With eight reporters on the scene, the Daily Bruin fulfills
its yearly duty and offers to everyone who was (all 60,000) and
wasn’t there the fourth annual Coachella diary.
2:45 p.m. As I stand near the back of the
Sahara Tent (the “dance tent,” as those giant disco
balls prove), feeling every bit of myself ““ including the
Quizno’s sandwich I had for lunch ““ vibrating to the
deep pulsing rhythms of Hybrid, my just-gotta-dance and
just-gotta-rock sensibilities are at war. But since the day has
only just begun, and Daft Punk comes on in only eight hours, I
suppose the dancing can wait. So I make the trek across the polo
fields to catch the Walkmen in progress. ““ Richard
Clough
3:15 p.m. My ears are nearly bleeding as I
leave the main stage after the Walkmen’s afternoon set. With
lead singer Hamilton Leithauser’s yowl audible across the
festival at the Sahara Tent, the garage revivalists tear through
some promising new material as well as hits such as “The
Rat” and “We’ve Been Had.” The band closes
with its upcoming single “Louisiana,” for which it
brings on a trumpet player and a saxophonist, presumably to
complete its aural assault on the people of Coachella. The Walkmen
leave me hurting but happy, as any good rock band should.
““ Nick Rudman
3:46 p.m. Some observations as I wait for
Wolfmother to take the stage: “¢bull; The old man in the straw hat
has wandering eyes. “¢bull; I seem to be standing at the nexus of
the smoking universe, where at least three distinct varieties of
smoke have all converged into an acrid haze. This makes me
irritable at first, but gradually I become curiously relaxed.
“¢bull; A very white-haired young man has made his way near me
““ Jim Jarmusch Jr. perhaps? ““ Richard
Clough
4 p.m. After jazzing it up with The
Zutons’ saxophone player in the Outdoor Tent, I walk over to
the Mojave Tent, which rocks most of the indie acts of the day. I
pass by a random guy wearing a loincloth and some dude in a khaki
kilt, only to find myself transported to the ’70s. Well, the
late ’60s/early ’70s, with Wolfmother (yeah, Wolfmama),
calling forth the divine acid bearing of Robert Plant (and the
decayed one of Ozzy), which satisfies the classic rock fix I can
never have again. With his sneering face and ’70s afro,
Wolfmother frontman/guitarist Andrew Stockdale kicks up in the air
while churning solos on his Les Paul in the highlight songs
“Dimension” and “Woman.” ““ Taleen
Kalenderian
5:12 p.m. Perhaps more than any other set
Saturday, Animal Collective’s sends listeners fleeing for the
more inviting environs of the beer garden and the Virgin Megastore
Tent. Arriving at the Outdoor Theater as the band takes the stage,
I find it rather easy to move near the stage as droves of people
realize Animal Collective is not, in fact, for everyone. But those
who leave early are worse off for it. The band’s recent tours
have been a testing ground for newer and increasingly
uncompromising sounds, and this show proves no different, proving
to be a fascinating elaboration on the eclectic experimentalism of
last year’s album “Feels.” Rather than play a
more traditional set of three-minute pop songs, the band prefers to
blend its songs into expansive musical soundscapes, harsh and
rhythmic, peculiar and frightening. Lead singer Avey Tare, who
starts out the set looking like a harmless middle-schooler, is by
the set’s midpoint spasming with the music, his face smeared
with what I can only assume is purple face paint, screaming and
singing noises and words in an exotic, almost tribal performance.
To be honest, I’m amazed the band manages to corral their
music when their 45-minute set ends. ““ Richard
Clough
6:35 p.m. Perhaps Kanye West’s infamously
formidable ego finally meets its match in the tens of thousands of
people watching his set at the main stage. The two feed off each
other beautifully, with the crowd responding with more fervor every
time West rips his way through another hit (and they’re all
hits). I’m disappointed that West starts late, but it’s
almost worth it to hear his barely off-mic comments regarding his
allotted performance time (along the lines of “Tell them to
make time for me!”). The truncated set length causes West to
discard his planned song list and ask the crowd what they want to
hear. In the end, it doesn’t really matter what West, his
small orchestra, his backup singers and his DJ play ““ he has
the audience in his pocket. Kanye keeps up a good rapport with the
crowd (during “Gold Digger”: “White people, this
is your only chance to say the word “˜nigger,’ so take
advantage of it!”), and finishes by bringing the
(metaphorical) house down with a shortened version of “Touch
The Sky.” ““ Nick Rudman
7:05 p.m. I don’t expect less of TV on
the Radio. Actually, I don’t know what to expect ““ it
doesn’t come around too often. It features some of the more
unique instrumental sounds of the day: wind chimes on the bass
guitar, interesting brass percussion and wavering synthesizers to
set the mood. It is a very moving, blue-mood set, with dreamy
bluesy tones and electric progressions and long winded vocal
harmonies. ““ Taleen Kalenderian
8:10 p.m. Watching Damian Marley, I remember
suddenly why I don’t listen to reggae. It’s not that I
think reggae music is bad ““ on the contrary, it is actually
quite pleasant. However, every time I hear reggae I get excited and
listen intently, only to turn it off after 10 minutes. Maybe
it’s the perceived monotony, or maybe the vibe isn’t
right, but for whatever reason I cannot take reggae in more than 10
minute spurts. “Jr. Gong” plays for one hour. You can
imagine how this turns out. ““ Mark Humphrey
8:20 p.m. Goth-pop fashion plates and
electronica band Ladytron, back for their first performance in
three years, trances the kids at the Mojave tent with its poppy
synths and black garbs. Chicks had been lining up for an hour
waiting to hear the all-time favorite “Playgirl,” which
is hauntingly and fashionably delivered by the female keyboardist
and lead singer. Bleak-chic at its best? You bet. All the more, it
is just a warm up for the Daft Punk set that is to come.
““ Taleen Kalenderian
8:25 p.m. Shirtless and with mountain-man
facial hair on full display, Devendra Banhart looks every bit the
media-designated gypsy king of the freak-folk movement, ready to
share whatever idiosyncratic poetics he might capture from the dusk
air; that is, until he and his backing band unveil their set. They
are, unexpectedly and in a word, fun ““ decidedly soulful, yet
with no qualms about daring to funk. Banhart has people clapping
and dancing almost throughout, and even when he pulls out
“This Beard is for Siobhan” and “Little Yellow
Spider,” he drives those more folky staples to celebratory,
crowd-pleasing heights. At one point, an audience member is invited
to perform. The young woman shakes off whatever nerves she might
have had and begins to sing slowly, improvising with the band and
channeling, for a moment, whatever energy they were feeding off.
When she runs out of words, she stays on stage, swaying, dancing.
It is the kind of unrehearsed genuine expression nowhere to be
found in most of the day’s top-billed acts. ““
Alfred Lee
8:30 p.m. I join my fellow drum ‘n’
bass-heads to MC T-Power’s wicked rants over DJ Shy
FX’s bass lines, which deliver like a baseball bat upside ya
head in the Oasis Dome. Even a 2-year-old in her mother’s
arms is throwin’ up a pair of glow sticks in a room that is
packed too full to dance. Wind chimes made of driftwood and bells
adorn the jungle-themed tent, as Shy FX shocks the crowd with an
Isley Brothers “Between the Sheets” jungle remix.
““ Skye Mayring
9:35 p.m. Cat Power (Chan Marshall) is a timid
animal with a long history of stage fright ““ most of her
national tour was canceled recently because of a mysterious ailment
““ so it’s no surprise that, 10 minutes into sound
check, the empty stage is quiet as a mouse. Finally, she does
appear, triumphantly raising her arms like a boxer before launching
into “The Greatest.” Marshall looks confident and
go-lucky on stage, throwing her jewelry into the audience and
dancing around like a giddy teenager on prom night. The performance
ends up being Marshall’s coming out party ““ with the
Memphis Rhythm Band behind her, she is a whole new animal.
““ David Greenwald
9:45 p.m. It’s a winter wonderland with a
“Goonies” twist. In the “winter” dome
designed by Keith Greco, a huge ice-like pirate ship serves as a
lounging area for the lazy. Faux snowflakes fall from the ceiling,
while “frozen” pirates statues guard their ice booty. A
freezer is located in the back of the tent, though few notice. I
open the door and find a room of ice sculptures. A girl slides
belly-down through the mouth of one of them, a shark. ““
Skye Mayring
10:23 p.m. I would rather shake it than rock
out, so naturally I am drawn to Atmosphere, and frontman Slug (aka
Sean Daley) delivers a flawless, smooth, meaningful performance.
Though comfortably free of contrived gestures, Atmosphere’s
show fully rocks the stage with all the practiced presence
possible. It is hard to stop dancing to get pictures. Mid-song,
while furiously blending old hits with new album tunes, Slug stops
the music completely to see if a questionably disheveled audience
member is all right. Before I know it, I’m crying; he had
stopped mid-sentence, silenced his musical cohorts, and it is the
most devastatingly real thing I experience all day. I am moved to
tears, not by the music but the silence. ““ Dharmishta
Rood
10:30 p.m. While Depeche Mode plays on the main
stage, electronic group Audio Bullys pulse and sweat all over the
Sahara Tent, complete with neon raver light show. Judging by the
exhausted concertgoers resting against the back stage barrier,
though, the monotonous performance is a chance to recuperate before
Daft Punk, Coachella’s marquee closing act. ““ David
Greenwald
11 p.m. “I’m surprised more of them
aren’t fat and bald,” a friend of mine says as Depeche
Mode takes the stage. And really, as some of the festival’s
elder statesmen, Depeche Mode looks and sounds great. After a
while, however, the set begins to run together and I gradually lose
interest, although it momentarily piques again when someone comes
crashing down like a downed redwood due to dehydration. Overall,
Depeche Mode’s set is solid and decently entertaining for
nonfans, but probably absolute ecstasy for the hardcore.
““ Mark Humphrey
12:30 a.m. The entire day is building to this.
The festival basically shuts down at 11, as thousands upon
thousands pack into the Sahara Tent, chomping at the bit, chanting
“Daft Punk!” over and over. The frenzied anticipation
is slightly less than that of some kind of ritual sacrifice. The
French electronic duo finally appear in robot costumes that can
only be described as awesome, performing on a futuristic
contraption that double as a light show. They play that robot dance
music like the world (in their case, probably Neptune, maybe
Jupiter) was going to end tomorrow, and the only way to save it was
to party. The recognizable hits (everything except “Digital
Love”) are melded into a relentless attack, a series of waves
building and crashing repeatedly until the audience reaches its
limit and can’t dance another step or sweat another bead.
Then it keeps going for another half hour. And so does the
audience. ““ Alfred Lee