Made it to Palm Springs ahead of schedule. Scarf down some damn good eats at Panera Bread.
Back on the 111.
Coachella! Unfortunately, Coachella parking is not anywhere nearby. We lose the cars in lot Pink Five with a long and winding road before us.
Sunscreen protects us. V gets the tickets and bracelets. We get in the frisking line.
A false frisk line pathology: if you follow the stampede to a new line, thinking a new checkpoint is legitimate, you get to the front of a false line, are told something like “aw, we’re just bullshitting”, and have to go to the back of the real line. This happens several times.
Once in, We Are Scientists on the main stage flies frantic and harmonic. I’m into the installation art to the right, the pallets and water wheels, a ring of bamboo that shoot fire, a gigantic hand, a monster. On a tent-less stage sequestered with the wood, dance tracks on a Mac energize shower elves to spray mist onto a grateful throng of dancers.
People Under The Stairs at Gobi Tent. Rhythmic front man. Everyone jumps to their percussively lyrical old school style and recherché drops. Hard to walk away.
Cage The Elephant plays something with a Beck “Loser” sounding guitar.
Really big crowd here, six thousand people shoulder to shoulder for Steve Aoki. No dull moments. Unexpected shirtless dance move on the monitor roars up cheers and hosannahs.
Molotov. They had me at “Chinga Tu Madre”.
Los Campesinos! at Gobi. V brings me in through the side to get a look at them. Super-tight pop/indie/punk band, electric violin, verbal prestidigitation, pretty non-conventional. All that death talk reminds me of the cold war. Their Pavement cover speaks directly to V and the 15% who knows it’s Pavement. ["Box Elder"-V.]
Wind-powered golf carts.
The Ting Tings. No standing room in Sahara. I stand at the back and watch the audience.
White Lies. Not so sure I dig these guys, but as V says, it isn’t dark enough outside for what they do. C’est la vie.
Buraka Som Sistema6:10p
Tough, creative and relentless on us. Portuguese polyrhythms. At their two minute set warning, they yell at us in no uncertain terms to squat down, and with the last second of their set, get on us to jump up as one people. Long applause.
Here ends CHUNK ONE of TWO. After you’ve seen Paul McCartney, Morrissey and Leonard Cohen on the same bill, you feel like sitting quietly and treasuring the serenity of each passing thought. There’s nothing to see that will ever top this concert, IMHO, so I’m taking the rest of the day off. See you soon.
iPhotos by the Author