had a distinctly vintage feel. Roger Waters’ performance of songs from Dark Side of the Moon, complete with a giant inflatable pig looming above the stage, was a welcome throwback. Sean Penn addressed the crowd at sunset to invite them on his Dirty Hands Caravan, a tour bus set to leave the next day for a week of volunteer work in New Orleans. His plea seemed genuine, and he lightened the mood by closing with a line from Spicoli, his character in ’70s flick Fast Times at Ridgemont High: “Hey, buds, let’s party.” Coachella’s effort to promote sustainable energy, responsible voting and other causes is reminiscent of the days when music festivals seemed to give their audience a sense of purpose in addition to a fantastic music experience. When Prince announced between songs, “This is the coolest place in the world,” not a soul could argue otherwise.
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